The Goat Rodeo Sessions (recovered)

On Saturday night Cal Performances presented Yo-Yo Ma, Chris Thile, Edgar Meyer and Stuart Duncan, a collaboration that goes under the name The Goat Rodeo Sessions, to a thrilled full house at UC Berkeley's Greek Theater. While it was hardly strictly bluegrass, American roots music was the foundation upon which most of the evening's music built upon, though there were definite classical strains to be heard, and even what could be called "new-age" (before the term became associated with ersatz easy-listening). Though Ma is obviously a big part of the quartet's box-office appeal, what made the evening work is the musical parity between the participants.

In fact, it was Thile who emerged as the group's natural leader on the stage. The musicianship of each player draws attention, and each has numerous moments to shine individually, but it's Thile to whom one's attention constantly returns as he plays the mandolin at the extreme ends of the instrument's range, mesmerizing whether he's robustly plucking or gently strumming. Ma is the epitome of the gracious, warm performer, both toward the audience and his fellow musicians, and despite his status as the world's most popular classical musician, the Goat Rodeo Sessions is a real ensemble. Everyone shines and each possesses a distinct musical and personal charisma- obviously at ease with the audience and each other as they took turns trading quips, sharing anecdotes, and discussing the music between songs.

They played all of the tracks from their 2011 album of the same name. Beginning with "Quarter Chicken Dark," the melody of which so strongly resembles a pop song that's been lodged in my mind the for two days but I can't pull from its recesses, then strode deeply through bluegrass terrain, played with some Bach, and spent a healthy amount of time musically straddling both. Singer Aoife O'Donovan joined them for three tracks, adding her rich mezzo to the mix, blending well with Thile's vocals. Meyer, whom I've only seen perform on the double bass before this evening, proved an adept, thoughtful pianist and Thile provided one of the show's highlights when he switched with seeming ease (and gusto) to the violin.


The audience responded with a level of enthusiasm more often found at rock concerts and the musicians seemed both surprised and genuinely pleased by the warm reception. They shouldn't have been. While the Goat Rodeo Sessions isn't an evening of trailblazing music, it's good, authentic music performed with exceptional skill and obvious heart.

With special thanks to Lisa Hirsch for assisting in recovering this post.

Fitz and the Tantrums at the Warfield

On Sunday night GG and I caught a triple bill of L.A.-based bands at the Warfield. The openers were The Colourist, a pop band whose enthusiastic singing drummer Maya Tuttle hit her kit with delightful force and rhythm. Their songs aren't especially original, but they're strikingly well-crafted and performed, especially the single "Little Games." They're certainly a band worth checking out and keeping an eye on, with an EP titled Lido coming out on August 20th.

L.A.'s The Colourist

Next up on the bill were Hunter Hunted, which is apparently the duo of Dan Chang and Michael Garner and three supporting musicians, including a highly versatile woman who plays multiple instruments. Sadly, these guys don't seem to see fit to list the band member's names anywhere, but the woman, drummer, and second guitarist (they were introduced onstage as twins) were good players. The band performed without a bassist, unless that second guitar was actually a six string bass. I couldn't really tell because Hunter Hunted played at a volume with Garner's vocals and keyboard mixed so painfully loud that I had to leave the hall in search of ear plugs, which I found in the basement. Going to and fro, I passed by the open rear door of the theater and was overcome by the stench of urine pouring in from out back. The entire rear quarter of the Warfield stinks like piss- it's disgusting. Now, I've been seeing concerts for a long time. I like it loud, but this wasn't loud- it was distorted and stupid. According to someone who works at the Warfield, the band had their own sound guy on the board and this is the way they wanted it. The ear plugs didn't even do the job, and I had to hold them pressed firmly into my ears in order to even remain seated. But even filtered, one can't deny these guys write hook-laden, catchy songs in a Coldplay vein. It would have been a pleasure to hear them mixed by someone who knew what they were doing.

Fitz and the Tantrums

Headliners Fitz and the Tantrums are a somewhat traditional Philly-influenced soul band. I say somewhat because the songs are performed mostly without a guitar, an instrument that lead singer/leader Michael Fitzpatrick supposedly doesn't care for. The band is tight- especially the rhythm section of bassist Joseph Karnes and drummer John Wickes. Sax and keyboard player James is an excellent sideman and singer Noelle Scaggs has the chops to front her own band. And maybe she should, because the weak link in the band, at least live, is Fitz. The tall, lanky man can't dance, he can't move, has no stage presence whatsoever, and peppers his trite, by-the-numbers stage banter with enough unnecessary "fuck"s that he seems to have a latent hostility toward the audience, which resembled a grown-up frat party (all white) who came to party and did so with abandon. That's not to say the man can't sing- he's got a voice like Daryl Hall, but with his pseudo-Flock of Seagulls hairdo, apathetic demeanor, and physical gawkiness, the hard-working band behind him expertly churning out the party music behind him falls curiously flat. They should take a cue from the much more exciting live act Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings and learn some choreography, or even better, hire a trio of back-up singers to take the attention off of Fitz. Their sound was horribly mixed as well, with the vocals being completely undecipherable.

Let us bleed: the high price of concert tickets

Of course it's only rock and roll...

After reading comments on his Facebook page about the high prices of tickets to the upcoming Prince DNA shows and Stones concerts, I challenged my friend and fellow-blogger Gordon Elgart, who is Editor-in-Chief of the website Spinning Platters, to a debate on the subject. He believes acts like the Stones and Prince are sticking it to their fans with these high-priced concerts, and worse, that younger music fans lose out when prices get to the level where they are obtainable only by people with large amounts of disposable income. I disagree with him.

You can read our exchange here.


but I still like it. Yes I do.

Soul is dead

Sharon Jones

Soul music is dead.

Didn't see the obituary in the newspaper? That's because there wasn't one- the news was first announced on the Los Angeles radio station KDAY AM back in 1987. News of soul's death was soon heard coming from turntables all over the world, but nothing appeared in the papers- at least nothing directly stating the music had died, even though it went through a long, public demise. The news could only be read about in the charts, and then only if one was paying close attention, but few did. They were too busy following, or fearing, Soul's assassin to notice there was even a victim. Soul just quietly died one day, after playing host to the best party in the world for over 30 years, killed by a record called "Dopeman."

By the time people started to notice and began to ask the question, "Where did Soul go?" it was too late despite the efforts by some folks to resurrect it. The first to try were a few Brits, then D'Angelo. John Legend gave it a good shot, but R&B isn't the same thing as soul. Soul remained dead, but like I said, not everyone knew it.

Thankfully, in the mid-90s there were some New York City musicians who didn't get the news, or more accurately, willfully ignored it. These guys were into James Brown, the Philly sound, Stax Records, and were dedicated to the music to an obsessive degree, going so far as to perform and record it on old analog equipment so it would sound just right, as if it came from the music's heyday in the 60s and 70s. They started their own label, and released records only on vinyl. They even released 45s. Some people started to notice- the usual suspects of course- music geeks, collectors, aficionados, a few writers. There was a spat, and suddenly there were two labels. One one of them ended up being called Daptone, and they formed a house band called the Dap Kings. They soon found an extra singer to take care of a couple tracks. Legend has it she was a prison guard at the time, and her voice rivaled Tina Turner or Etta James in its power and passion. Eventually they made her the front woman for the band, and more people noticed. Her name is Sharon Jones.

