Black Keys / Wellmont Theatre/ February 2009

On an unseasonably warm Sunday night in February, two capable Buckeye State outfits conquered North Jersey’s newest high-profile concert venue. Gaining a strong foothold aboveground, Akron’s Black Keys earned their respectable audience the ‘hard way,’ touring frequently to promote four reliable deconstructed ‘white blues’ albums. Meanwhile, opener Doug Gillard, learned to gain minor acceptance the ‘harder way,’ remaining, unjustly, an indie rock footnote despite acute songwriting skills and dynamic guitar work.

Last year, famed trip-hop producer (and Gnarls Barkley founder) Danger Mouse convinced the Black Keys to mold tracks for a prospective Ike Turner comeback album. However, when the troubled 72-year-old Rhythm & Blues trailblazer suddenly passed away, the dynamic duo decided to complete the project with Danger Mouse anyhow, utilizing a proper studio for the first time. The phenomenal result, Attack & Release, places the Black Keys roughhewn garage assault in various keyboard and synthesizer-enhanced settings without hindering Dan Auerbach’s nastily gnarly riffs.

Nevertheless, live at Montclair’s refurbished Wellmont Theatre, Auerbach and drumming partner, Patrick Carney, delivered their newest batch of tunes with all the scruffy minimalist energy they righteously deserve. Auerbach came onstage first, pushing up the amplified feedback on his monitor to feverish levels prior to strapping on a six-string. Carney joined in a flash, readying himself stage right at a slightly elevated percussion setup. Attack & Release highlight, “Strange Times,” sans moody orchestral textures, pierced skulls with its fuzzy psychedelic barrage, initiating a non-stop onslaught of greasy swamp blues and raw-boned refried boogie romps.

The audience closest to the stage seemed enamored with the sparks flying off Auerbach’s fleet fingers, as he let loose braying horse-squealed distortion and wiry Jon Spencer-ripped sonic sprees hardened by rough-shard baritone-wailed screeds. They revisited rudimentary ’02 debut, The Big Come Up, for knotty deluge, “The Breaks,” an early original recorded, naturally, in a musty cellar. Next came a slithering down-tempo mantra, a Mississippi Delta blues redux, a blazing distortion-packed shakedown, and a rampaging metal-prone scrambler.

As expected, the Black Keys (like renowned Detroit twosome, the White Stripes) created a gigantic sound for just one guitarist and one drummer. Auerbach’s tasty licks, on occasion, conjured legendary axe-burner Jimi Hendrix (and cunning disciple Robin Trower), but never directly. Making a helluva racket, he’s able to gather humble blue-collar black music enthusiasts as well as tattooed biker chicks with distended gutbucket junkets and corruptive chordal jams. Raging climactic blues-rock eruption, “Your Touch” (off primal ’06 concoction, Magic Potion), got the crowds’ collective mojo working while a sentimental lullaby sung in a nasal twang proved to be the only somber moment of the evening. Like a robust, full-bodied beer, they’ve got gusto.

Beforehand, Doug Gillard, a seasoned underground journeyman, delivered a tight set of pleasingly melodic rockers, unloading catchy hooks in all the right places. Admirable stints in ‘80s new wavers Death Of Samantha, ‘90s indie lynchpins Guided By Voices, and the more contemporary Cobra Verde have earned the Ohio native mod power pop eminence. Though he has ably fulfilled the role of prodigal sideman in the past, the diminutive wizard really benefits from the crack bands he has recently assembled. Propelled by dual guitar imbroglio and a solid rhythmic core, the transplanted New Yorker lead a hot combo of experienced musical denizens. Several tuneful nuggets festoon his latest solo endeavor, Call From Restricted. For an encore, he reached back to vital arena rock sure-shot, “I Am A Tree,” a propulsive anthem first recorded when Gillard fronted unheralded band, Gem.

