Fortunately, acoustic blues are not dead but carefully preserved on compilations like Smithsonian Folkways Recording's "Classic Blues". Folkways is dedicated to documenting some of our best known as well as least appreciated musical talents with authentic, high quality,original recordings, and this particular assortment reaches back to document the rural Southern country blues and barrelhouse piano of the early Twentieth Century. Most of the major icons of the genre are represented with at least one cut.
Sonnie Terry and Brownie McGhee's "Old Jabo" evokes the rolling fields of their native North Carolina, its' lyrics suggesting African roots, Terry's vibrant harmonica dancing over McGhee's nimble guitar. Big Bill Broonzey's Depression-era "Mule-Ridin' Blues" is a steady, smooth talking blues laced with Broonzey's sardonic humor and easy picking, infusing animals with human sensibilities like Pink Anderson's tongue-in-cheek tale of the devastation caused by the scourge of the old, cotton-picking South - the "Boll Weevil". Reverend Gary Davis does a whimsical version of "Candy Man", his roughened, street preacher's voice sounding strangely gentle. One of the most haunting tunes is sung a Capella by Vera Hall, her soaring, full-bodied voice creating its own rhythmic refrain with the lyrics of "Black Woman." The legendary Son House relates a straightforward commentary on crime and punishment, his throbbing baritone combining with ominous guitar chords on "County Farm Blues."
True roadhouse, jukejoint piano is personified here by Memphis Slim , Champion Jack Dupree and Roosevelt Sykes, whose frantic assault on the ivories, called "Run the Blues Out of My Window", was originally recorded in 1936. His driving melody and pounding rt hymn combine with a frenetic vocal and shouted refrain: " I'm gonna ride - the train they call the Cannonball!" Probably the funniest song in the collection is "Beer Drinking Woman", in which a mournful Memphis Slim, accompanied by Willie Dixon, relates the story of the battle between his wallet and a woman with two hollow legs. "Clog Dance (Stomping Blues)" is an energetic romp for New Orleans bluesman Champion Jack DuPree, the ex-boxer pummeling the keyboard in melodic bursts, struggling to be heard above the handclaps and cascading feet. Edith North Johnson's mocking vocal , classic piano and mellow horns highlight "Nickel's Worth of Liver", a comic rendition of a lover's quarrel.
One of the truly great blues instrumentals of all time has to be "One Dime Blues", featuring the virtuoso guitar of the late Etta James. Her fluid finger picking caresses the ear, infused with a sense of muted resignation, the melody and rt hymn flowing seamlessly together. Although the original was recorded on Tradition Records in 1956, this live version dates from the Folk Master Series in 1992.
Leadbelly's rough, plaintive wail is showcased on "Leaving Blues" in contrast to Josh White's mellow , modulated "Careless Love". Big Joe Williams is characterized by his usual controlled but frantic pace, begging "Don't You Leave Me Here", while Lightnin' Hopkins' unique style of talking blues infuses "Come Go Home With Me." The legendary David "Honeyboy" Williams makes a rare appearance with "Pony Blues", his musicianship matched by the fact that he claims to have been with Robert Johnson the night he died.
These are just some of the artists on Classic Blues, but their work reinforces the music as a truly homemade cultural influence, creating the tradition that would travel further up the Delta and beyond Beale Street, ultimately becoming electrified and amplified in Chicago and Detroit. It is ironic to consider the fact that gangster rap may have had its roots back in those sarcastic Depression era commentaries passed off as "talking" blues. These musicians were the originals, and they deserve a listen.
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"One of the Top Ten Short Film Festivals in the United States...Don't miss it."
Chris Gore, Ultimate Film Festival Survival Guide
The Rhode Island International Film Festival ...Rhode Island's Premiere Cinema Event
Get information or get involved at www.RIIFF.org or www.RIFilmFest.org
Friday, March 2, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The Cutlass Three
The Cutlass Three cut right to the bone, their killer combination of penetrating lead, "war" drums, solid bass and authoritative vocals creating ironclad jams punctuated with a chopping reggae/ska rthymn that evokes the best of the Clash, filtered through metal, hillbilly, blues and their own sometimes ironic twist. Whether you catch TCT live on the Southern New England club circuit, or pick up their just out EP " Ready To Strike" (Available at gigs or at www.myspace.com/thecutlassband ), you'll be amazed that three people can put out such an onslaught of sound.
