Howlin Wolf

There are two Chester Burnett’s with a claim to fame. One played football in the NFL for a spell, a linebacker. The other was a vocalist, guitarist and harmonica player, one of the most important fathers of Electric Blues. One Chester, he stood about 5’10 and weighed in at 230 pounds; the other Chester 6’3, 300 pounds.

Strangely enough, the more gargantuan of the two was the Chester with the musical chops, but of course, no one called him by his government name. He was, simply, Howlin’ Wolf.

Howlin’ Wolf was a rare breed, his presence onstage looming as large as his massive stats. When he sang his Delta-infused Chicago Blues, his voice rattled the foundation of the building, a jolting, amped up bellowing that was known to frighten and startle his audience as much as capture them. As it was, the Wolf did not merely perform on a stage; the Wolf owned the stage.

Like many authentic bluesmen, Howlin’ Wolf had a less than stellar Southern childhood. And like many poverty stricken children, he clung to something that inspired hope when the family dynamic failed. Under the tutelage of the original Delta blues icon, Charley Patton, the Wolf developed his powerful pipes, the very voice that transformed such standards as “Smokestack Lightnin” and “Back Door Man” from catchy tunes into Earth shaking thunderclaps. Sam Phillips, the famed record producer who discovered such talents as Elvis, Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison and Jerry Lee Lewis, considered Howlin’ Wolf to be his greatest discovery, even though his attempts to sign the former Mr. Burnett were unsuccessful. So in awe was the world’s foremost judge of talent, Phillips once remarked, "When I heard Howlin' Wolf, I said, 'This is for me. This is where the soul of man never dies.'’

Sylvio's 1964

Converse to the aching Blues that Howlin’ Wolf reverberated, the man himself was a portrait of success. Voraciously feral onstage, Howlin’ Wolf was a family man off of it. He was a farmer, a Mason, and a bandleader who bestowed his players’ on-time payment and a 401k type of retirement, unheard of at the time. And he saved his money wisely and lived cleanly, never falling victim to the rough edged lifestyle that chopped down so many of his contemporaries. As he said it himself, he was the only Delta Blues icon to “Drive outta the South like a gentleman".

The Wolf passed on in 1976, but his influence can be heard everywhere, from the Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton to Punk Rock, Stevie Ray Vaughn to Little Richard. And if ever one should find himself resting along the Delta on a balmy summer’s eve, be not alarmed should a few hurricane-force notes come storming in from the backwoods nearby. It is probably just the Wolf, Howlin’ away.

Howlin' Wolf

Paul Burch, Words of Love: Songs of Buddy Holly

01 Rave On by Paul Burch by Paul Burch

When presented the opportunity to review an advance copy of the upcoming Paul Burch release, Words of Love: Songs of Buddy Holly, we must admit there was a whim of bias.

Burch is and always has been one of those talents who sets the bar quite high for themselves, if not based solely upon prior critical applause. The Nashville artist has performed on the score of several blockbuster films, has aided the recorded efforts of performers such as Ryan Adams and Vic Chesnutt, and has arranged music for PBS documentaries. His debut LP, Pan-American Flash, was voted by Amazon.com as the fifth best country album-of the entire 1990’s. Chet Atkins and Marianne Faithfull consider themselves to be Paul Burch fanatics. Seven albums have established Burch as what would be born of an explosion between traditional country music and present day nuances.

So on the cusp of his eighth studio recording, we came in expecting the standard Paul Burch and WPA Ballclub fare; a gritty, folksy, raw meshing of earthy country, jazzy rhythm and blues, and a swinging rock beat. Such a lofty target, crafting a personal and resonating reimagining of an untouchable American song library, would have sent others running. Paul Burch, he pierced the bull right on the eye.

Words of Love: Songs of Buddy Holly is an ambitious revisiting of thirteen Buddy Holly tracks. But a cover album it is not. Words is akin to sitting in a lawn chair, inches from Holly and his Crickets, in a sweltering garage in the early ‘50s. It is a visceral rendition of a catalogue that no radio or studio can alter or sway. Simply, it rips away the gloss yet still shines. To the sock- hop crowd, it streams into their acoustics as if Holly never truly died; as if the legend had one day stumbled across a pristine and untouched copy of his private sessions while he was cleaning out his awards’ statuette- filled garage. To everyone else, it is as if the collection was always meant for Burch-Buddy Holly, he just had the luxury of being born first.

