Jan. 9 at Knuckleheads |
Toward the end of the night, the Reverend tried to coax his audience into some participation.
Sing like you re drunk on a ship that s going down, he said, and it s the last thing you ll do before you die.
The 25 or so people in the room indulged him, but not like their lives depended on it. So Breezy, the Reverend s bride, told the crowd, You re fired, and the trio took the song by the horns and worked it into a hell-bound fury.
The Big Damn Band from Indiana plays roots music: Delta blues, hillbilly blues, country blues.
The Reverend (Josh Peyton) is the band s singer and guitarist. His brother, Jaime, is its drummer; Breezy is its washboard player and the Reverend s deadpan sidekick.
They aren t revivalists or re-enactors; rather, they re admirers and interpreters of a tradition that goes back to giants like Charlie Patton and Robert Johnson.
The Reverend is a husky man with a beard so big and black it almost looks fake. His guitar playing can seem unreal, too, especially when he combines his quicker-than-a-flea finger-picking with some slide work in wild, fluid motions.
Like a proud parent introducing his children, the Reverend told the crowd about each of his three guitars: a 1930 National Triolian, a 1935 National Trojan and the real prize a 1929 Gibson L2, a parlor guitar I saw hanging on the wall of a restaurant, a place like Applebee s.
After some savvy bartering, it became his for a bargain.
He and Breezy told several stories during a show that lasted more than 2 1/2 hours (including a break). The Reverend told a long one about a vagabond stencil artist named Chris Francis whose tiny Los Angeles apartment is stuffed with taxidermy (including a bear) and who decided life as a full-time train-hopper is easier than life on the road with the Big Damn Band.
Breezy told the story behind the song Your Cousin s on Cops.
She took her baby-daddy s mama s pills, she said. It was nice to see her, though.
We couldn t make it home for Thanksgiving.
That s all true, the Reverend said. When you got family like ours, you don t need to make stuff up.
And so it went. They played some new material and several songs off their latest album, Big Damnation. They also pulled a couple off its predecessor, The Pork N Beans Collection, including one of their final songs, The Train Song.
The crowd, which had diminished from about 45 to 25 or so, jumped into its rollicking groove, dancing between tables and chairs almost like it was the last thing they d do on earth.
Jan. 6 at the Folly |
A brand new sound was heard Saturday night at the Folly Theater.
Two-and-a-half hours after their concert began, the Roy Hargrove Quintet tore into a fierce reading of Nothing Serious, the title track of the trumpeter s latest release. Propelled by a frantic Latin groove, the band successfully melded decades of jazz tradition with contemporary popular music. Call it extreme bop.
It was an extraordinary achievement in what had already been a breathtakingly brilliant concert. Autumn Leaves, the concert s opening number, and a reading of Invitation never caught fire. But Hargrove s discerning work never allowed things to get stale.
Between solos, Hargrove prowled the stage like a young lion. So brimming with ideas was Hargrove that at times he seemed on the verge of exploding because he couldn t explore them all simultaneously.
Hargrove played a lush, devastatingly gorgeous ballad on flugelhorn in each of the evening s two sets.
His perfect tone and ability to evoke the deepest shades of blue silenced the sometimes raucous audience of about 600. Such heart-melting moments made Hargrove seem overly generous with the spotlight, as his bandmates were prone to meandering solos.
Saxophonist Justin Robinson s assured, muscular work provided solid counterpoint to Hargrove s explorations.
He and Hargrove didn t always meld perfectly, but their highly literate dialogue was invariably fascinating. Light-fingered pianist Gerald Clayton s nimble work was punctuated with Monk-ish interjections. Drummer Montez Coleman was a sympathetic player, while bassist Joe Sanders provided steady support.
Even as all five men offered improvised music of the highest order, it was apparent that their ears were directed to the future.
The band touched on avant-garde music early in the second set. It was exhilarating to hear Hargrove and Robinson bleat noisily as Clayton attacked his piano s interior.
The experiment lasted only a minute, but it compelled several patrons to head for the exit.
The set ended with a visionary breakthrough of Nothing Serious that drew a standing ovation. Hargrove then returned to croon September in the Rain in a light, sweet voice reminiscent of Luther Vandross.
Hargrove declined to do the Folly s usual pre-concert jazz talk, and he addressed the audience only to introduce his band. But words weren t necessary. His incendiary performance spoke volumes about the past, present and future of jazz.
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