The Three are brothers David - lead guitar, lead vocals - and Brenden DePrest - drums, backing vocals - plus Steve Cannella - bass, backing vocals. TheDePrests have been playing together for about six years or "for as long as they've been playing" as bassist Cannella puts it. David DePrest writes most of the lyrics, while all three combine on the music. Since the band formed about a year ago, they've been at the Century Lounge in Providence, Gillary's and The Elbow Room in Bristol, the Abbey Lounge and the Empress Ballroom, just to name a few, as well as getting airplay on the college stations and WAAF 97.7 FM in Boston.
Some of my favorite TCT cuts: "The Chills", an ominous warning that " the war is coming", underscored by Brenden DePrest's militaristic drumbeats and David DePrest's hard driving solos. It builds to a crescendo, then devolves into a dependable reggae beat, echoing the haunting refrain. "Cadillac Blues" is a frantic, raunchy tribute to a luxury ride that slyly points out " When I fill her up I feel soiled/cuz my government decided to use blood to pay for oil."
The true test of a great bar band is whether they have to compromise on their own tunes to deliver those crowd-pleasing covers, but The Cutlass Three plays 99 and 44/100% original music, like "Faraway Man", straightforward ska to get the crowd moving. One of their few covers is the Bobby Fuller Four classic "I Fought The Law" which TCT turns into its own with frenetic, soaring guitar solos and tongue-in-cheek vocals.
What's the name all about? TCT is closer to a brotherhood than an average band, according to Steve Cannella: " It's like the Three Musketeers, it's unity. There will never be another member or different members, we are the Cutlass Three."
Check out TCT's website for club dates, general band information and sample cuts from of "Ready To Strike" at www.myspace.com/thecutlassband
The Three are brothers David - lead guitar, lead vocals - and Brenden DePrest - drums, backing vocals - plus Steve Cannella - bass, backing vocals. TheDePrests have been playing together for about six years or "for as long as they've been playing" as bassist Cannella puts it. David DePrest writes most of the lyrics, while all three combine on the music. Since the band formed about a year ago, they've been at the Century Lounge in Providence, Gillary's and The Elbow Room in Bristol, the Abbey Lounge and the Empress Ballroom, just to name a few, as well as getting airplay on the college stations and WAAF 97.7 FM in Boston.
Some of my favorite TCT cuts: "The Chills", an ominous warning that " the war is coming", underscored by Brenden DePrest's militaristic drumbeats and David DePrest's hard driving solos. It builds to a crescendo, then devolves into a dependable reggae beat, echoing the haunting refrain. "Cadillac Blues" is a frantic, raunchy tribute to a luxury ride that slyly points out " When I fill her up I feel soiled/cuz my government decided to use blood to pay for oil."
The true test of a great bar band is whether they have to compromise on their own tunes to deliver those crowd-pleasing covers, but The Cutlass Three plays 99 and 44/100% original music, like "Faraway Man", straightforward ska to get the crowd moving. One of their few covers is the Bobby Fuller Four classic "I Fought The Law" which TCT turns into its own with frenetic, soaring guitar solos and tongue-in-cheek vocals.
What's the name all about? TCT is closer to a brotherhood than an average band, according to Steve Cannella: " It's like the Three Musketeers, it's unity. There will never be another member or different members, we are the Cutlass Three."
Check out TCT's website for club dates, general band information and sample cuts from of "Ready To Strike" at www.myspace.com/thecutlassband
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Dr. Metal and Me
I first met Mike Gonsalves when he was at Rhode Island College, mainly because he showed up at my office in WHJY in East Providence looking for an internship.
Although I've heard people say that most radio personalities lead glamorous lives, paid millions to work twenty hours a week, my position at the time as Promotions Director required a lot of time, usually a stretch since I was also the Morning Show co-host, and help to execute the idiotic ideas we came up with. I needed interns for free labor, for dumping movie passes to some lame flick that the ad agencies decided fit our listener profile, or tickets to a concert by some up and coming act the record label wanted to promote, or merchandise from car wax to cases of soda and chips to merchandise certificates, or the infamous 94 HJY tee shirts. The shirts were such a hot fashion item that one pissed off fan actually punched out a hapless staff member because he had just finished giving out 94 shirts at a club and the angry listener just happened to be number 95. Despite the fact that the interns had the toughest job, the trade off was free concert tickets and the definitive pickup line: "Yeah, I, like, work at the station, you know."