Holly’s original recordings always felt subtly muted and corralled, as if someone was keeping a tiger locked in a cage. Paul Burch rips the steel walls and roars right out of the gate with his sharp claws drawn. While remaining true to the essence of the tunes in their primitive form, this album seamlessly shifts arrangements and alters chord changes with gusto and bravado, and the audience is left with an implausible combination of respect for Holly’s groundbreaking vision and Paul Burch’s utter brilliance. It is as if Shakespeare penned the first half of a great work, and generations later, Hemingway scribed the rest.

Words of Love: Songs of Buddy Holly just might be the lost bridge between the Americana of yesterday and the continuation of the genre today. This brand of authentic Honky- Tonk and soul driven melodies could very well be what is devoid in a music industry heavy on vanishing shelf lives. Paul Burch has proven once again that he and his vision come with no expiration date.

http://www.paulburch.com

The Prince Of Cool

Before the term “blue eyed soul” found its place in musical lexicon, there was Chet Baker. The brass savant, blessed with talent and an infinite “it” factor, yet burdened with inner demons and turmoil, ascended as a titan of his craft, and is widely received as an immovable force in the annals of jazz.

Reared in Oklahoma by a devout, God fearing family, the son of a guitarist cut his teeth in the church choir. Settling on the trumpet (the trombone proved to be too large) as his muse, he would hone his skills during back- to- back Army stints as a key component of the highly received G.I. Band, adding the titles of flugelhorn player, pianist, composer and crooner to his versatile repertoire. Baker soon found himself under the thumb of maestros such as Stan Getz and Vido Musso at San Francisco’s Bop City, the hipster joint of the times.

Circa 1953

Building his myth regionally, Baker achieved international acclaim upon being courted by Charlie “Bird” Parker for a series of Golden State engagements. That acclaim morphed into idol worship when the anointed “Prince of Cool” became a founding father of the west coast “Cool School” of jazz.

Personal discord ravaged the trumpeter, and a heroin dependency culminated in a rap sheet of overseas incarceration and deportation, events that would create infamy and a tribe of cult disciples, whilst robbing us of surefire melodic tours de force. An episode of violence, purportedly with a drug peddler, left the Prince in ruins, his embouchure altered eternally. Relearning his chops with dentures, the hep cat with silent swagger went on to swoon the world with his frangible tone until his chemically induced death at the Hotel Prins Hendrick, Amsterdam, in 1988.

Juxtaposition between his life and his art, his catalogue forges through as a testament to love and passion. Scores such as “My Funny Valentine”, “Chettty’s Lullaby”, and “Early Morning Mood”, are without generational bounds. One might suggest the language of amore that Baker orated is a direct circumstance of the 1950’s baby boom. In an era of uncertainty, it is certain that somewhere in the universe right now, in a dimly lit, gin soaked lounge, a Chet Baker tune fills the midnight hour, helping two souls celebrate that they found each other.

Savoy Ballroom

King Records

CBGB

315 Bowery at Bleecker Street in Manhattan now houses a high end fashion boutique. The alley behind it has been paved into a pedestrian walkway. The entire area is user friendly and pretty.

In another realm, invisible to the naked eye, the ghosts of this little spot are doing things that are unsuitable for print.

Image Ronnie Ramone

The full name of the place was “Country Bluegrass Blues and Other Music For Uplifting Gormandizers”, but for the creatures of the night, the four generations of anti-everything revolutionists, it was known as CBGB. “CB’s”, to regulars like Jagger, Springsteen and Warhol. “The birthplace of American punk rock”, to all.

Before the term “Punk Rock” was coined, CBGB was born in 1973. Brain child of legendary underground maestro Hilly Kristal, the venue initially set out to showcase performers of the genres that made up its acronym, but was cosmically chosen to become the launching pad of the angst driven, moody cyclone of anarchy and art that is indeed punk. Names like Patti Smith, The Ramones, Misfits, Blondie and Bad Brains were among the party crashers at CBGB, which at the time was one of the few forums for original American underground music. Hardcore Punk performers, both Straight Edge and not, used the heavily graffiti layered walls as a launching pad. Count Gorilla Biscuits, Tool, Rollins Band, and Youth of Today amongst the thrashers that once bounced on the hallowed stage.