In 2006 a skinny English woman named Amy hired the band to back her on her 2nd album, Back to Black, which turned out to be the best soul record of the last 20, maybe even 30 years. Amy, now dead, was young, white, provocative and as troubled as she was talented. She was a media sensation who couldn't handle success and self-destructed in the limelight. She seemed like the antithesis of Jones, who is older, black, and exudes discipline. The type of woman the limelight mostly shuns nowadays.  To decide which woman is the better singer is a wholly subjective, and I'd say pointless, exercise. Obviously the white girl got a lot more attention, which would have been the case even if Winehouse didn't self-immolate in public, but to be fair, she also released a masterpiece of an album, a feat Jones and the Dap Kings haven't (so far) been able to equal.

Which brings me back to the death of Soul. Is it back? Has it been resurrected?

Those who were in attendance at the sold-out Davies Symphony Hall last Saturday night to see Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings would likely say "Hell yes!" because it's a stone cold fact that Jones and the band  delivered a near-perfect show of living, breathing soul music, which has also been the case the previous two times I've seen them. In fact, as good as they were last week, I'd have to say this show only proved how consistent they are- it wasn't noticeably better, or any less entertaining, than the previous gigs I've attended. Just another excellent night from a hard-working, extremely talented band. There's a lot to be said for that- an awful lot actually, and the inclusion of a couple of songs from an upcoming album (including the excellent "Calamity") only bode well for what's ahead.

Daptone Records has a few other acts on its roster now (not all of them soul), so things seem to be brewing nicely. It looks like Soul is making a comeback from the dead. Still, I'm not certain this is true.

Performing at Davies under the presentation of the San Francisco Symphony is a prestige gig, and selling it out only adds to the luster, only slightly tarnished by some tickets appearing on Goldstar. But I've seen very few shows sell-out in the past couple of years without some form of discounted tickets- right now only the Rolling Stones, Yo Yo Ma and The Book of Mormon seem capable of it. But what's bugging me is that like the Blues, the audience for Soul is now mostly white, as are the majority of musicians playing it. And if the music is undeniably African-American, can it still be considered alive when African Americans have all but abandoned it?

Now let me clarify a couple of things before you get all squirmy and uptight about this. First, I want to emphatically state I am not saying nor implying that one must be of a certain race, heritage or whatever to be able to play or appreciate any art from. That would ridiculous to say of any genre of music. Soul has a long history of white musicians being an integral part of its heritage and development, and the white audience has always been there- but historically this part of the audience only arrived after an act achieved a certain level of success and recognition from within the African-American audience. Are there some exceptions? Sure, and in the case of Teena Marie, it can also happen that a white performer never makes the same impact with the white audience as they do with African-Americans.

But the crowd at Davies, as was the case the other times I've seen this band, was overwhelmingly white, and the black faces in the audience were all older. This was a casual observation- I didn't stand at the door watching everyone come in, but I don't think I saw a single black person in the audience under the age of 40, and most of the audience seemed to be on the "more mature" side. It's almost always the same thing at blues concerts, and to large extent the same can be said of jazz, but at least with jazz there's an undeniably vibrant contingent of young African-Americans performing the music, even if there is little corresponding presence in the audience. 

Is this just a matter of San Francisco/Bay Area demographics? I don't think so. I went to all three Prince concerts the last time he came through town and the audience was plenty diverse- everyone was there, and all age groups were well represented. The lines outside of venues featuring hip-hop shows and popular R&B artists give ample evidence of the black audience here, including younger people. 

But it's not at shows like this one. That doesn't mean that Jones and the Dap Kings are any less talented or that the show was somehow "unauthentic." Nothing could be further from the truth. The eleven member group was solid from the get-go and their signature song, "100 Days," performed as an encore, is a classic of the genre and Jones sings it as well as one imagines Etta James could have in her prime. I just wonder about the viability of a genre of music whose original audience and creators have abandoned it- can it be considered as more than a "museum piece" or a form of nostalgia? 

If you were at the show, probably none of this mattered, unless you, like me, wished the audience, the entire audience, were up and out of their seats, dancing through the entire set, instead of just toward the end. The confines of Davies probably had something to do with that- but I suspect the make-up of the audience was the more telling factor. Regardless, for two hours at least, Soul felt very much alive and well- and that felt awesome.

Take me home and eat me- yeah!

The Beastie Boys: true innovators, pioneers, and brilliantly creative. And if that weren't enough, always the soundtrack to a good time, going all the way back to this- the very first song of theirs I heard way back in 1983. Remember when hip-hop was fun and the source of the most creative popular music being made? These guys were at the center of it all.

Rest in peace, MCA- and thank you.

Tin Hat

Tin Hat: photo by Peter Gannushkin

Do you ever stop to think about how much your life can change in eight short months? How different it is? Or not?

The reason I bring it up is because it was almost eight months ago to the day I saw Carla Kihlstedt perform for the first time. Now I was heading back to see her again. This time in a different room, but at the same venue. This time with a different set of musicians. And like last time, to hear her perform music inspired by a poet, but this time a different one than the last. It's all different, isn't it? And the Necessary Monsters who haunt me now are different than they were eight months ago, aren't they?

Then why did all of this feel so disturbingly familiar to me?

The answer is because while poets may change, monsters remain the same in their necessity. Treading the same ground once again, I felt like an observer to my doppelganger's life rather than a participant in my own. What I've really become, I'm convinced now, is The Collector- the one who vainly tries to keep all the monsters at bay by organizing them into neatly stacked boxes. But the monsters escaped their boxes this week. One by one, released by my Double, so we could lead parallel and incompatible lives together and remain cruelly apart.

Whatever.

Tin Hat began the first of two sets with "Open His Head," the first of many songs set to the poetry of e.e. cummings from their forthcoming album, due in August. Three songs later, as they were performing "yes is a pleasant country," the structure of these became apparent to me: layers of sound set down in gentle pieces, patterns emerging out of fragments, slowly building until they bloomed into melodies which suited the poetry quite beautifully, and I was captivated by how well the music evoked the tone of cummings' poems. If it took me awhile, that was more likely due to events of the day, not the musicians, all four of whom play expertly within their oddly configured musical quartet: Carla Kihlstedt on violin, Ben Goldberg on assorted clarinets, Mark Orton on guitar, and Rob Reich on accordion or piano.

Then the poetry stopped and the group performed an instrumental featuring Kihlstedt playing a Roma-inflected violin line with Goldberg on what I think was a bass clarinet- I'm not sure I've ever seen such an instrument before. An older instrumental followed, "The Last Cowboy," with Orton plucking out a novelty line on his guitar similar to the one used in Waiting for Guffman in the scene where Lewis Arquette explains Blaine's history before the cast sings the "Stool Boom" song, followed by another song before "Foreign Legion," which Orton said was inspired by fear brought on by watching an Abbott and Costello movie, concluded the first half.

The musicians let Orton assume the duties of "front man", and while there's a certain charm to the idea of using a casual approach to create the impression of we're-all-just-hanging-out-at-home-together vibe, Orton's patter didn't particularly serve the music or his fellow musicians especially well.

The second set began with the 24th of 95 Poems and closed with "sweet spring." In between, something odd must have been happening that I missed, as Kihlstedt remarked that out in the audience "a conflagration" was taking place. I didn't see it, but the second set did have some incredibly sensuous music, and I couldn't help but wonder what it would have sounded like in my apartment, with the light of the bright, full moon shining in through open windows on this cold, crisp night.

On a side note, the same two people who made a hash of the sound for the Sierra Maestra concert in this same location the night before were on the job again, and this time, to my surprise, they filled the room with a warm and beautiful sound. It sounded terrific.

The concert was presented by SFJazz.