Cat Power / Michael Hurley / Knitting Factory

May 11, 2000

Chan Marshall (a.k.a. Cat Power) may complain of stage fright and shyness, but she was up for the challenge at two sold-out Knitting Factory solos sets this Thursday evening. Showcasing the somber, mood-stricken The Covers Album, Marshall’s flickering moans and quivering paranoiac inflections may have been barely audible, but they never failed to provide compelling intimacy. While avid fans were instantly awestruck, her corpse-like dirges proved too one-dimensional for mere onlookers.

With brown hair covering her cute facial features for the entire performance, Marshall’s desperate, ghostly whispers hushed the audience. She paused only to ask the soundman to put the vocal monitor up and when she switched from acoustic guitar to piano, maintaining an impenetrable distance form the audience.

Marshall’s cryptic anguish was twice as sullen as Marianne Faithfull’s dour reflections on Broiken English and thrice as haunting as Margo Timmins’ stoic lyricizing on the Cowboy Junkies’ Trinity Sessions. A cadaverous version of Phil Phillips soul classic, “Sea Of Love,” drifted off into the night air like a silent retreat, as she purred the lyrics in a tortured, frail wisp.

It was only appropriate Tara Jane O’Neil (formerly of slo-core icons Rodan, Retsin, and Sonora Pine) would be lurking around in the balcony, since her lo-fi bedroom recording, Peregine, also has a weather-beaten atmospheric edginess.

It’s fair to say those unfamiliar with Marshall’s growing body of work may easily mistake her reclusive nature as narcissistic, but those who cherish her harrowing nightmarish indulgences find her mysteriously intriguing.

A grey-haired troubadour with an uncanny knack for scraggly traditional folk songs and Depression Era Dust Bowl ballads, Michael Hurley has been recording on and off since the ‘60s. Supported by an upright bassist and mandolinist, the vagabond-like neo-hippie provided roots-y Appalachian-based songs sung in a delicate, reflective baritone. While some of the younger audience members talked through Hurley’s soft-toned acoustic set and seemed indifferent to his laid-back eccentricities and carefree bohemian attitude, the elders patiently hung on every bizarre turn of phrase this idiosyncratic underground bard delivered.

He cooed through a spare version of “Woody Woodpecker” and used his mouth as a percussion instrument on a somber backwoods number. Long-time admirers sang along to the ridiculously shrill falsetto chorus of the drunken banjo parody, “Uncle Smoothface,” then were mesmerized by the dusky poignancy of Hurley’s live staple, “Sweet Lucy.”

Only Ry Cooder and John Prine preserve old timey American county folk with such neo-primitive authenticity. Fans should check out his recent Weatherhole LP.

Static X / Powerman 5000 / Roseland Ballroom / Feb. 18, 2002

Face it, heavy metal is back better than ever. Minus the extraneous guitar noodling, masturbatory jams, needless drum solos, and superego bombast of yore, several prodigal sons have expanded the usually restrictive confines with an infusion of economic riffs, newfound nihilistic punk attitude, and unapologetic techno-derived metronome beats.

The newest challenger for the title of King of Metal is big-haired vocalist/ guitarist Wayne Static, leader of Wisconsin’s demonic Static X. Prancing like an uncaged animal, his savage groans and spasmodic maneuvers kept ecstatic fans bobbing heads and shakin’ fists in the air while rampant body surfers got passed overhead to the security-protected area in front of the stage. Dedicating the gut-bustin’ “He’s A Loser” to “all the people who’ve been called losers” bonded Wayne with all the angst-y, hard-headed teen outcasts feeling out of place and inadequate in our corporate-decayed society. Throughout, axe grinding Koichi Fukuda’s bludgeoned three-chord riffs, diabolical Tony Campos’ shotgun bass, and Ken Jay’s muscular skins gave each thunderous eruption an inescapable, in-yer-face thrust. Nothing fancy – just a piledriving sonic blitzkrieg unmatched by better known competitors. Anyone with a hankering for prime, state of the art metal should immediately score a copy of the quartet’s claustrophobic masterpiece, Wisconsin Death Trip.