Mike was always cheerful, energetic, funny and willing to do almost anything, although he probably had serious second thoughts after one particular fiasco. The promotion involved telling the audience to meet up with the station's Paddy Wagon (a black, screwed up van that looked like it needed to retire to a body shop) after we announced on the morning show where the van would be, the incentive being the listeners would get free stuff. In this case, the stuff was a bag full of summertime essentials from a major advertiser. It was a good idea, it was just that we only had 40 to 50 bags that were supposed to last four weeks, so the quota was 10 bags per week. Unfortunately, on that particular morning a lot more than 10 cars were already waiting for the Paddy Wagon when it arrived, leaving Mike and his sidekick no choice but to throw the bags in the direction of the people and take off. They were nearly run off the road on the way back to Providence.
I left the business but Mike - or "Gonzo" as he was better known- stayed and prospered, his dream of doing the metal show full time finally coming true. Dr. Metal took over the night, a steady diet of Loudness, Priest, Iron Maiden, Metallica, the entire hit parade of headbangers. The next time I saw Gonzo was on a platform in New Haven after we stopped to change trains. I was going to Manhattan to run a trade show, and he was on his way to hear a Vietnamese metal band, the same low-key, positive persona Mike had when he walked in the door ten years earlier. I rode the rest of the way into the city glowing with pride that I had introduced him to radio, that those cold, slimy mornings dumping passes had finally paid off, that he was doing exactly what he wanted. His name came up again in a random conversation with a forklift mechanic, who mentioned that Mike played on his softball team, what a great guy he was,etc,etc. I was glad to hear he hadn't changed, still felt proud of him, but by that time, Mike Gonsalves was part of a network of memories from a former life that was no longer important.
I was sad and disgusted when I found out he was dead, feeling a twinge of guilt. Although we had had no contact for years, it was still my doing that he was "in" the business, or so I thought. It was really just a passing concern, but I've never lost sight of the fact that no matter who really got him into the business, it was too bad that nobody got him out before the Great White concert at the Station nightclub on the night of February 20, 2003. The really spine-tingling thought is, if things had gone differently, I probably would have been there too.
Although I've heard people say that most radio personalities lead glamorous lives, paid millions to work twenty hours a week, my position at the time as Promotions Director required a lot of time, usually a stretch since I was also the Morning Show co-host, and help to execute the idiotic ideas we came up with. I needed interns for free labor, for dumping movie passes to some lame flick that the ad agencies decided fit our listener profile, or tickets to a concert by some up and coming act the record label wanted to promote, or merchandise from car wax to cases of soda and chips to merchandise certificates, or the infamous 94 HJY tee shirts. The shirts were such a hot fashion item that one pissed off fan actually punched out a hapless staff member because he had just finished giving out 94 shirts at a club and the angry listener just happened to be number 95. Despite the fact that the interns had the toughest job, the trade off was free concert tickets and the definitive pickup line: "Yeah, I, like, work at the station, you know."
Mike was always cheerful, energetic, funny and willing to do almost anything, although he probably had serious second thoughts after one particular fiasco. The promotion involved telling the audience to meet up with the station's Paddy Wagon (a black, screwed up van that looked like it needed to retire to a body shop) after we announced on the morning show where the van would be, the incentive being the listeners would get free stuff. In this case, the stuff was a bag full of summertime essentials from a major advertiser. It was a good idea, it was just that we only had 40 to 50 bags that were supposed to last four weeks, so the quota was 10 bags per week. Unfortunately, on that particular morning a lot more than 10 cars were already waiting for the Paddy Wagon when it arrived, leaving Mike and his sidekick no choice but to throw the bags in the direction of the people and take off. They were nearly run off the road on the way back to Providence.
I left the business but Mike - or "Gonzo" as he was better known- stayed and prospered, his dream of doing the metal show full time finally coming true. Dr. Metal took over the night, a steady diet of Loudness, Priest, Iron Maiden, Metallica, the entire hit parade of headbangers. The next time I saw Gonzo was on a platform in New Haven after we stopped to change trains. I was going to Manhattan to run a trade show, and he was on his way to hear a Vietnamese metal band, the same low-key, positive persona Mike had when he walked in the door ten years earlier. I rode the rest of the way into the city glowing with pride that I had introduced him to radio, that those cold, slimy mornings dumping passes had finally paid off, that he was doing exactly what he wanted. His name came up again in a random conversation with a forklift mechanic, who mentioned that Mike played on his softball team, what a great guy he was,etc,etc. I was glad to hear he hadn't changed, still felt proud of him, but by that time, Mike Gonsalves was part of a network of memories from a former life that was no longer important.
