Goddammit. This town seems to follow the herd more than the heard.
Seems to me, too many people are too lazy to indulge in music beyond what was
playing the year they graduated high school.
You walk into a joint
like the Montage on Saturday to see the legendary David “Fathead” Newman and it’s a ghost town.
The shame.
Where were all the
khakis who clamored and clogged downtown a few weeks
ago to dig the bop? I mean Fathead, man.
C’mon. OK, so yeah, he was the cat that turned Brother Ray on, but that was
a long time ago. Here was living history from rock ‘n’ roll’s infancy in front
of 20 people.
But enough pissin’ and moanin.’ Newman’s
early set was short, mellow and sweet. It got light and airy when he picked up
the flute but I particularly dug his saxo-honk. He
worked gently around standards like “These Precious Things” and a slightly
exploratory take on “Georgia On My Mind.” His band
swung on the DL, letting fly whenever they got the nod. Guitarist Mel Henderson chopped nicely through
pretty rhythm changes before sending a coupla mean
leads skyward. I wish more cats would follow his lead and use more reverb. You
can never have enough reverb.
Meanwhile, the same
night the Bug Jar was sparse, too, when St.
Phillip’s Escalator played monstrously epic and big. They blasted out heavy
British-blues rock — splashed it on the wall, along with the brains of those
in front. The band has gained some on-stage intensity and cockiness since I
last saw them. Their set was brash and mean, recalling bands that twisted the
blues with hard drugs and heavy (pre-metal) rock long ago. Admittedly, at this
point this type of rock is pretty derivative. But somehow it never gets old. I
hope it dies before that…or I hope I do.
— Frank De Blase
This article appears in Jun 28 – Jul 4, 2006.