The CBGB experience was not limited to the Punk scene, though. Country legend Alan Jackson played before a sold out crowd. In their first U.S. concert, The Police played to almost no one. Even The Dave Matthews Band, the antithesis of nonconformity and revolt, were signed because of a gig at Hilly’s iconic music hall. But, at its very core, CBGB was Punk.

CBGB closed its doors in 2006. Though a Punk Rock Museum or Hall of Fame would be somewhat of an oxymoron, given the ideology of the genre, CBGB might have been just that. Before his death, Hilly Kristal had sought National Landmark status, a request which received an inconceivable denial. The club does live on for younger generations through film, television, gaming and advertisements (again a conflict for purists), but no re-enactment, this writing included, can capture the essence of what CBGB was. Nothing truly can. For fans, it was a place to see future giants and aspiring prophets play next to superstars. It was a scene in which the names on the marquee might have been an eclectic blend of platinum records and a plumber from Queens with a mean axe.

Just no covers-bring your own art. DIY. And make it original.

"I felt very good about it, letting them do their own thing," Hilly said in later years. "In any art form, I think that's the most important thing." Unique he was. Original was the joint. Legend, is CBGB.

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Straight Edge

Savoy Ballroom Harlem

“Either dance well or quit the ballroom”

-Greek proverb

It was billed as the “World’s Finest Ballroom”. Regulars dubbed it “The Track”. For many Harlemites, it was simply “Home”.

From 1926-1958, The Savoy Ballroom was the hub of dance and music for Gotham’s artistic elite. Owned by a Jewish man and run by an African-American with a predominantly African-American staff, The Savoy was well ahead of its time as far racial unity went. Thus the beauty. Inside its hallowed halls, the ballroom stretched one city block, and was a bastion of good times and better company, as the very eclectic mix of race and creed, forbidden outside to engage in such human undertakings as song and dance with one another, Lindy Hopped and Jitter Bugged openly and freely together. Founded in the Roaring Twenties on the heels of the Harlem Renaissance, the venue was discriminating in taste only; hostesses in evening gowns, bouncers clad in bow tie and suit. It was an event, a place to be seen, and an innovative movement in a world stuck on pause.

House musician Chick Webb maintained the voracious and up tempo soundtrack to the era, while mountains such as Benny Goodman, Ella Fitzgerald, Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk and Dizzy Gillespie were as common as a cigarette girl. From the artistic breeding ground that was The Savoy, staples in American dance such as the Shimmy, the Flyin’ Charleston, and The Stomp originated. Even the loneliest fellow was a star-for a dime, he could learn the steps and dance with one of the many jaw dropping chanteuses.

Overlooked but not forgotten, The Savoy Ballroom was a place that was bathed in magic, where inklings of what America could be first sprouted. The “Home of Happy Feet” was the home of happy souls-Black, White, rich or poor. The only caveat: Do not miss the beat.

Chet Baker Story

Paul McCartney's American Concert

This summer has seen record breaking heat in the Midwest. Sahara Desert, while wearing a turtleneck sweater in August, hot. But for one night, one lone Thursday evening orphaned from its weekly family of scorch, Mother Nature cooled it down a bit.

On the banks of the Ohio River, metal birds patrolled the sky, helicopters circling above like vultures, while nautical vessels of all proportions inched near the venue, hoping to land prime real estate, perhaps steal the tunes from a neutral position.

For many, the evening began with a cocktail or three, a limo, perhaps a carnivorous feast at one of the famed Jeff Ruby dining experiences. For us, it was Subway, not because we were eating light, but because we had scored great field seats and the college funds of future generations had been breached. But we did not care; not on this night.

Leaving Northern Kentucky on foot, we crossed Cincinnati's Roebling Suspension Bridge the buzz and energy from the other side growing with each step, and within seconds found ourselves at the gates of Great American Ballpark. Home of the Reds Cincinnati.