I was sad and disgusted when I found out he was dead, feeling a twinge of guilt. Although we had had no contact for years, it was still my doing that he was "in" the business, or so I thought. It was really just a passing concern, but I've never lost sight of the fact that no matter who really got him into the business, it was too bad that nobody got him out before the Great White concert at the Station nightclub on the night of February 20, 2003. The really spine-tingling thought is, if things had gone differently, I probably would have been there too.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Vinyl I Have Known
I bought myself a new audio toy for Christmas, a catalogue item that basically presents an opportunity for the technologically impaired to make CDS , the device resembling an old time phonograph. Its distinct appeal to me was that you could take your old scratchy, half-destroyed albums - the copy of Beggars Banquet, for example, that I dripped candle wax on - play them on the turntable and dub them onto a more permanent format. It seems odd to be referring to vinyl as if it is a archaeological relic. I understand the limitations of records in respect to sound quality and longevity, but I can't let go of them. I've dragged my dwindling collection around for years, along with the handful of books I saved from college and some random pieces of furniture. I know how stupid that is, but I've spent so much time with them that they take on a mythic significance.
There's my ultra-exclusive advance copy of "Born To Run", Springsteen's breakthrough album, that was handed to me by an acquaintance in the studios of Martha's Vineyard's original radio station in the summer of 1975. Of course I was stuck with trying to explain how I had gotten a copy when most of the major urban stations were still waiting for the single, so I just played dumb and wallowed in the attention. You can tell it's unique because the inside record label has no list of songs, just A on one side and B on the other.
I still have one of the first records I spent my allowance on, Gary US Bonds' LP with "Dear Lady Twist" and "Twist, Twist Senora". Bonds himself autographed the album backstage at the Paradise in Boston during his "comeback" tour, commenting that the value of the disc with his signature probably equalled the production costs for the original record.
Unfortunately, my collection is a shadow of its former self. Leaving substantial deposits in ex-girlfriends' apartments accounts for some of the losses, but I also sold a Bob Marley collection as well as numerous other still unwrapped "promo" (supplied by the record labels) copies filched from various radio stations to various "used" record stores.
The leftovers include Joan Armatrading's "Back To The Night", which was an island-wide hit on the Vineyard as well as a fairly well preserved copy of the Doors first album. "Heartbeat City" by the Cars and J. Geils' "Freeze Frame" commemorate my time in suburban Boston trying to break into the big time. The majority date from a stint at a rocker in scenic East Providence, like Steve Miller, Joe Walsh and an almost complete Tom Petty catalogue. Sadly, the really important records are long gone, like the Magic Sam album and Chuck Berry's Golden Decade double set from the legendary Chess Records, or the Paul Butterfield collection , the Bo Diddley LP and the two exceptionally battered Junior Walker & The All Stars records that I played until they were festooned with scratches.
I'm already transcribing the vinyl to CD, but its really more of an excuse to keep busy. I'll never let go of those records. I've heard that vinyl is coming back. As far as I'm concerned, it never left.
There's my ultra-exclusive advance copy of "Born To Run", Springsteen's breakthrough album, that was handed to me by an acquaintance in the studios of Martha's Vineyard's original radio station in the summer of 1975. Of course I was stuck with trying to explain how I had gotten a copy when most of the major urban stations were still waiting for the single, so I just played dumb and wallowed in the attention. You can tell it's unique because the inside record label has no list of songs, just A on one side and B on the other.
I still have one of the first records I spent my allowance on, Gary US Bonds' LP with "Dear Lady Twist" and "Twist, Twist Senora". Bonds himself autographed the album backstage at the Paradise in Boston during his "comeback" tour, commenting that the value of the disc with his signature probably equalled the production costs for the original record.
Unfortunately, my collection is a shadow of its former self. Leaving substantial deposits in ex-girlfriends' apartments accounts for some of the losses, but I also sold a Bob Marley collection as well as numerous other still unwrapped "promo" (supplied by the record labels) copies filched from various radio stations to various "used" record stores.
The leftovers include Joan Armatrading's "Back To The Night", which was an island-wide hit on the Vineyard as well as a fairly well preserved copy of the Doors first album. "Heartbeat City" by the Cars and J. Geils' "Freeze Frame" commemorate my time in suburban Boston trying to break into the big time. The majority date from a stint at a rocker in scenic East Providence, like Steve Miller, Joe Walsh and an almost complete Tom Petty catalogue. Sadly, the really important records are long gone, like the Magic Sam album and Chuck Berry's Golden Decade double set from the legendary Chess Records, or the Paul Butterfield collection , the Bo Diddley LP and the two exceptionally battered Junior Walker & The All Stars records that I played until they were festooned with scratches.