When fluorescent yellow-haired singer Spider screeched loudly in a hoarse-throated moan, “this is what it’s like when worlds collide!” before sliding into Powerman 5000’s most enthusiastic number, pierced teens took that as a sign to slam-dance in a last ditch, orgiastic free-for-all frenzy which matched the bombastic implosion of the lyrics’ myopic, decadent savagery. While Rage Against The Machine profoundly pledge allegiance to righteous revolutionaries, Spider’s prophetic indulgences and lethal ruminations offer no concrete societal resolutions for the New World Order he exploits so terrifyingly on Tonight The Stars Revolt! So when he begs the question, “Are you ready to go?,” avid fans swirling in an uncontrollable tizzy fail to grasp the prospect of such carelessly Apocalyptic mayhem.

And while it’s difficult for Spider to step out of big brother Rob Zombie’s dark, sprawling Goth-metal shadow, his limber gyrations and the bands’ full throttle propulsion bring each catastrophic theatrical extravaganza to a glam-rock climax just a shade lighter than Zombie’s Halloween-ish spectacles. Spider’s kitsch-y sci-fi mutterings may be sociologically insignificant, but his vulture-like delivery and the dual guitar sear of Adam 12 and M.33 assault the senses with confrontational affirmation. To their legion of loyal fans brave enough to get “in the pit,” Spider dedicated the thrilling concert staple, “Car Crash.”

More visually captivating and less musically substantive than Static X, Powerman 5000 continue to improve their dynamic live shows with spirited Kiss-like execution, a consolidated repertoire, and flashy, retina-burning laser lights.

Super Furry Animals/ Irving Plaza/ April 24, 2002

After witnessing Super Furry Animals enthralling Bowery Ballroom show promoting ‘99s extraordinary Guerrilla, I had unusually high expectations for this sold-out Irving Plaza date three years hence. Utilizing video images and provocative graphics to enhance their sterling performance, this leftist psychedelic-folk quintet achieved nearly everything I’d hoped for.

After opening with an apprehensive take on the brilliant title track to their recent Rings Around The World, these intriguing Welshmen lathered on the dramatic tension. Stammering guitars and seductive harmonies graze “Sidewalk Surfer Girl” and poignant neo-orchestral anthem, “It’s Not The End Of The World” (complete with stimulating nuclear images). Then, we got comfortably numb with acoustic-based sedative “Run! Christian! Run!” and the sweeping cinematic urban futurism of the lush, disco-beaten “Juxtapozed With U.” Next, bright cartoon illustrations and Beach Boys-styled multi-harmonies illuminated the ELO-tweaked creamy pop of “Receptacle For The Respectable.”

Following a few riff-slashing guitar-driven bangers, SFA pissed on tyranny propaganda with the propulsive “Man Don’t Give A Fuck.” Offering a first-hand peak into their sociopolitical consciousness as simultaneous black and white film clips flashed early 20^th century demagogues across the screen, its persistent “they don’t give a fuck about anybody else” mantra (courtesy of Steely Dan’s “Show Biz Kids”) drove home the point. They shrewdly closed this 90-minute set with a laser light spectacle consuming the loud percussive drones, noodly tape loops, and poli-sci rhetoric of gap-toothed action hero Arnold Schwarzenegger lip-synching “best mindfuck ever.”

But the band left the stage pre-maturely as a pre-recorded track of the Beatles hazy, psychedelia-induced LSD trip “Tomorrow Never Knows” created an ethereal whir. While I could never find fault with the bands’ monumental ambitions and compelling presentation, the tightly sequenced video allusions left no room for vocalist-guitarist Gruff Rhys to humor fans with his usual canon of witty quips and spontaneous interjections. And though they definitely played their hearts out, the ending seemed rather anti-climactic since everyone was waiting patiently for just one little encore that did not come to properly applaud the boys and truly show them how much we appreciated their incredible multi-media extravaganza.