Sierra Maestra in San Francisco

SFJazz brought the Cuban son band Sierra Maestra back for their third visit to San Francisco, the first in many years, and the house was pretty packed when I walked in a few minutes after the show had already begun. The nine piece band was already in prime form and had a bunch of people dancing on the sidelines. Everything lead singer/guitarist Jesus Diaz said between songs was in Spanish, so the only thing I understood completely was when he introduced trumpeter extraordinaire Yelfris Espinosa as being younger than the band itself- true, since they formed in 1976.

They tore through an hour and a half long set, anchored by the five-piece rhythmic machine of Carlos Mansfarroll on guiro, Nico Menendez on bongos, congas and bells, Alejandro Galarraga on bells, congas and bongos, Barzaga Sosa on claves and vocals, and Virgilio Decalo on maracas and vocals. As a unit, the five of them were incredibly tight, but Luis Pino's electric bass played a large part in keeping every body in the house moving with his sinuous lines. But the band's secret weapon is tres player Emilio Batista, whose ability to create an amazing array of sounds from the tiny cousin of the guitar without added electronic effects was impressive.

The sound mix was really off in the beginning of the show, which had the band sounding like they were being played on the radio of a 1955 Bel-Air- which would be fine if you were in one, but they deserved better than the mix they were saddled with, which two techs tried to improve with only partial success- perhaps because only one of them seemed to be actually listening to what was going on. Fie!

Still, that didn't stop anyone from having a great time, myself included, as well as the band, who genuinely seemed pleased to be performing for the audience and their enthusiasm just made the gig that much more enjoyable. It was the perfect way to let go of what unexpectedly turned into the longest work day I've had in years.

SFJazz has a slew of great musicians coming to town in the next month, beginning with Carla Kihstedt's Tin Hat this Thursday night, which I'm really looking forward to seeing. Tickets are still available.

James Brown Olympia shows online

Recently there have been some lengthy clips posted on YouTube featuring James Brown's legendary performance at the Olympia in 1971. The quality is still pretty terrible, but this link is the first I've seen which seems to have the entire show. You don't want to miss "Give it Up or Turnit A Loose" at 43:43 and the closing medley of "Sex Machine/ Super Bad/ Get Up, Get Into It and Get Involved/ Soul Power" - the apex of Brown's melding of soul and funk. Bobby Byrd, Fred Wesley, Bootsy and Catfish Collins are all on the stage as the core of the JBs- one of the greatest bands ever assembled.

Though I don't think they're actually from the same show, the clips Olympia 1967 (part 1) and Olympia 1967 (part 2) feature some fantastic material with the Famous Flames, especially the 2nd link, which has decent sound and ends with a great version of "Please, Please, Please" and a riff of "Cold Sweat."

The entire show of the historic concert from the Boston Garden in 1968 (the night after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.) is also online, but the quality is pretty poor.

Still, as nice as it is find this footage online, so far nothing beats the quality of the performance found on the T.A.M.I. Show dvd, so if you've never seen it, there it is.

Doe Paoro

In the last year I've received a lot emails promoting musicians of all sorts. Many of them I just delete- it's obvious the sender hasn't bothered to read this blog or they wouldn't be sending me information about Mary Mary or whomever. But today I received a press release from the Muse Box hyping a song entitled "Can't Leave You" by a new artist from Brooklyn who goes by the name of Doe Paoro.

Atypically I decided to check out the video, which I'm not terribly enamored with, but I love the song. So much in fact, I've listened to it about a dozen times this morning. Paoro's album comes out January 31st, and one can only hope the rest of it is as good as this track. In the meantime, give it a listen.

The Pumped Up Kicks

I rarely listen to the radio anymore, and except for an occasional broadcast from the Met or the rare occasions when I've rented or borrowed a car, I could safely say I never listen to radio anymore. I tend to favor places that are quiet, so I don't frequent loud bars or establishments with music pumping through them, either. In other words, though I still like pop music I actually hear very little of it, and what I do is usually inspired by what I read or the recommendations of friends.

This means I typically hear about a new pop artist or a hit song long after everyone else has. It wasn't always this way, but it is now. I'm comfortable with that. It's okay that it was only this year I actually learned the title of the song "Clocks" and that it's by Coldplay, though it's been in my head for years.

Two years ago Maria Gostrey and I were in NYC together, and one night we found ourselves dancing in a dark, warm club in the Village on an extremely rainy night. Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" came on and the joint, which was full but not crowded, suddenly filled with palpable elation. I'd never heard the song before, but instantly knew it was a classic. Every time I hear it now I think of that night, of Maria in her red dress, and of walking in the rain toward the subway at 4:00 am. Only music and certain scents can conjure up Proustian memories in this unique way.

Like many, the holidays make me nostalgic, but it's a nostalgia often cloaked in dark shadows. The ghosts of Christmas past are often not pleasant company for me and for many I know they bring bitter madeleines with them. This year isn't any going to be any different. I just returned from a funeral in L.A..

I've mentioned before I've taken to listening to music on my phone as I walk to and from wherever it is I'm going. Many of the songs in the queue are darker ones by the Stones: "Hand of Fate," "Stray Cat Blues," "Midnight Rambler," "Paint It Black," "Gimme Shelter," and lately I've been playing "Crazy Mama" over and over again, relishing the lyrics and whiskey-soaked sound of the song:

... You can scandalize me
Scorn my name
You can steal my money
And that don't mean a doggone thing
'Cause if you really think you can push it
I'm gonna bust your knees with a bullet...

... If you're gonna keep on comin'
I'm gonna take it all head on
And if you don't believe I'm gonna do it, yeah

          Just wait till you get hit by that bullet...

Don't think I ain't thought about it
It sure make my shackle rise
And cold blood murder
It make me wanna draw the line,

Well, you're crazy mother
With your ball and chain
You're plain psychotic, ooh
Plain insane

And if you don't believe I'm gonna do it, yeah
Just wait for the thud of that bullet, ooh
You're crazy mother, ah yeah
You're crazy mother, yeah

I know- it's only rock and roll, but I like it. However, as the days have grown shorter and the shadows darker, it's begun to feel like I was listening to Johnny Cash's version of "Hurt" on an endless loop. Feeling stalked by a jackal (formerly the Femme Fatale) recently didn't help matters. I realized I needed to shine a light into all of this, but where to start? Florence & the Machine's "Dog Days Are Over"? The last movement of Beethoven's 9th? What the hell was I going to listen to now?

Then I heard a perfect pop confection via NPR Online- Canon Blue's "Indian Summer." I've always appreciated songs like this- simple, hook-laden, irresistible pieces of pop perfection. The lyrics are a sad current running through it, and the song has a definite yearning quality, nicely refuted in the refrain "No you won't ever reach me, won't ever reach me..." but it hit me hard and the shadows in the words couldn't obscure the poppy brilliance of the music and melody. Add some  "Yellow Pills," by 20/20, "Hey Ya" or "I Like the Way You Move" by Outkast, and I'm well on my way to a queue chock-full of happy-sounding songs. Feel the music, ignore the words- and resume walking. There'll be no listening to this.

Last Thursday night The Swede came over for dinner. As I was preparing the meal before he arrived I was looking for some music to play. I decided to queue up an album by a band whose name I've often seen lately but haven't ever heard- Foster the People. Their warm, friendly name sounds like an Obama/2008 slogan and  people I know on Facebook like them, so they seemed a perfect fit for two people sharing a meal and catching up on the past month whose favorite bands respectively are ABBA and Madonna (in his case) and Black Sabbath and the Rolling Stones (in mine).

I loaded it up on MOG and the first song had a catchy hook and steady beat. The Swede arrived and we talked over the music coming from the other room as I fried potatoes, sauteed vegetables and clanked around in the kitchen waiting for the meat to warm. All I could really discern was this insistent beat you could dance to and easily memorable melodies. After dinner we sat in the living room having dessert, continuing our conversation about his recent visit to Sweden and his travels in Egypt (he's just returned- I was there in '97). A couple of hours went by. I must have accidentally hit repeat on the album, because it kept playing over and over- I recognized the ear-candy hooks as we talked but had the volume down and neither of us were really paying too much attention, though we agreed it sounded good "for young people's music"- a joke we have between us.

