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Musical Wallpaper?
11-28-99
(printed in C-Ville Weekly Vol. 11, No.49)
We'd talked our way into opening a Humble Sacrifice show at the Outback Lodge and despite our obvious shortcomings it turned out to be a really good Tuesday night. The students had just rolled out of town for Turkey Day, that most scary of holidays, when genocide is vogue, (don't mind me, that's the fowl talking) but when Humble Sacrifice finally restored some dignity to the stage, they were playing for a happy house of fun-loving Charlottesvillians. And tear it up they did. This is not the same Grateful Dead cover band that migrated here from Wheeling, W.V. a couple of years ago. Their routine has become a lot more innovative -- full of original rock, reggae and driving funk grooves. Prominently featured are a full percussion section, some fat classic rock guitar soloing and the killer vocal harmonies of their two lead singers. The formula makes for fresh psychedelic rock in a shiny funk package.
The Outback was looking pretty good, but as Bob Marley once said, "Dreadie got a job to do," so I rolled over to Orbit Billiards to indulge in a little Token Jones. There in the groovy glow of the Corner's finest pool joint the Joneses were getting their suburban reggae groove on. The people up in Orbit were having a good time but weren't really interfacing with the band very well and it was coming through in the music. I could tell because I'd had the opportunity to catch these guys a few months earlier on their home turf (a nifty little basement on Locust Ave. where good parties have been known to be thrown) and remember being impressed by their tight playing and joyful devotion to reggae flavors. But in Orbit on Tuesday they were sounding a little flat.
It's hard to say if this was entirely their fault. Orbit is a cool hangout with a vast cast of interesting regulars, but it seems like the kind of place a band would have to bring their own following up into because despite high attendance, most people who hang out there aren't going to get all excited about a random band. They're gonna play pool and party, and maybe stop once or twice to glance over and see what's happening with the musicians by the door, but dance? -- never. It often seems like bar patrons are just holding out for the next Dave Matthews, waiting to hear something out of the corner of their ear that draws them in, when in fact the only way to really find out what a band is capable of is by putting the pressure on, suspending disbelief and listening. Besides, live music is fun to interact with, not just ignore like wallpaper. Then again, it's fun to play pool, so I can understand that, too.
I bailed out and jetted up to Michael's Bistro (crossing against the light at 14th St. in a blatant display of unnecessary rebellion) to catch the last couple tunes of the George Turner Quartet's show. I'd heard from a local jazz musician friend that George was a cool band leader to work with and I remembered him from his days playing with the Unified Funk Theory, a Full Flavor spin-off from a few years back, so I wanted to check in and see how his "serious" project was sounding. The answer was "good." Damn good. The little that I caught Tuesday night was dominated by Baaba Seth's Hope Clayburn on alto sax. Every other week I turn around and this girl is tearing up the stage with a different band. One week with Stable Roots, another with Myotonia, tonight with George, and don't forget Baaba Seth, where she sings, too -- there's no stopping her. And she blows like Maceo Parker's step-child. She's a badass!
-Cripsy Duck
cripsyduck@mindspring.com,
you bastards!
There I was, dear reader, your not-so-humble duck, tearing up the Outback Lodge with my colleague Barndoor Cowleg for a rapt crowd of half-crazed ducklings. Well, maybe not rapt or half-crazed, and maybe we weren't tearing it up, but... we played. And despite a broken washtub bass string and a kazoo with a ruptured membrane, we didn't do too badly. For a couple of quackheads.
My judgement was a little impaired from all the dazzling horn work so I decided to drop in on George's gig at Rapture the following night. Rapture saw the band in its trio form, so Turner's classy jazz guitar work could shine through in the clear but noisy light of downtown's ultra-chic pool hall and grope-atorium. It seemed as though most of the people there would have been just as happy listening to C.D.'s while over in the corner of the room the George Turner Trio was pulling off some delicious jazz. Does this happen everywhere you put a pool table and a microphone in the same room together? I was stunned. They sounded great. George is a soft touch of a mutant whose original compositions are inventive and interesting. A reworked version of Ellington's "Caravan" was as cool as I've heard it, (everybody's playing it these days) and his combo held down a powerfully mellow groove that delighted the senses. (I feel like a wine critic) George is printing a small run of his new record, so he's out pounding the bar scene, looking for listeners. Go get an earful.