Mercury Rev/ Bowery Ballroom/ April 19, 1998

Sometimes a live show is so compelling, enlightening, and transcending the entire experience just becomes surreal. Playing a sold out Bowery Ballroom, Mercury Rev achieved such grandiose heights with their really massive, sonically swirling art-affected rock. Under impressionistic opaque yellow and orange stage lights, the spirited combo began their tidy set with the splendid “Funny Bird” and followed it up with nearly every song from the highly acclaimed Deserter’s Songs. Instead of merely applying moody instrumental textures for recreational backdrop, Mercury Rev composes imagery-laden, fully formed songs from sweet, lingering guitar abstractions and lush keyboard melodies. If, say, the Moody Blues lush dreamscapes had retained a subtler warmth and were more reflective and thoughtful, they’d be natural precursors.

Vocalist/ guitarist Jonathan Donahue effortlessly constructed beautifully resilient orchestral maneuvers. His fragile, mournful tenor and cracked emotional sentiments were gorgeously shaded by Grasshopper’s six-string pleasantries and Justin Russo’s marvelous keyboard flourishes. A mesmerizing peak came during the billowy ballad “Endlessly,” which glided ever so gently into a fluttering synth riff snuffed from “Holy Night.” Perhaps only Spiritualized comes off so marvelously mellifluous in concert. Everyone I casually mingled with at Bowery’s balcony level felt the same way I did. This was truly a Monday night to remember.

Marah / Damnwells / Bill Mc Garvey @ Maxwells / June 3, 2004

Three durable combos representing nearby locales Philadelphia, New York City, and Jersey merged for one solid show at Maxwells in Hoboken this Thursday evening. ‘Singing drummer’ Bill Mc Garvey (formerly of underrated indie pop band, Valentine Smith) led his Good Thieves through a diligent hometown set. Supporting recently released gem, Tell Your Mother, Mc Garvey’s troupe relied on honeyed melodic conviction, meaningful heartfelt lyrics, and gauzy textures. He wove tenderly engaging baritone inflections across salient guitar-bass-violin-flute arrangements with relative ease.

Next, Brooklyn-based quartet the Damnwells – now receiving exposure for ‘03s acclaimed Bastards Of The Beat from Fordham’s heritage rock station WFUV – took the stage. Sporting shaggy long-haired and wearing similar black dress jackets (‘cept the drummer), singer-guitarist Alex Dezen drew the growing assemblage in with urgent flinty-voiced sentiments that drifted through restrained melancholia, poignant romanticism, and reserved uplift. But the Damnwells proved just as efficient delivering loud, assertive rockers as they did remitting debonairly twanged acoustic respites.

To get started, headliners Marah communicated penetrating sensitivity without getting sappy, uncovered a few wonderful new songs from their highly anticipated 20,000 Streets Under the Sky. A South Philly quintet led by Bielanko brothers David (lead vocals-guitar) and Serge (backup vocals-guitar), Marah confirmed eternal eclecticism could secure, rather than hinder, the joyously celebratory fare they pushed forth. Redolent of Springsteen’s E Street Band when unveiling hard driving working class rock ‘n’ roll, they blazed forward with raw energy and roughed-up edginess, oft-times letting more aggressive material perilously implode. Blending raucously upbeat R & B-derived coquetry with infectious acoustical retreats, they continually got partisan heads nodding in approval. Unexpectedly, Superchunk’s Jon Wurster has taken over drum chores, providing seasoned instinctive fortitude to each number. In several spots, Serge’s steel guitar detailed rural glint.

‘Tween songs, David offered charming tidbits of wisdom, claiming ‘if your band has one baseball song, you’re cool, but if you have two, you suck’ before breaking into a spare, harmonica-filled ode to America’s pastime. He even reminded the dumbfounded audience that the first recognized ball game took place in this mile-squared town. After bringing the house down with the nifty hand-clapped helix “Soul” (from ‘02s irrepressible Float Away With The Friday Night Gods), he suggested, ‘It’s hard to figure out what’s cool anymore. That’s the story of my life.’ Taken at face value, he may be right considering Marah would’ve been hailed as ‘mainstream’ rock heroes if they’d been around in the pre-punk ‘70s. Subsequently, David broke out a banjo for a harp-doused song concerning a faraway girl.

I’m convinced Marah will be one of the most exciting bands touring this summer. Guaran-fuckin’-teed.