It sounded so good I loaded it onto my phone the next morning for my walk to work. I found the beat for "Pumped Up Kicks" irresistible bubblegum, but the distorted vocals gave it a tart bite until the glorious chorus kicks in, floating over it all in a 10cc/Style Council/Swing Out Sister kind of way.

As I hit Market Street I heard the lyrics "... better run, better run, faster than my bullet" clearly for the first time in the chorus. What? The song has fucking whistling in it. Where are these bullets coming from?

I hit repeat and turned it up, so the song didn't have to compete against the streetcars rumbling down the street. Four blocks to work. I heard the vocal in a different way- as a disaffected squawk. Holden Caulfield had suddenly been replaced by Jared Lee, as I realized the most delightful-sounding song I've heard in ages featured this chorus:

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,

You better run, better run, outrun my gun.

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,

You better run, better run, faster than my bullet

I liked it, but found it disturbing. I listened closer:

He found a six-shooter gun
In his dad's closet, in a box of fun things
I don't even know what,
But he's coming for you, yeah!
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,You better run, better run, outrun my gun.All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,You better run, better run, faster than my bullet

Listening to it again, the chants of "Run! Run!," which precede the whistling section, now sounded like an homage to the "Run rabbit, run!" scene in House of 1000 Corpses.

I love the brilliant irony of the song's lyrics and sound. It isn't the first time this has been done of course, but it's the best example I've heard in a long time. I also appreciate the irony that I discovered this ear worm while trying to avoid songs with dark and violent lyrics. Like Crazy Mamas, I seem to attract these elements of darkness even when trying to consciously avoid them. I may as well give up running- it appears there's nowhere to hide anymore.

It's a fitting song for the year- at least the one I've had. 

Goran Bregovic and his Wedding and Funeral Orchestra

"Erin Brockovich? With a polka band?" Isabella asked.

"No, not Erin Brockovich. Goran Bregovich... and his Wedding and Funeral Orchestra," I replied.

"Since when does Erin Brockovich have a polka band? This should be fun- my father loved polka bands," she said.

"I don't know."

"Are jeans okay?"

"As long as you're not a Slav, yes."

"Why?"

"Because they'll be dressed a little differently. But you can wear whatever you want."

"What will they be wearing?"

"They'll look like Erin Brockovich- only hotter."

Later in the night, as we exited BART and made our way toward the Paramount, I asked "Do you realize at least half of our dates have been at this theater?"

"No they haven't," she said with certainty.

"Yes, they have."

"You've never taken me taken me to see a polka band before."

"And I'm not tonight."

While we were waiting in line for drinks at the downstairs bar  she admitted, "Okay, I recognize these bartenders. I guess we have been here a few times."

The line at the bar was a bit long, and Erins cut in front of me while Isabella was in the restroom, so by the time we were ready to go in the show had started and the overzealous door staff were keeping people from entering during the first two songs.

Two of the musicians came up to the door wearing folk costumes.

"Polka band," Isabella whispered in my ear.

Just then another Erin cut in front of me. Four inches separated us. I blew on her neck. Isabella laughed. The woman didn't budge. I blew on her neck again. She quivered slightly and stepped to her left.

"This is an aggressive crowd," Isabella noted.

"You haven't seen anything yet," I replied.

A Ringmaster unlike any other

The gatekeepers opened the doors and we walked down the aisle to experience Goran Bregovic and his Wedding and Funeral Orchestra. I say experience because there isn't really isn't a better way to describe what was about to take place- the word "concert" or "show" doesn't capture it fully. The line-up was the same as it was the last time they were in town- nineteen people on stage- Bregovic on guitar, a lone drummer, two horn players, two brass, one clarinet (for the klezmer effect), a string quartet, two female singers in traditional Bulgarian garb, and six male singers clad in tuxedos.

The format was similar too, but perhaps owing to this show being the last of their North American tour, the orchestra was simply on fire during this performance, playing with a passion I'm not sure I've witnessed since I saw the Clash at the Hollywood Palladium in 1982. It's chaotic by design, but this was something more. Bregovic read the audience perfectly and had them (myself included) in the palm of his hand. They stopped clapping asked, shushed other audience members during the quieter songs, and danced with complete abandon during the incredibly fast dance numbers. Yet this show seemed more focused in many ways, the orchestra more disciplined. There was a powerful moment when the male singers turned and stood to face the Bulgarian women as they sang a gorgeous folk tune. The sextet themselves were simply phenomenal, sounding like an entire church choir at times, at others using their voices as true instruments to complete the complex, multi-layered sound drawn from across the Balkan landscape and history. The string quartet played with exceptional precision and their turn in the spotlight was just one of many standout moments. The set featured many of their standard rave-ups like "Kalishnikov," "Gus," and the delirious "Alkohol"- which prompted a woman in the front to place an entire bottle of something at the foot of the stage, which Bregovic opened during the encore and took a couple of deep swigs from.

It was almost three hours of pure, ferocious music- and with the exception of the second night of Prince's concerts last February, easily the best thing I've seen all year. Isabella confessed she's never seen a polka band quite like it. You should have been there.

The concert was presented by SFJazz.

Mercury doesn't rise

The ex-pat Brazilian community was out in force on Friday night, filling in a good portion of Oakland's Paramount Theatre to see Daniela Mercury. The warm weather only added to the sense that a party was about to take place, and there were plenty of exceptionally attractive people on hand to drive the point home. Inside the theater a large scrim featuring Carybé's "Mulata" replaced the curtain, only adding more to the somewhat hedonistic atmosphere.

Carybé's "Mulata": step inside!

The show in large part didn't deliver on the promise, though there were certainly some fine moments.There was some grumbling in the crowd about the lack of dancing space inside the venue and as the show progressed the grumbling grew a little louder, indeed in some spots it was down bitchy, as the security folks at the theater kept clearing the aisles of people who just wanted to get down. The Paramount's a beautiful theater to be sure, but it may not have been the best venue for this particular gig. In two weeks the "no dancing in aisles" policy is going to meet a serious challenge when the "Slavic spectacle" rolls into Oaktown.

Mercury and her band started off slowly, taking about an hour to build into a full burn, though the audience was with her from the start. Perhaps accustomed to much longer shows in Brazil, she didn't pace the first half very well, and her five dancers initially distracted from, rather than complimented the show- at least while they were dressed in white- when they returned to the stage during the second hour dressed in red, they began to tear it up. A weird part came early on when Mercury stopped everything introduce Carmen Miranda. Isabella and exchanged curious looks of anticipation, both of us thinking wait a minute- Carmen Miranda is still alive? Of course she's not- she died in 1955 and would be 103 if she were alive today, but we had a couple of Manhattans before the show. What followed was a creepy rendition of "O Que E Que a Baina Tem" (What Is It that the Bahaian Woman Has?) from her latest album Canibália (Cannibalism). I'd like to propose a permanent moratorium on duets with dead people. It's never a good idea. In the middle of the set there was a misguided attempt at bossa nova, which surely isn't Mercury's thing, and the with the dancers offstage, the show started to sag a bit just when Mercury could have been expected to start heating things up.