I'm already transcribing the vinyl to CD, but its really more of an excuse to keep busy. I'll never let go of those records. I've heard that vinyl is coming back. As far as I'm concerned, it never left.
Friday, February 2, 2007
R.I.P. J.B.
The first time I saw the Hardest Working Man in Show Business was at a musical tent theatre outside New Haven in the early 1960s, drawn with a friend and his sister by the allure of James Brown, not quite sure what to expect but positive that we would be in the minority. We barely had time to sit down and get paranoid before the Famous Flames, Soul Brother Number One's spine-straightening backup band, glided onstage in shimmering sequins that blinded the first two rows, and launched into a series of tsunami waves of unadulterated funk, chopping guitar and bass riffs punctuated by razor-sharp staccato horns. A couple of JB wannabes strutted their stuff, followed by another onslaught from the Flames before a hush falls over the crowd. One lonely spotlight skitters around the arena before locking in on one of the aisles as James himself comes bounding down the stairs and up onto the boards, his dazzling smile matched by the eye- popping rhinestones on his suit, belting out a slow, soul-drenched ballad before disappearing as the house lights came up.
During intermission I bought the official James Brown Souvenir program, a full-sized booklet printed on stiff cardboard-like paper, festooned with splashes of red and black ink, full of JB photographs - James pointing to his jet with all of his million sellers listed on the side, James showing off his extensive wardrobe, his cars, his house, James getting his hair straightened, the ear-to-ear grin in every picture. The copy breathlessly explained that the Man With the Crown had to consume gigantic portions of food to make up for the fact that he sweated off at least ten pounds per show - normally two gigs per day a minimum of 300 days a year - as well as having to exercise constantly so he could continue to spin, drop, kick and croon.
The lights went up, summoning us back to the hard wooden seats, and the Flames wasted no time in stoking up a beat, watching and waiting as the rows filled up before one of the musicians steps up to the mike and warbles: "Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for star time?" The MC inclines his head buffoonishly, listening for the volley of gospel-style shout backs. " I said - are you ready for STAR TIME?" A thunderous roar fills the tent. "Ladies and gentlemen are you ready for the Creator and Singer of these Number One Hits - "Try Me" - "Papa's Got A Brand New Bag " - "Please,Please,Please" - "I Feel Good " - "Cold Sweat". " The announcer quickly stokes his intro to a crescendo. " Here he is, the Hardest Working Man in Show Business, Soul Brother Number One, the Man With The Crown - JAMES BROWN!"
JB sweeps across the stage, stops, screams, spins,drops,kicks, feints, grunts , howls and tears through his own private hit parade. Despite our obvious honkiness, the effect of the pulverizing beat has rendered us into a molten mass along with the audience, swaying, clapping and snapping. Just when it seemed James was about to drown in his own sweat, Soul Brother Number One drops majestically to his knees, sobbing his unrequited love into the microphone. We strain to get a closer look, to catch every second of his torment, anxious aides hovering over him with a mink-fringed cape, finally dropping it on his hunched shoulders. As soon as the fabric touches him, JB springs to life, jumps up, pushes his handlers away, and staggers toward the crowd, obviously determined to make sure the fans get their money's worth, an act that is repeated three times before the Great One collapses, practically carried offstage as the audience claps relentlessly, unwilling to stop, caught up in the volcanic energy of one man's personal brand of boogie.
Fast forward to downtown Boston in the early 1980s, the second time I witnessed the James Brown phenomenon. Supposedly, during the intervening years, America had become more racially aware, although it was questionable in that city at that point in time because a black youth had been gunned down by Boston police under dubious circumstances a few days before James' appearance. The atmosphere was decidedly unsettled. I had been lured to the show by the music director of a major FM by the promise of maybe going backstage and hanging out. JB had been booked into a bar - slash - concert hall that was dark and dreary, but you could drink during the show.