On this majestic eve in the Queen City, a Knight held court. Sir Paul McCartney.

Like many, I have always respected McCartney. He is a legend as a Beatle, as a Wing, and as a solo artist. He is an icon as a philanthropist, a peace activist, and a man. Like many in the crowd of about 50,000, (which ranged from ages 1-101) I somehow knew every song by heart, an odd caveat from an artist who does not hold residence in my shuffle. Did not hold residence. After this performance, his last in North America on this tour, my respect turned into fanaticism. I was hardly alone.

As we purchased two waters that cost more than dinner, took one final trip to the porta- john, and gazed in awe at the 100,000 eyes peeled towards center field at the grand stage, there he suddenly was. Onstage, on time. Sixty nine years old going on forty five, a genius clothed in a splashy red jacket, instantly consumed by deafening applause. With a panoramic turn of the head, the sight of an entire stadium shaking filled our vision, every screw, every rafter thunderously bouncing.

And then he started.

“Hello, Goodbye”

“Junior's Farm”

“All My Loving”

Explosive drummer and crowd favorite Abe Laboriel, Jr

“Yesterday”

Anecdote after anecdote, story after story. Like a ping pong ball, batting back and forth, from guitar to ukulele to the ivory. With more charm than a bracelet, McCartney wowed heads of industry and ground crew alike between the thirty- seven song set list. Often humorous (Did you hear the one about Jimi Hendrix asking Eric Clapton to hop onstage and tune his ax?), sometimes poignant (From the racially charged Black Bird to an open letter to John Lennon), and always from the heart, Sir Paul interacted with the audience in a way that made us each feel as if we were breaking bread with him in Liverpool. The Fifth Beatle. All fifty thousand of us.

Backing him was a collective that is vastly more talented than anything on the synthetic pop scene today. Abe Laboriel Jr., the hulking drummer, would have easily stolen the show had the front man been anyone but Paul. With his whimsical humor and aggressive, anguished face tempo, he ably played as well as Ringo (or Pete Best) might have. Paul “Wix” Wickens, Brian Ray, and Rusty Anderson completed the ballsiest background in modern music history-who else would want to follow in the Fab Four’s footsteps? With their assistance, we literally could recognize no difference between an original 45 LP and Paul and the boys, live.

Not once did McCartney appear tired, though our much younger contingent at one point had to sit down-blasphemous, we know. Not once did Sir Paul take a sip of water. In an era where performers 1/3 his age hold 30 minute sets and cancel shows for “exhaustion”, McCartney, the human Red Bull, schooled the world on how to give a concert. Several hours, thirty seven near continuous smash hits, two encores, and 50,000 witnesses to history. The ticket price was justified.

Something on George's Ukulele

As we attempted to leave midway through the final explosive encore-again, blasphemous- a fifty-something woman begged me for my field access wrist band. I obliged, and off she ran like a school girl, something the aloof and dashing McCartney seems to do to every woman in his path. After the show, the city lingered, not wanting the experience to end, collectively rehashing the event, some rushing home to buy his albums online, others holding impromptu jam sessions with their forgotten Gibson guitars. One woman who had the fortune of having her arm signed by McCartney speedily found an open tattoo parlor, and now holds Paul’s autograph close to her heart at all times. In our little group, I half expect the patriarch to grow a shag and follow the band around Europe.

If, at the age of 69, this was Paul’s last tour stop on American soil, his legend can only grow from such a dazzling display. In a media world that preaches objectivity and balance, we must buck tradition this one occasion. If you have tasted the finest champagne that ever was, there is no need to ever again sip a wine cooler. If you have played chess with Bobby Fischer, no game of checkers will ever suffice. And if you were there, on a pleasant August night in Cincinnati, where Paul McCartney re-wrote history, never again should another concert be attended.

Maybe we are being too poetic. Then again … Maybe we’re amazed.

Images 4 & 5 Jerry Taylor

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Rock-Ola Juke Boxes

Surnames are generally inspired by the social statuses and trades of our ancestors. If your last name is Smith or Carpenter, odds are that somewhere in your family tree a blacksmith or a carpenter plied away in that field. Then there is the rare counter. If you were David C. Rockola, a movement that incorporated status, occupation and attitude just might have been dubbed in your honor.

