by Frank De Blase
A world where no Republican is safe: anywhere New York
City’s Ed Hamell is performing. Hamell’s Thursday, September 11, show at
Milestones was edgy and engaging. His lyrics and between-song banter were
hysterical — not just with their occasional absurdity but with barefaced
insight and honesty. Sure, Hamell plays acoustic, but it’s clear he learned
electrically. His right arm frequently blurred from view. His ultra-percussive
slashing at the strings was a testimony to the fine American craftsmen who
forged his guitar way back in 1937.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Every now
and then a body needs to downshift from all the movin’ and shakin’ and
contemplate the good things in life, like his own bellybutton. And that is
precisely what I did in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico for a week. I made a conscious
effort to do nothing except take a few snapshots and get a third-degree tan.
Feeling either an overwhelming sense of security or bravery, I did drink the
water. Alas, the rumors are true.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย No sooner
did I get back, I was off to Evanston, Illinois for an alternative newspaper
writers’ conference. Tons of pro scribes and me. I think I picked up a few tricks
that I’ll implement in the next few weeks.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Took the
train from Evanston to Chicago to see a country version of the Leroy Fix play
tribute to Johnny Cash. I truly believe Cash died of a broken heart.
Consequently, I believe in true love once again.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Monday
night in the Bop Shop Atrium and the odd, experimental strains of John Butcher
and Rhodri Davies filled the air like a creepy foreign film. A little sparse
and lacking in melody, the duo was fascinating to watch. They played off one
another with a meter and tempo only apparent to them. In order to get a tight
shot of Davies working the strings of his harp with what appeared to be a wet
rag, I stealthily approached the stage on my knees like a hungry lion hunting a
gazelle. Just as I got close enough and had Davies in my shot, my cell phone
erupted in my pants — loud. Not a great way to make friends in the jazz set.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Tons of
sweaty kids piled into Water Street Music Hall Friday, September 19, to see The
Dropkick Murphys’ Irish-flavored rock and pogo-inducing cacophony. Though their
beat and roar wax violent, these Boston boys are deliberately positive. With
kids liking bands like this, I’m not as worried about our future.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Darien Lake
was Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band’s second stop in the area this
year. Sure he’s cool and genuine. Sure, he’s the Boss, but the music seems to
have slowed some. First of all — though I’m surprised to hear myself say this
— there were just too many guitar payers on stage. Secondly, he needs a horn
section. A little swingin’ brass would give his sound the goose it needs
(playing “Candy’s Room” a little more often wouldn’t hurt either). Or we could
just listen to him preach on in three-hour-plus installments for the rest of
our lives.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย From the
corporate, four-dollar-for-a-bottle-of-water world of Darien Lake and back to
the disenfranchised, beer-joint charm of the Bug Jar to see The Grinders play a
blistering set and throw cans of The Champagne of Beers to the thirsty,
grateful audience who happily returned the empties sailing to the stage.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย I know
you’ll stop believing me if I keep referring to things as “the best,” but I’m
tellin’ you there ain’t no way around it. Austin, Texan Dale Watson is the best
country singer alive. Watson made his first area appearance at The Montage
Grille for an early show on Sunday, September 21. Tim Clark’s new country group
Dang! thoroughly warmed up the daylight crowd with some fine, swingin’ country
before Watson hit the stage and played two long sets.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย OK, so
there was the smooth rumble of his baritone croon. And the appropriately sharp
pluck-twang of his coin-covered Tele. But it’s Watson’s genuine humility and
sincerity that truly endeared him to the listeners. He honored every request.
He burned with the heartache, passion, and rage of a man who has walked a few
honky-tonk miles.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย One topic
Watson hit upon frequently was the current state of so-called country music and
the soulless machinery behind it. He complained how contemporary country
stations wouldn’t play the Man In Black until he was dead, pretending they had
always revered him. Watson’s opinions culminated in a rousing rendition of a
song he wrote based on a conversation between Willie and Waylon called
“Country, My Ass.” In the spirit of that evening I would like to dedicate this
week’s column to the late, great Johnny Cash. I’d also like to dedicate the
sentiment of Watson’s song to WBEE.
This article appears in Sep 24-30, 2003.
