Martin Longley's Music Blog

BLUES SOUNDS: OLD AND NEW YORK (Part 22)

25-03-2008

Duke Robillard

Fans of Bill Wyman, Mavis Staples, James Cotton, Johnny Winter, Tommy Castro, Duke Robillard and the North Mississippi All Stars stand by your PC - Martin Longley has sweat-soaked despatches about your heroes from both sides of the Atlantic.

It might be known as the B.B. King Blues Club, but the blues itself hardly provides this joint's primary booking pool, with various rock and pop tributaries (and tribute-aries) tending to dominate the monthly calendar.

There was some strange quality to January that brought out all the blues giants. Could this have been an absence of mainstream draws during the 'slow' season, or simply a coincidence?

Actually, the idea of blues being a poor relative soon proved misguided, as nearly every one of these hardcore gigs managed to pull in a capacity crowd that felt pretty darned sold-out. The veteran Mississippi harmonica blower James Cotton is one of the music's few remaining giants, having played beside Sonny Boy Williamson, Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf, as well as leading his own combo for the last forty years.

Cotton's girth has certainly increased over the decades, to the point where he now prefers to remain seated for the duration. He's also developed persistent throat problems in recent years, his raspy, almost unintelligible between-song announcements explaining why he's no longer singing lead vocals.

There are no difficulties with Cotton's lungs, though, his vast capacity fuelling an endless barrage of power-blowing, punctuating each phrase's edges by hitting his harp with his fist. He produces a runaway train-huffing that maintains its momentum throughout a set that keeps on barrelling towards an endless climax.

Yes, James is in pretty fine shape, and rather vigorous considering he's now into his seventies.

Continuing our series of performers who now prefer to remain seated, Johnny Winter was down at B.B.'s only a week later. The Texan's image remains the same: long white locks, black hat and black garb, looking quite fragile these days, but this appearance certainly ain't reflected in his guitar playing, which still seeps caustic juices, or his vocals, still soaring upwards.

A couple of nights later, we're catching a gig at the club which succeeds despite its unsuitable programming. The Rhode Island bluesman Duke Robillard depends on an old-style twanging subtlety, preserving R&B's rolling bounce, but his set was preceded by a couple of other guitarists who rock out to the max.

Johnny A prefers post-Hendrix instrumentals, whilst the hugely entertaining Popa Chubby (a well-established New York local) cranked up his amps to a wonderfully excruciating level, churning out his high-intensity rock-blues cataclysmics.

This probably wasn't so wonderful for the Duke, though, as many audience members began wending their way homewards in the aftermath of this satisfying aural bombardment, leaving the refined audio dynamics of Mister Robillard in a state of after-buzz shock.

With his band's honking saxophone and rolling keyboards, the set felt pretty strange straight after the Popa assault, but we were eventually allowed to calm down into the warm glow of Duke's twangin' and jumpin'.

The last of B.B.'s blues glut came three days thereafter, with another multi-band package, led by the Californian singer-guitarist Tommy Castro, who was in danger of being upstaged by his guests. Chicago bluesman Ronnie Baker Brooks (the son of Lonnie) ambles on the extrovert side of the street, even going on walkabout with his radio pick-up, ending up pulling drinks behind the club's bar.

Tommy Castro and Ronnie Baker Brooks

Castro and former J. Geils harmonica-blower Magic Dick were going to have some problems following this strutting display, but by the time that all band members are back onstage together for the final set's blow-out jamming session, all's forgiven, and democracy restored, with keyboardist Deanna Bogart also claiming her own space on a couple of songs.

The North Mississippi Allstars have just released their fifth album, Hernando, on their own label, Sons Of The South. It's named after the town where brothers Luther and Cody Dickinson grew up.

Luther Dickinson with Alvin Youngblood Hart

In January, the NMA played at the Highline Ballroom, with Alvin Youngblood Hart as their acoustic-picking support act, and also joining the Allstars later, fully plugged in for a thorough arterial letting. Hart's solo set flitted by uneventfully, his songs not seeming to fill the venue, and given a brittle, harsh sound through the PA. Alvin's electric showing was something else entirely.

The NMA's singer-guitarist Luther is an already formidable axemeister, in the tradition of Neil Young and John Fogerty, but the combination of this pair trading shag-maned solos and riffs was enthralling to say the least. The Allstars are getting rockier by the hour, but they're not relinquishing their strong blues feel either. They're not quite heading out as far as Jon Spencer, but this is still a twisted manifestation of those deeply stewing Southern forms.