A pretty big deal when that movement is Rock and Roll.

Rock-Ola is as synonymous with the jukebox as Jacuzzi is with the hot tub. When the company was founded in 1927, they immediately became king of the mountain in the Coin-Op industry, crafting slot games, scales, and pinball machines. But it was in the late 1930’s/early 40’s when Rock-Ola truly put the shine on their American legacy, with their curvaceous and gothic music machines. From the local five and dime to the root beer stand, the festive 45rpm mega phonograph was the only place to find the newest tunes, up to 100 songs, for a nickel per play. It was also the one melting pot where the smooth pulsations of Duke Ellington shared a home with the twangy notes of Hank Williams, where the silky harmonies of Motown were separated by a mere digit on the command pad from the welcomed conquerors of the British Invasion. Whether it were two teenagers lost in puppy love over a shared malt, or hard working and harder drinking factory employees celebrating a Friday with a cold one, a Rock-Ola hummed the soundtrack of their lives.

Rock-Ola still fabricates the iconic apparatus today, with either a vintage homage or a modern flair. We just ask that you do not play Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”. Some things are just overly excessive.

Shelby Lynne

Gillian Welch

Sometimes, and very rarely, an artist is able to have it all.

Often, a pure talent is fed to the machine, an angelic voice massacred under synthetic robotic vandalism. They are given an image that is not their own, branded and commercialized, shipped off to Hollywood and stalked by TMZ. Other times, a marginal talent seeks this treatment, soaks up every last bit of it, and “rediscovers their roots” after the machine has spit them out. And it is pungent with desperation and insincerity.

And then there is Gillian Welch.

Gillian Welch is an American lyric scribe/songstress, about as American as apple pie and taxes. Welch is the aforementioned rare breed who seems to have tapped into the artist’s dream. Alongside musical partner David Rawlings, Welch has stolen the hearts of the captious critics (5 highly acclaimed albums and a Grammy Nomination), brushed the mainstream without being ensnared in its trap (singing and producing on the soundtrack for cult film O Brother, Where Art Thou), and maintained a dedicated and growing following (evident by the crowds that fill quaint venues and large festivals alike). And she does so on her terms. In other words, she is the little secret you do not want to share, but a secret so juicy you just cannot help yourself.Her style has been described as rural, dark, and sparse. Elements of Americana, Appalachian and gospel, as well as classical country and bluegrass, can be found. Traces of punk rock and jazz filter in through the back door. In her grasp is a 1956 Gibson J50 banjo, which she masterfully employs, seemingly, just as the right moment beckons. But do not expect harmonious Ritalin from Welch-she would rather unfold a story about orphans and chemical abuse. Yet instead of rendering the listener gloomy-think watching Bambi-she leaves them in an appreciative and understanding state of melancholy. So enchanting is her voice.

An orphan herself, Gillian Welch was raised by adoptive parents, musicians who wrote tunes for The Carol Burnett Show and The Tonight Show. Growing up in a household where the folksy rhythms of Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie vibrated against the window panes, her life experience leaves little wonder as to her evolution as an artist.

With the release of The Harrow and The Harvest this past June after an eight year hiatus, fans are rejoicing. Testament to her convictions, Welch would not unveil a catalogue that was, according to her, unfinished. Welch attributed the lapse between albums to pestering writer's block and an overall dissatisfaction with initial attempts. “Our song craft slipped and I really don't know why. It's not uncommon. It's something that happens to writers. It's the deepest frustration we have come through, hence the album title.” Roadblocks obliterated, she says “It’s our most intertwined, co-authored, jointly-composed album.”

We agree. Tell a friend. But not too many.

Shelby Lynne

Otis Redding

Had it happened three months and one day from when it did, Otis Redding would have joined the tragic fraternity of gifted musicians to die at 27 years of age. Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Robert Johnson, and now Amy Winehouse fill out that roster. Instead, the sensational Redding perished in a plane crash, joining Buddy Holly, Aaliyah, Rick Nelson, John Denver and the core of Lynrd Skynrd, in yet another morbid club that would make any aspiring music legend consider taking a bus. But it is not about how he died; it is about how he lived.