A terrific version of "Estrelas" got things back on track, with Mercury's son Gabriel Povoas taking on Tony Garrido's vocal part of the duet (her daughter Giovana is one of the dancers). Once they finally got there, a long, tedious version of "Sol du Sol" almost derailed it again. In the end, she kicked it into high Afro-Brazilian gear, largely turning the stage over to her dancers to provide the excitement, especially the amazing Leticia Cardoso Dos Santos, who simply shook everyone else to shame. The two-hour set was just getting started, and then it was over. Oddly, Mercury kept addressing the crowd as "San Francisco," all night, never once acknowledging that we were actually in Oakland- and to paraphrase Gert, you can't there if you don't even know where there is, and that's kind of the best way I can describe this strangely lukewarm concert.

The show was presented by SFJazz, and if you if you want to catch the next big party on their schedule, one that promises to deliver, you don't want to miss Goran Bregovic and his Wedding and Funeral Orchestra on October 28th. This one's also going to be at the Paramount, but having been to one their gigs before, I have a hard time imagining how they're going to keep people out of the aisles for this one.

Mercury is in the midst of a North American tour. Check her website for more appearances.

Hardly Strictly Friday

There was certainly a taste of the bittersweet as I walked through Golden Gate Park and toward the gates of the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival yesterday afternoon. Last year's event was a turning point for me personally as relationships started to change with great significance that weekend. Madame Merle was no longer in the picture and my relationships with Penelope and the Femme Fatale started to take on different shapes as a result of her absence in ways that are still playing out a year later.

Originally I was going to attend it with Penelope, who always gets a Friends and Family pass, making it an extremely pleasant way to take it all in. When that changed I seriously thought about not going at all, since there is so much other music happening all over the Bay Area this weekend and the thought of the dealing with the huge crowds was a turn-off. It's hard to go back to being among the rabble. But after lounging around my apartment for a good part of yesterday, I finally got on the bike and rode it over to the park.

The festival's set-up was exactly like last year's, creating an unwelcome sense of déjà vu for me, but the glorious weather kept the shadows at bay. I made my way through the crowd (diverse by even San Francisco standards) over to the Arrow Stage to catch Southern Culture on the Skids, arriving too late to hear some of the bands I really wanted to see (Blame Sally, the Mekons, Kurt Vile among them). Singer/guitarist Rick Miller and bassist Mary Huff led the band through an hour-long set that hit high gear about mid-way through and didn't let up. Their sound reminds me of a Southern, souped-up version of the Cramps but with much better guitar playing and subject matter that hits closer to home. "69 El Camino" and "Dirt Track Date" were highlights of the set for me.

Southern Culture on the Skids

Then I made my way over the Banjo Stage to check out John Prine. The crowd was already immense in anticipation of Robert Plant's closing set which was to follow, and I didn't try to make my way close to the stage. I found a spot in the middle where I could hear okay, but the crowd was just too chatty and it was really difficult to pay attention so my mind just wandered. Prine would have benefited from being on one of the smaller stages- his music is too subtle for a crowd of 50,000 people, if not twice that many, many of whom (at least away from the front of the stage) were too busy getting stoned to pay any attention to him. There were two women sharing a fifth of Ancient Age near me which I found pretty amusing, as I've always wondered who would willingly drink that stuff. Prine's voice sounded good, but after half an hour I went and got something to eat and made my way back to the more manageable crowd at the Arrow Stage to hear Thurston Moore.

Sonic Youth was one of those bands I knew I should be paying attention to at the time but didn't- they're one of the many significant gaps in my musical experience, so getting the chance to hear Moore was something I didn't want to miss. His band included a drummer, violinist, harpist, and another guitar player (acoustic- as was Moore's) and for an hour they went through some extraordinarily heavy music considering it was all played with acoustic instruments. Most of the songs devolved into thick walls of sludgy sound and seemed out of place under the warm, sunny, late afternoon sky but that didn't prevent it from being a captivating set. He said after one song's conclusion his guitar (a 12-string) was probably way out of tune but he didn't care anymore- and it didn't matter- the next one sounded equally good. I would definitely go see another show of his and maybe the next time (if) Sonic Youth tours again I'll get off my ass and finally go see them.

Thurston Moore at the Arrow Stage

Finally, I made my way back to the sea of humanity at the Banjo stage to catch some of Plant's set, though knowing I had to get out of there relatively fast to make it to the Symphony by 7:30 I stood way off to the side. He began with a funked out, down-tempo version of "Black Dog" which sounded really great. In fact the one thing I can say about Plant and The Band of Joy is they sound better than I thought they had any right to. Usually I'm totally disinterested in what former members of bands I enjoyed in my youth are doing now, and I haven't paid any attention to what Plant's been recording since 1988's Now and Zen, and that only caught my attention because of the brilliance of "Tall Cool One" (though I'll admit the Plant/Page acoustic collaboration on "Kashmir" a few years back was pretty captivating). There's just too much music to explore and keep tabs on to keep track of whatever the members of Led Zeppelin or The Who are doing on their own 30 or 40 years after the music which made them important in the first place, unless it's a project that brings the past and present together in a meaningful way, like the brilliant documentary It Might Get Loud.

An immense crowd awaits Robert Plant and The Band of Joy

But Plant and the Band of Joy greatly impressed me, in fact I watched more of their set than I expected to, finding myself so impressed with each song that I wanted to hear what came next. Plant and Patty Griffin sounded great together, and Buddy Miller and Darrell Scott's musicianship added deep textures to each song. I was pleased they didn't lean heavily on the Zeppelin catalogue (at least while I was still there) and I have to admit they banished my skepticism that they would be something of a nostalgia act for aging Boomers who refuse to listen to anything but the music they grew up on. After a gorgeous rendition of "Thank You" I forced myself to leave, reluctantly, and wondering what I was going to miss, but there were still a few hours to go before the music of the day ended and I needed to get back to my side of town, where something entirely different was going to take place.

The Robert Glasper Experiment

On his most recent album, the impressive Double Booked (Blue Note, 2009), pianist Robert Glasper splits the tracks between The Robert Glasper Trio and The Robert Glasper Experiment. The Experiment tracks have a distinct hip-hop vein running through them, propelled by the drumming of Chris Dave and are, well, experimental. Based on personnel, it was the Robert Glasper Experiment that showed up to play an SFJazz gig at the YBCA Forum last night, not the Trio as billed.

Doesn't matter. With Derrick Hodge on acoustic bass and Chris Dave on the drums, the three of them gave an impressive, humor-laden performance that was as notable for its personal interactions between them as much as the musical ones. Let's just say watching these guys is like hanging out people you've known a long time who are deeply immersed in their own long-running shtick- and Chris Dave is one funny guy, not to mention an extremely talented and inventive drummer.

Opening with "One For 'Grew" from 2007's In My Element, the first set flowed from one song to another across post-bop terrain, infected by Dave's unusual beats and cymbal work. Glasper and Dave were at opposite ends of the stage facing one another during, taunting each another at times, with the imposing Hodges set between them like the beam on a scale, keeping everything centered. Glasper announced what songs they played after awhile, but I couldn't catch them all.

He started messing with the band (and the audience) as he began to play Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time," prompting Dave to start walking offstage in bemused disgust. Next Glasper tried a little Bonnie Raitt and some Bruce Hornsby, but that didn't play either. After the first notes of "Send in the Clowns" Dave started to dismantle his kit. It was all pretty funny, as Glasper wore a "what? me?" look on his face. It reminded me of the Thanksgiving scene in She's Gotta Have It. Then they got serious with an impressive, extended improvisation of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" which for me was the highlight of the two sets.

The next stops on their tour take them to Kansas City, MO, Cambridge and Northampton in MA, Washington DC, Creedmoor, NC and then a four night stand in Chicago. Check the site for dates and venues. The band is definitely worth seeing live.