Magnetic Fields/ Maxwells/ October 22, 1999

Touring to support highly regarded three-disc monument, 69 Love Songs, the Magnetic Fields’ nearly two-hour Maxwells set proved to be a true testament to the reasons why fans are so intensely devoted in their ardor for openly gay singer-songwriter-guitarist Stephin Merritt.

Singing broken down love trinkets in a deep baritone, an unkempt, casually dressed Merritt countered the sadness of most songs with sly wit and humor. His subtle confessions, shaded by thoughts of doubt, betrayal, and defiance, communicate love-stained affairs of the heart with chilling sentiments like “all the umbrellas in London couldn’t stop the rain.”

Oft-times lyrically sarcastic, Merritt’s sedate tearjerkers and cracked romantic visages conform to formal song structure, never resorting to extended solos or careless improvisations. At his most eccentric and oblique, comparisons could be made to the subdued chamber-pop of Tindersticks. When he’s sublime, some Velvet Underground affectations seep through. At times, he unloads brittle insecurities like a reclusive offspring of Jonathan Richman.

Hovering over the mike with either a cigarette or pinot grigio in hand, Merritt played the part of a confident cocktail lounge troubadour on several soft, spare reflections. Never overly sentimental or coy, he shared honest emotions through vivid imagery and wry observations. Cellist Sam Doval, percussionist Claudia Gonson, and guitarist/ banjoist/ mandolinist John Woo provided seemingly effortless support throughout.

Halfway through the set, the resilient quartet offered two British Isle-styled folk tunes: a hilarious, mandolin-accompanied beer drinking ditty sung ever so sweetly by Gonson, and a longing acoustic ballad. Sinewy bass resonated through the uplifting “L’ Amour,” which fully illuminated Merritt’s ability to see the sunny skies beyond the regret and desperation he so often evokes.

An enormous underground fan base has given the Magnetic Fields plenty of support. This night was no different. Many in the sold out crowd sang along softly, as they swayed slowly to the music in this smoke-filled back room club.

John Vanderslice / Mountain Goats / Knitting Factory / Nov. 6, 2002

FOREWORD: Lyrical indie rock singer-songwriter John Vanderslice and Mountain Goats’ bard John Darnielle hooked up for this snug Tribeca concert during ’02. By ’04, Darnielle had hired Vanderslice to produce ‘04s We Shall All Be Healed. The next two Mountain Goats albums, ‘05s recommended The Sunset Tree, and ‘06s lesser Get Lonely, continued to unload hauntingly autobiographical retreats. I’m less familiar with ‘08s Heretic Pride.

As for Vanderslice, he went on to make several conceptualist albums, such as ‘04s Cellar Door, ‘05s instrumentally expansive Pixel Revolt, and Iraq War protestation, Emerald City. ‘09s Romanian Names is yet to be perused. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

A polished cut above contemporary lo-fi bedroom recorders, San Francisco troubadour John Vanderslice and Iowa-based John Darnielle (Mountain Goats principal) sketch earnest minimalist folk for their growing minions. Looking dapper despite unkempt crops of dyed blonde hair, humble Vanderslice warmed up the sweaty, packed Knitting Factory with a reliable set of efficiently revelatory charmers.

Backed by former MK Ultra partner, bassist Dan Carr (Creeper Lagoon), drummer Christopher Mc Guire (Kid Dakota), and an off-stage sound booth sampler, Vanderslice alternated between acoustic and electric guitar. His flickering songs lost none of their emotional intensity, haunting anxiety, or conviction in live performance. He neatly contrasted ever-changing moods and abrupt tempo shifts, never getting overly sedate or conversely, too unsettled. In support of his critically acclaimed Life And Death Of An American Fourtracker, the veritable handyman brought an unerring honesty to bittersweet fare such as the neo-orchestral “Me And My 424,” the burbling earthy dreamscape “Under The Leaves,” and the reserved dirge “The Mansion” (with its nifty sampled South of the Border horns).