As the nation slowly progressed into a semblance of the “Land of the Free” that was promised, Redding’s audience began to open up, and years of his long paid dues had come to fruition. The release of “These Arms of Mine”, his gut wrenching ballad, kicked the door ajar, and America was put on notice. “Respect”, “Satisfaction”, “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” and “Tramp” quickly took Redding’s name from regional southern myth to national treasure. In Europe, he was revered. At the Monterey International Pop Festival, precursor to Woodstock, Redding became legend, stealing the show alongside Jimi Hendrix and Brian Jones, two members of the ill fated “27 Club”. Shortly after Monterey, and three days before his small plane would carry him to the Lord he so eloquently sang to as a boy, Redding recorded a little ditty called “Sittin on the Dock of the Bay” , the smash he is most synonymous with. Posthumously released, it was a testament to his talent and a melancholy reminder of what could have been.

His legacy is everywhere. He is enshrined in The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, The Songwriters Hall of Fame, and a postage stamp. He has received a Grammy for Lifetime Achievement. A Bridge in Macon, like the bridge his music built to an audience frozen in bubblegum shtick, emblazons his name. In film, three of his iconic songs make three iconic movies play even better: Dirty Dancing, The Blues Brothers, and Top Gun. Finally, and perhaps most telling, is a statement from esteemed music critic Jon Landau. Regarding Redding, who once was considered a one trick pony in a genre with little appeal, Landau stated “Otis Redding is Rock n Roll”.

Amongst other things, he was.

1967 Stax Tour backed by Booker T & The MG's

Run DMC

Hollis, Queens. New York.

"DMC”, widely accepted to refer to Darryl McDaniels’ initials. According to The King of Rock LP, the initials have two meanings: "Devastating Mic Control" and "D for never dirty, MC for mostly clean." A third reference -"The 'D's for Doing it all of the time, the 'M's for the rhymes that all are Mine, the 'C's for Cool - cool as can be."

Whatever it may be, this is Run DMC.

Hip hop was created in the basements of 1970’s NYC buildings, spurred by inklings of generations prior. Grandmaster Flash set the lyrics against a disco rhythm. People danced. And that was okay. Run DMC brought their environment with them. Rev Run, D.M.C, and the late Jam- Master Jay were the pioneers of rap and hip hop as we know it today. Narrating the themes that they lived, wearing the clothes that they wore while speaking the way that they spoke, Run DMC was the most important rap group to ever be. In an era where the genre was not recognized, and dubbed a fading gimmick when the public cried out for it, the three friends from Queens shattered every padlock on America’s guarded temperament. Fusing gritty rock riffs with intellectual oration and new school record scratching, Run DMC set the stage for what would become modern rap, especially for the East Coast school. So innovative was the group that Mtv, the channel that used to feature music, was forced to create a rap category for their Music Awards bonanza.

For a real challenge, discover a new genre of music in the past fifty years that is proven to last, as hip hop and rap have. Do not feel bad when you can’t-this simply exemplifies the impact of Run DMC.

Amongst their feats:

•1st first rap act with a #1 R&B charting rap album

• 1st rap act with a Top 10 pop charting rap album

• 1st rap act with RIAA gold, platinum, and multi-platinum albums

•1st rap act to grace the cover of Rolling Stone magazine

•1st rap act to receive a Grammy Award nomination

•1st rap act to have a video added to MTV

•1st rap act to appear on Saturday Night Live and American Bandstand

•1st rap act to win crossover commercial appeal with rock and hip-hop fans

•Only rap act to perform at Live Aid in 1985

•1st rap act signed to an athletic gear endorsement deal

The list makes you feel bad for those who followed. Imagine being Michael Jordan’s son at a basketball camp, or Hemingway’s daughter penning her first book.

It is hard not to throw Run DMC on the Mount Rushmore of music, up there arguably with Beethoven, The Beatles, and Berry Gordy. It is one thing to set the standards for a genre; it is another thing to raise the bar for it. It is an entirely unique thing to create that genre. This is what Run DMC did. Just because a ball was created did not mean that an organized sport was created. And just because the foundations were set did not mean that rap as art ever had a chance before them.

Run DMC is rap.

And the word “retirement” has yet to be uttered against an addicting hook.