Here's a video of the group shot in Paris last year, their musicianship on full display:

Before the show Glasper had a lengthy discussion with SFJazz's Rebeca Mauleon, but the Elder Swede and I missed most of it because we were having dinner and drinks at Credo. Chef Gustavo Romero gave us a duck confit appetizer that fell of the bone and was simply delicious, as was the rest of the meal and the Manhattans.

After the show, we strolled over to First Crush for more Manhattans, and heard one of the funniest jokes in recent memory. Do you know what the difference is between jelly and jam?

Laura Marling at Bimbo's

Two weeks ago I was reading the New York Times article about Laura Marling and for some odd reason, even though the description of her music didn't really appeal to me, I clicked on the stream to listen to her new album A Creature I Don't Know. The first two songs, "The Muse" and "I Was Just a Card" sounded good enough- better than I expected for an artist unfortunately tagged as an "English folk singer,"- there was a rough, jagged quality to Marling's voice- amused, yet angry, which appealed to me and the songs had unusual touches, but the third song, "Don't Ask Me Why" grabbed me with its graceful melody and lyrics and hasn't let go since I first heard it. The song has a refrain that was disturbingly appropriate for what I was feeling that particular day:

Those of us/ Who are lost and low/ I know how you feel/  

I know it's not right but it's real/ But it's real

I ended up listening to the entire album at least half a dozen times that day and a couple of times the next morning before going out for a walk.

When I first moved to San Francisco in 1993 I lived in a tiny, dark basement apartment between North Beach and Russian Hill. I was dead broke, didn't have a job, and spent a lot of afternoons on a bench in Washington Square Park trying to figure out what to do next with my life. I rarely visit the neighborhood anymore and when I do it's usually to sit on one of those benches and try to see what's coming next- just like I used to do all those years ago.

That's what I was doing on the morning of the recent Labor Day, and after sitting on a bench watching people play with their dogs and listening to some derelicts banging out a fairly decent, though drunken, version of "Sympathy for the Devil" on a guitar and some cans, I got up to make my way down Columbus, headed for the Bay. As I walked toward Bimbo's I looked up and saw Laura Marling was going to be there on the 17th. How serendipitous, I thought. When I returned home that afternoon I bought tickets.

Last Saturday night GG and I were standing outside of Bimbo's in a line longer than I anticipated, talking about the recent misfortunes of some people close to us, waiting to get in. In the back of my mind I thought the line was too long for us to get a table once we were inside but it turned out I was wrong and we easily found a table along the wall, giving us a perfect view of the stage. The first round of drinks came pretty quickly. There are many things I love about GG, not least of which is her enthusiasm for bourbon on the rocks, which rivals, and probably surpasses, my own.

An hour and two more rounds later, the lights dimmed and Alessi's Ark took the stage to open the show. Alessi's Ark is basically Alessi- a diffident young woman with long straight brown which has never held product nor felt a blow dryer. She was greeted enthusiastically by the young Lilith-fair types who were crowded up front of the stage. Backed by a single guitarist (whose name isn't "Ark"), she proceeded to play pretty much the same slow song for an hour, pausing every three or four minutes to rename it and then play it again, with somewhat different lyrics each time. After the fourth or fifth version, GG leaned over to me and said "She makes Bread sound like Metallica."

I chortled at this truism and a second later some wit in the audience called out "Free Bird," causing some bourbon to exit my nose. Alessi took all of this in stride, commenting that it's okay to like Lynyrd Skynyrd, which endeared her a bit to me, but I was still pleased when she was finished with her set, which lasted 30 or 40 minutes, though it felt like three days. When it was over GG and I tried to figure out how she ended up on this tour and decided that there must be an old connection between her and Marling- two friends who started out in the same place, one now taking the other along though they are clearly no longer musical peers.

While there was a steady exodus of people to the back bar during Alessi's set, during the break the club became packed- it looked sold-out. The floor was filled with a lot of young women, many of them in pairs and trios, along with guys who wore obvious "my girlfriend dragged me this?" looks on their faces. There was also a sizable contingent of the curious of a certain age and the usual suspects who decided this was the cool gig to see this weekend- one of whom blabbed incessantly about herself during Marling's set to the point I got up and asked her to shut up, which she did.

Marling came on at 9:30, backed by five other musicians and began the set with "Rambling Man" from her previous album, I Speak Because I Can. Her demeanor with the audience was loose, though she too exhibited diffidence. Maybe it's tick of young British females? The band was tight from the beginning, needing no time to warm up, and "Goodbye England (Covered in Snow)" felt very evocative on an atypically warm San Francisco evening. I can't remember the name of the pianist/guitar player but he was excellent on both.

My hope for the show was for Marling to play some songs from her previous albums and then perform A Creature I Don't Know in its entirety. It didn't go that way, though she did perform most of the album, highlights of the set being the gorgeous, Zeppelin-esque "Sophia" and the medley of "Don't Ask Me Why" and "Salinas," strung together as they are on the album.

The the centerpiece of the album, "The Beast," was strangely left out of the set and I found this extremely puzzling. Closing appropriately enough with "All My Rage," the performance felt briefer than it actually was, lasting perhaps an hour and a half. Not brief in a bad way, but in the way which leaves one wanting more, which the audience clearly did. Diffidence aside, Marling is an alluring presence on stage- not seeking any attention but claiming it effortlessly, she's not quite mesmerizing, but she's close. She's still at an early stage of her career and it will be interesting to see how her stage presence grows. In five years I suspect she's going to as commanding onstage as anyone, especially if her songwriting and guitar-playing skills continue to grow at the present exponential rate. In that time, perhaps she'll also get around to understanding how to build tension through a setlist, instead of seemingly deciding to just play the tunes in an apparently random order (even though that's unlikely). As an artist with such strong material, she could benefit from being more fearless in front of an audience- what in the end turned out to be a very good show felt like it could have been truly great had she just set the beast free.

There are a few more U.S. gigs, some of which are already sold-out. Check Marling's website for details of the tour and I can't recommend A Creature I Don't Know strongly enough. It's my favorite album in years.

As we made our way back toward my part of town after the gig, the ugliness of North Beach on a Saturday night was beginning to bloom. Two hours after we walked through the neighborhood, two bystanders would be hit by police gunfire in an incident on Broadway. We headed for the relative safety of the Tenderloin, bought some pizza and beer, and talked until two in the morning.

10 1/2 weeks: the Fadista and the Femme Fatale

Ana Moura- the fadista

Knowing it was inevitable didn't make it any easier to see her face and in the back of my mind I often wondered during these last 10 1/2 weeks how I would react when it was finally in front of me. My imaginings of the moment lurked in the darker part of my consciousness like a beast in a jungle, waiting to devour me once I came upon it if only given a half chance. Though I certainly wasn't ready for it, I felt- no, I knew- it would happen at this performance. Some things you just know, and as she once told me, I possess a "Gypsy-like" way of knowing certain things. This prescience (for what else can you can call it?), saved my life on more than one occasion, the most memorable being when it kept me from sitting in the front seat of a car for no apparent reason (and much to my mother's protestations), only to avoid being there 10 minutes later when the entire passenger side was creamed by a car running a red light.  In retrospect it's more than odd I possess this "gift" yet there are so many things I willfully turned a blind eye toward for months on end- the things we choose to ignore, because the fantasy has much more appeal than the reality. Yet there we were, to hear music that was centered in the reality of matters of the heart, of life, the reality of what is- not the fantasies of people who pursue an illusion. Fado is a Portuguese version of the blues- or Greek rembetika- music which reflects life,  giving it a universal, indestructible appeal.