Mavis Staples is seventy next year, but she's another vigorous performer who appears to be much younger. In January, she played at the Brooklyn Academy Of Music, following her involvement in a Civil Rights Movement discussion session on Martin Luther King Day.

Whereas other soulstresses have diluted their productions in recent decades (Aretha Franklin, for example), Staples still defiantly represents the hard stuff, her voice and stance remaining both gritty and uncompromising. Mavis started really young with The Staple Singers, and she's now unbelievably topping fifty years on the stage. Her sister Yvonne is still by her side, providing backing vocals.

Mavis's recent album, We'll Never Turn Back, maintains a positively-complaining, socially aware attitude, without seeming obsessively right-on, which is a nimble trick to pull off. Onstage, she's supremely confident, encouraging a relaxed connection to her audience as she stomps around, fully inhabiting the space, like the stage is her personal boudoir. Mavis cries out with a guttural rasp, her tough lines channelled with a fine control.

No slick showbiz combo here, as Staples surrounds herself with a bunch of dirty grinders, not least lead guitarist Rick Holmstrom, who savours the reverberant sludgerama of his axe, coating his acid solos and twangy riffs with a rough surface that complements his leader's own burred vocal qualities.

The absolute peak arrives with the monumental trundle of Down In Mississippi, but Staples also delivers sterling versions of Born On The Bayou, Respect Yourself and I'll Take You There. Phew! Despite returning for a couple of encore numbers, this is a very short set, but the Mavis medicine is so powerful that even such a comparatively small dose leaves the crowd humming with satiation.

She tours the UK next month though sadly she's not coming to the West Midlands (for dates see http://www.modculture.co.uk/forum2/index.php?topic=6427.msg119696#msg119696)

He's not specifically a bluesman, but more like the very embodiment of New Orleans bumping, and if that happens to include some of those hues in its general gumbo of R&B, funk, jazz, gospel and soul, then who are we to disentangle the exact ratios of Allen Toussaint's secret Crescent City spell?

Allen Toussaint

Over the last few years, his visibility has increased, and he now appears eager to tour, and certainly to appear in New York City. He's still living in the Bad Apple, waiting for his New Orleans house to be re-built, post-Katrina. Allen's a cheery soul, striking up an immediate rapport with the Blue Note club gathering, as he sings and springs across the piano keys, jousting with saxophonist Brian 'Breeze' Cayolle.

Toussaint unearths that spectacular old songbook, much of which has been penned specially for other artists, with Harry Connick Junior being one of his most recent re-interpreters.

Way back across the Atlantic, inside Old York's walls, the former Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman is nearing the end of a tour that ought to be too much of an endurance test for any 'normal' septuagenarian. That's why he doesn't move around the stage much, displaying barely a flicker of life as he stands stock still, in the wryly English, deadpan fashion.

Wyman's crucial appendage is, however, in frequent motion. Yes, his thumb is astoundingly light of touch, his axe positioned in such a way as to demand only the slightest fingering to set its strings singing in a completely non-percussive manner.

Bill's sound is pure snaking tone, mobile and malleable enough to slink under the impressive spread of his entire Rhythm Kings combo.

This British tour's spreading across three months, and the band are trying to shrug off a virulent spread of influenza within its ranks, with guitarist Albert Lee hitting the infected peak on this Grand Opera House date in February.

Even so, his flyaway twangy solos sound as well-executed as ever, and his sometime vocal spots don't appear adversely affected either. Long-serving singer Beverley Skeete handles the soulful side of Wyman's varied repertoire, but she's partnered by this tour's guesting vocalist Dennis Locorriere, who gets to grips with some fine harmonies, as well as shining out on his lead numbers.

'Tis he who's chiefly responsible for pushing the Kings up to a higher level, shortly before the interval, bellowing and testifying through Marvin Gaye's Pride And Joy with controlled gusto, and performing his distinctive alone-in-the-kitchen-at-a-party dance steps.

The bullfrogging horn section of Frank Mead and Nick Payn adds to the energy banks, with much shuffling between saxophones, harmonica, flute, jaw harp and their wacky dance-step antics. The songbook spreads through Screamin' Jay Hawkins, James Carr, Gene Vincent, Marvin Gaye, T-Bone Walker, Ray Charles, Lonnie Donegan, Chuck Berry and even Randy Newman.

Wyman gives his now accustomed dismissal of Berry (as a human being, but not as a songwriter), then proceeds to chug through two of his numbers, and Locorriere acquits himself wonderfully on Newman's Louisiana 1927, which was penned in 1974, but recently re-surfaced with fresh resonance on the Our New Orleans benefit album.