The standard format was there but I sensed it was toned down, muted, a shadow of the three hour assault on the senses I had witnessed in the tent. Maybe it was the shooting, maybe because the audience was more mixed, maybe James just wanted to coast a bit, or maybe it was just age. He did the same spins, kicks, feints, howls and grunts, still dropped to his knees and threw off the various capes for the famous final scene, but it felt empty and muted. The eagerly anticipated meeting consisted of shaking his hand at the backstage door. His voice was husky, you could tell he was exhausted, but James thanked us politely for playing his tunes, grinning one more time as he faded into the back hallway.
It's unfortunate that the Man With The Crown will be remembered by this generation primarily as the second place winner of the Nick Nolte Mugshot Competition, but he was still smiling even in the police photo. James had good reason to grin - he was uncompromising, never let himself get co-opted, just kept doing his thing until the mainstream caught up with him, and he became a cultural icon. I have absolutely no doubt that the Hardest Working Man in Show Business - wherever he is - is still smiling.
During intermission I bought the official James Brown Souvenir program, a full-sized booklet printed on stiff cardboard-like paper, festooned with splashes of red and black ink, full of JB photographs - James pointing to his jet with all of his million sellers listed on the side, James showing off his extensive wardrobe, his cars, his house, James getting his hair straightened, the ear-to-ear grin in every picture. The copy breathlessly explained that the Man With the Crown had to consume gigantic portions of food to make up for the fact that he sweated off at least ten pounds per show - normally two gigs per day a minimum of 300 days a year - as well as having to exercise constantly so he could continue to spin, drop, kick and croon.
The lights went up, summoning us back to the hard wooden seats, and the Flames wasted no time in stoking up a beat, watching and waiting as the rows filled up before one of the musicians steps up to the mike and warbles: "Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for star time?" The MC inclines his head buffoonishly, listening for the volley of gospel-style shout backs. " I said - are you ready for STAR TIME?" A thunderous roar fills the tent. "Ladies and gentlemen are you ready for the Creator and Singer of these Number One Hits - "Try Me" - "Papa's Got A Brand New Bag " - "Please,Please,Please" - "I Feel Good " - "Cold Sweat". " The announcer quickly stokes his intro to a crescendo. " Here he is, the Hardest Working Man in Show Business, Soul Brother Number One, the Man With The Crown - JAMES BROWN!"
JB sweeps across the stage, stops, screams, spins,drops,kicks, feints, grunts , howls and tears through his own private hit parade. Despite our obvious honkiness, the effect of the pulverizing beat has rendered us into a molten mass along with the audience, swaying, clapping and snapping. Just when it seemed James was about to drown in his own sweat, Soul Brother Number One drops majestically to his knees, sobbing his unrequited love into the microphone. We strain to get a closer look, to catch every second of his torment, anxious aides hovering over him with a mink-fringed cape, finally dropping it on his hunched shoulders. As soon as the fabric touches him, JB springs to life, jumps up, pushes his handlers away, and staggers toward the crowd, obviously determined to make sure the fans get their money's worth, an act that is repeated three times before the Great One collapses, practically carried offstage as the audience claps relentlessly, unwilling to stop, caught up in the volcanic energy of one man's personal brand of boogie.
Fast forward to downtown Boston in the early 1980s, the second time I witnessed the James Brown phenomenon. Supposedly, during the intervening years, America had become more racially aware, although it was questionable in that city at that point in time because a black youth had been gunned down by Boston police under dubious circumstances a few days before James' appearance. The atmosphere was decidedly unsettled. I had been lured to the show by the music director of a major FM by the promise of maybe going backstage and hanging out. JB had been booked into a bar - slash - concert hall that was dark and dreary, but you could drink during the show.
The standard format was there but I sensed it was toned down, muted, a shadow of the three hour assault on the senses I had witnessed in the tent. Maybe it was the shooting, maybe because the audience was more mixed, maybe James just wanted to coast a bit, or maybe it was just age. He did the same spins, kicks, feints, howls and grunts, still dropped to his knees and threw off the various capes for the famous final scene, but it felt empty and muted. The eagerly anticipated meeting consisted of shaking his hand at the backstage door. His voice was husky, you could tell he was exhausted, but James thanked us politely for playing his tunes, grinning one more time as he faded into the back hallway.
It's unfortunate that the Man With The Crown will be remembered by this generation primarily as the second place winner of the Nick Nolte Mugshot Competition, but he was still smiling even in the police photo. James had good reason to grin - he was uncompromising, never let himself get co-opted, just kept doing his thing until the mainstream caught up with him, and he became a cultural icon. I have absolutely no doubt that the Hardest Working Man in Show Business - wherever he is - is still smiling.
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