Scanning the orchestra section of the Herbst Theater, I didn't see them, which didn't surprise me because I know he likes to buy the cheap seats, so they were probably sitting upstairs in the balcony. It was only after the show, when I noticed the table in the lobby for the fadista to sign CDs that I knew that's where they would be. And then, as if on cue, there they were.

It was the first time I've ever seen them together, though I have seen him before. As a couple, they resembled a lemur and a panther placed in the same cage- as if proximity would erase the incongruity. It doesn't. She went off to do something (check her make-up, I presume, but perhaps to text her newest victim), while he dutifully took his place in line for an autograph, waiting for her to come join him. I knew she was the one who wanted the CD and the autograph. The things he's done for her astound me- he knows most of it, if not all, and yet he's still there.

Do you remember the Joe Jackson song "Is She Really Going Out With Him?" It's not quite the song I would use to describe how I felt at that moment, but it comes pretty close. If the song were to really mirror the reality it would have been called "Did She Really Go Back to Him?" When she returned to the line he took leave of her, most likely headed to the restroom, and there stood the Femme Fatale, alone in the queue with her back to me. I approached her from behind and touched her neck. Not a gentle touch, but certainly without the force with which not long ago I used to use at her request. She spun around. Our eyes met for a brief moment, less than a second it seemed, before I turned away from her and made my way into the night.

It was one of those moments you replay in your head, endlessly considering the myriad alternatives of what could have happened at that moment, now irretrievable.

Before all of this, the fadista- Ana Moura- closed out SFJazz's Spring Season with what was essentially a masterclass in the "less is more" school of divadom, from which Beyonce and Gaga might well take some lessons. Taking the stage under a single spotlight in the Fado tradition, dressed in a gown which stated in no uncertain terms she was unapologetic to show off a real woman's figure, Moura proceeded to entrance the assembled for a brief set (less than an hour and a 1/2) that covered a lot of ground and yet at the same time left us feeling as if we had just watched, been witness to, something unique and special.

Moving little more than her left shoulder in what could only be described as a half-shimmy and sometimes moving her hips to rhythm, Ana Moura simply owned the stage. Talent and presence trump flash every time, and she has enough of both to burn. Yet she never more than smoldered, and that was enough- her stage persona is warm and inviting, not distant nor aloof. She knows she's sexy. She knows she talented. She knows that's enough and the rest is just unnecessary when one possesses these gifts. Women like that can make any audience succumb, whether the audience constists of one or a thousand- and collectively, we did. Speaking in Portuguese, and sometimes in English, she led her three accomplished accompanists through a set that left me feeling like I was standing in a gentle rain on a beach during a warm evening. That's probably not what one associates with fado- more commonly found in dark clubs, preferably late at night, but Moura's voice and demeanor transport the listener to a gentler, sultrier place. It's no wonder both Prince and the Stones have wanted to work with her.


For me there was a distinct irony when she performed the Stones' "No Expectations," with its refrain "I got no expectations, to pass through here again" - toward the end the Femme and I were on a Stones jag, writing back and forth the songs we thought most appropriate to our situation like two kids in high school. I left the exchange with "Stupid Girl."

"Fado de Procura," from the album Para Além Da Saudade turned out to be another highlight- a lighter touch giving the musicians a chance to shine with some extra fancy fretwork. Moura's was a graceful, elegant performance. I wish I could say the same about the  myself and the Femme Fatale, but this was fado- the blues, and you and I know it sometimes just doesn't work out that way.


Leaving the Femme Fatale behind, without a word said between us, I made my way into the night, heightened in its usual craziness because it was Pink Saturday in San Francisco- a night when the air surges with electricity as gay people congregate from all over to celebrate in one of their few Meccas. Thankfully I had plans for afterward, so for awhile at least, the encounter I'd left behind was just that- behind me as I went to meet out Isabella. But some things leave a trace long after they've been left behind or abandoned.

To be continued- without a doubt.

Back to the volcano

In 1983 Rickie Lee Jones released an EP called "Girl at Her Volcano" containing live tracks recorded at the Santa Monica Civic and studio cuts which didn't make it on to her first two studio albums. It had a certain notoriety for encapsulating the singer's altered state at the time of the live recordings, providing an unglossed version of what she was experiencing, or going through, and what her audiences saw at live shows, which were known to be erratic. It's hard to find nowadays, but well worth seeking out.

There simply was no other singer like Jones at the time, and there really hasn't been another one like her since, and to listen to her catalogue is to realize how profound her impact has been upon any woman who stood in front of a microphone in her wake.With the exception of Kate Bush, there really is no other female who has been a more influential vocalist on the pop or jazz scene since Holliday, Fitzgerald or Franklin in their primes. I don't care if you believe this or not, know this or not, it's just a fact.

Tonight, courtesy of SFJazz, residents of the Bay Area got to see Jones return to the volcano once more and witness a concert that was a different kind of melt-down for a performer who seemed poised to stage to triumphant comeback, though it had nothing to do with altered states.

The program featured her eponymous first album from 1979 and its follow-up, the masterpiece entitled Pirates (1981),  which many fans consider her finest moment (though I would cast my vote for the much maligned and misunderstood The Magazine as the apex of what has without doubt been a brilliant career), played in their entirety.

A few years back, I can't remember how many at the moment, Jones came to San Francisco and played five straight nights at the tiny Cafe Du Noord, each show featuring a different ensemble tackling songs from her entire catalogue. The first night sucked, to put it bluntly. If I hadn't already bought a ticket for the second, I doubt I would have gone back for more punishment, but in the end I was glad I did, and I ended up attending four of the five shows, which reaffirmed my belief that Jones is a genius, though not an easy one.

That first night at the Du Noord, she had some guys backing her she'd obviously never played with before, as if she had passed by Oak Street and asked aloud, "who can play around here, I have a gig in an hour?"  The next night some axe men showed up who had played with her before- and importantly, seemed to know her idiosyncrasies, and the result was magic. The entire stand, as musicians rolled across the stage depending on the whim of Jones' mood that day, turned out to be captivating and compelling, though greatly uneven.

Fast forward to 2011, and I was surprised but pleased to see Rickie Lee getting an obviously prestige gig at Davies Symphony Hall, the night before Tony Bennett was to take the same stage under the same sponsor. SFJazz  has a solid reputation for presenting consistently high quality shows- their name on a gig is almost an imprimatur of quality few Bay Area performing arts organizations can boast of. Though with live performances there's never a guarantee, it's been my experience in the past three or four years that an SFJazz show rarely disappoints.

And yet Jones' shows was a mess from the first moment when she was announced over the PA at a volume that was shockingly loud. Starting off with "Chuck E.'s in Love," Jones' band seemed incapable of playing the song with any nuance, overfilling the arrangement of a song in which the empty spaces say as much as the notes and lyrics do. It wasn't a different arrangement, or at least it didn't sound like one to me- it just sounded like Jones, picking out the tune's riff on an acoustic guitar she was displeased with from the moment she first hit a chord on it, was the only one onstage who had any idea what it should sound like. The over-amplified sound mix was not only too loud for Davies, but from where we sat toward the back of the orchestra, it was unfathomably distorted, giving none of the musicians a break.

Jones' problems with guitars continued as she switched back and forth between a couple, and I almost felt pity for the hapless tech who was trying to make it right for her in what turned out to be a vain attempt as the singer grew increasingly frustrated with first her instruments, then the volume of the band, then the band itself. By the time they made it to "Weasel And The White Boys Cool" the band looked like it had little hope of getting it together.

When they began the material from Pirates things got even worse. The songs on this album are deceptively complicated in their arrangements and the band just floundered, with the three-piece horn section even completely missing their entrance on the title track, forcing Jones to start the song over again, which they had already done for "Living it Up." The drummer got an almost constant berating to speed it up or down, or just to follow her, and even though Jones went over and kissed him on the cheek afterward to make nice, the fact that the band was completely unrehearsed was laid bare on the stage for all to see. I could go on with a list of more that was completely off, but you get the point by now. As for Jones, while her voice hasn't aged well, what she no longer has in clarity she makes up for in her inimitable idiosyncrasies and phrasing. On top of that, she's still a magnetic presence on the stage.

The audience, which deserved a lot better than they got, seemed swayed by that magnetism and refused to acknowledge that at least for this gig, the Duchess had no clothes on. While I observed a slow but steady stream of exits during the show, at the end Jones and the band received a prolonged standing ovation. I have no idea why, but there you have it- I guess they "like it like that."

Later, while the Duchess of Reseda and I were talking about the show and much more at the bar of Sugar, Heidi Melton walked in, looking absolutely fantastic.

“Hot Sauce Committee Part Two"

The new Beastie Boys album Hot Sauce Committee Part Two, their first in years, came out today. Jon Pareles had some nice things to say about it in the NYTs this morning, essentially writing that one of hip-hop's greatest acts have gone back to their License to Ill era roots, though this time around with live instruments instead of samples which "make the songs sound droll rather than defensive."

I'm in the mood for some droll, Beastie-sounding, nostalgia-inducing music today। The cruelest month is over, long-overdue changes are afoot and the sky is blue. So I'll be checking it out on MOG. Don't forget- you can click on a link to the right and get the best music value there is- seriously.

UPDATE: this album kicks ass.

Prince in Oakland

Prince came to Oakland for three nights and though I didn't plan on it, I ended up going to every show. When he announced this tour Prince said every night was going to be different. That proved truer than I would have ever expected. While it's true no two concerts or performances are ever alike, the Purple One gave this maxim an unprecedented spin.

The first night Prince was in kind of a Teddy Pendergrass mode. It was essentially an updated version of TP's "For Ladies Only" concerts back in the 70's. He had his guitar over his shoulder for half the concert at best and seemed more interested in preening and teasing than playing it. The first show had some great parts- Santana coming out to burn it up on "Soul Sacrifice," gorgeous renditions of  "Purple Rain" and "Adore," and finally some scorching Hendrix-flavored guitar during "Dreamer," but it wasn't enough to make me forget how awesome he was back in 2004 when the Musicology tour hit town and blew everyone away. This show was what I expected back then, and since he raised the bar so high the last time, while the first night was good, very good at times, I wouldn't say it was great. I have more about the first night here.

As I approached the arena on the second night (Wednesday) a woman was looking for a ticket and I almost sold mine to her. I wasn't very hopeful the second show was going to be much better than the first, and I almost didn't go at all. But I decided I really didn't want to waste the money and I knew the setlist would be different so my curiosity won the day. I skipped the opening set by Graham Central Station this time around completely, arriving at the arena at about 8:45 and I settled into my seat just as they were ending their set.

At 9:15, just like on Monday, the lights went down and I soon sensed this was going to be a far different show. Opening with "Let's Go Crazy," Prince started off with four songs from 1999. There was a keyboard player way off to the side of the arena I hadn't even noticed on Monday and when Prince called him "Mr. Hayes" I thought "wow- Isaac Hayes is playing with him tonight!" I was really looking forward to hearing Prince do the "Theme from 'Shaft'" for the next hour or so until I remembered Hayes died a couple of years back. I have no idea who this Mr. Hayes was, but he did resemble the dead one (at least while he was alive) and musically he injected some serious funk that was missing from Monday's set, especially on "Kiss" which received a harder treatment, including the extended part from the 12" single version, and "Controversy"- done in a raunchy, crunchy "Batdance" way.

The 1999 songs had already put this show on a far different footing than the first night, but as Prince began chanting "People call me rude- I wish we all were nude..." (absent in the version from Monday's show) it hit overdrive and never turned back. Prince picked up a bass for the next song and soon was leading the New Power Generation through cover versions of Chic's "Le Freak," the Ohio Players "Love Roller Coaster," and Wild Cherry's "Play that Funky Music." And the funk just went on and on.

More than an hour later, he closed the show with The Time's "Jungle Love." I walked out of the arena feeling like I had just seen a show by a completely different performer than the one I'd seen Monday. I called Fetkuk to see if he wanted to play hookey from work so we could catch the next night's show. I was kind of bummed he'd seen Monday night's version instead of this one and now I was hyped to see what came next. He thought about it and then declined, but when I got home at around 1 in the morning I went online bought two tickets anyway, hoping the Femme Fatale would go with me.

The Femme was sick and irritable so I found myself looking for someone else to go with. It turned out to be harder than I thought it would be. After asking four people, the Minister's Rebellious Daughter texted me back after initially declining and wrote "What am I thinking? YES- if you still have the ticket."

I tried to dissuade her from seeing Graham Central Station but she was having none of it, so we met at the arena at 7:30. There were noticeably fewer people coming to this show and though I bought tickets for the same price for Monday's show, these were in the lower level and much better seats. In fact they were great seats. The first two shows were filled to the rafters all the way around the arena and completely sold-out. On Thursday night sides of the upper section were curtained-off and it was obvious two days notice wasn't enough to fill the hall, despite the online buzz about the previous night's set.

If you've read this blog for awhile, you may recall the Rebellious one and I go back a bit and we have some traditions, mostly centered around drinking copious amounts of liquor and going to the theater- usually in that order, though not always. As we stood in line for our second round of doubles (it was way past the starting time for Graham Central Station based on the previous nights) we ran into Anne Enigma- the only person I have a longer history with in the Bay Area than the Rebellious one. Introducing them to one another, I was suddenly acutely aware of how long I've lived here- the Rebellious one was a teenager when we met and Anne was a bit of a wild woman when she hit on me at the Holy Cow almost 20 years ago. Now Anne's married and has two kids and the Rebellious one runs her own successful business.

We were still in line for more booze when the lights went down at 8:30 and I thought this was going to be a long night if it was just getting started. But it wasn't Graham Central Station onstage, it was Prince, alone with his guitar, playing "The Love We Make." It was the first sign this show was going to be something altogether different than the other two.

For the next three hours Prince hardly left that guitar alone. The setlist had more than a dozen songs he didn't play during the previous shows, including "Nothing Compares 2 U" and "She's Always in My Hair."

"Guitar" however, was the key moment for this show, setting up everything that was to follow. Prince's skills on the guitar are often overlooked or under emphasized. That's to be expected I suppose for someone with so many other obvious talents and he himself downplayed them during the first show by barely playing the thing. But on Thursday he showed those skills off with a formidable display, turning "AnotherLoverHoleInYourHead" into a metallic jam, riffing on "Rock Lobster," rocking hard on "Alphabet Street" and issuing a blistering solo before Sheila E. took the stage to play the fiercest version of "The Glamorous Life" of the entire three night stand. He simply burned on guitar for almost every song.

When he eventually turned to the piano after a couple of hours, playing sampled bits "Darling Nikki" and "Single Ladies" among half a dozen others, the audience was going nuts. The Rebellious one proclaimed the Purple one to be "sexual chocolate and tiny porn" and said the entire audience wanted to have him (she put this slightly differently). For the duration of the show most of the audience remained on their feet. When it was actually all over- the encores featured at least eight songs- I was amazed.

Three nights, three completely different sets with very little overlap, and most impressively, three completely different performances that felt unlike the others. Who else can do that? I don't know, but the last night was one of the best performances I've ever seen. Considering all three together, I suspect it will be a long time before anyone impresses me as much as Prince did last week.

The setlists:
Monday, February 21
Wednesday, February 23
Thursday, February 24