Bloomington, Indiana-born, California-raised Mountain Goats curator John Darnielle applied his expressive high-pitched baritone to Gaelic-tinged Anglo-acoustic songs, contributing whimsical between-song quips. His half-spoken vocal inflections straddled between urgent Billy Bragg insistence (minus the politics) and abstract Tim Buckley surrealism (sans weird eccentricities). Before bassist Peter Hughes came aboard to accompany the confident acoustic strummer, Darnielle broke out five resplendent postcard narratives full of everyday observations and imagery-laden vistas. With Hughes in tow, he spanned the Mountain Goats sprawling catalogue of terse trinkets going all the way back to ‘95s Sweden album. Some were thrifty openhearted love letters glimpsing into the artists’ fascinating trivialities and minor insecurities. He kept the audience in suspense with the solemn title track to his latest release, Tallahassee, then closed with another Florida-bound treasure, the UK-only single “See America Right,” a perilous post-jail fable about “driving up from Tampa.”

You could comfortably place these intelligent poet-lyricists next to convincing though less colorful, less charismatic, and drier DIY brethren Smog (Bill Callahan), Palace Music (Will Oldham), or Mark Eitzel. But I’d bet if you asked either one, ‘60s luminaries Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and the above-mentioned Buckley inspired them more.

Garland Jeffreys / Paramus Picture Show / June 12, 2006

FOREWORD: Brooklyn-bred singer-songwriter Garland Jeffreys was a multi-cultured artist with an expansive stylistic range from soul to rock to reggae. His most popular competition became a semi-hit for unheralded rockers, the British Lions. In ’07, a year after this set at the now-defunct Paramus Picture Show, Jeffreys delivered respectful comeback, I’m Alive. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

While inconspicuously walking down the aisle to the stage of this converted movie theatre for a criminally under-attended two-and-a-half hour Paramus Picture Show gig, biracial Brooklyn troubadour Garland Jeffreys politely quipped ‘how ya doing?’ before entertained adoring fans that hung on his every word. Alternately wearing several black and white fedoras that metaphorically matched the racial dichotomies of his mulatto ancestry, Jeffreys initially performed solo acoustic like he’d originally done in the early ‘70s at West Village coffeehouse Gerdes (where he paid to perform onstage).

Commendably working for goodwill charities when not rendering compensated performances, the sixtysomething Jeffreys’ voice held up fine, crackling only a tad at his upper register as his aching baritone dispatched vivid reflections and childhood confessionals. He brought up long-time partner Alan Friedman for the balladic lullaby, “New York Skyline,” before a full band consisting of veteran musicians (Mekons drummer Steve Goulding, bassist Bryan Stanley, electric guitarist Mark Bosch, and Zecca Esquibel) joined the close-knit duo for the scruffy “Rough And Ready,” danceably exuberant “Jump Jump,” and other ‘70s/’80s fare. The Gospel-derived anti-prejudicial “Don’t Call Me Buckwheat” got the crowd clapping along while “Matador” seemed eerily reminiscent of Van Morrison circa ’68.

After a short break, Jeffreys began the second set alone with two sullen down home acoustical Delta Blues. Then, he brought back his ‘Coney Island Playboys’ for the riveting rocker “Modern Lovers” and rootsy covers of Dylan’s “Don’t Look Back,” Muddy Waters’ machismo “King Bee,” and Jimmy Reed’s Bright Lights Big City.” His blisteringly nostalgic guitar anthem, “R.O.C.K.” and a perky version of ? & the Mysterians’ heartbroken garage classic “96 Tears” were saved for uproarious encores.

Jeffreys’ poignancy, grace, and dignity have only increased with age, as the multi-culti minstrel went through subtle Blues, contrapuntal reggae, and sociopolitical folk with relative ease (despite a few mike problems). A reluctant hero of the asphalt jungle, the Sheepshead Bay native asked for no quarter. He’s currently working on new material for indie release perhaps this summer.

Dan Hicks & the Hot Licks / Bowery Ballroom / Sept. 7, 2000

Since his last studio album, 1976’s It Happened One Bite, singer-songwriter-guitarist/ quick-witted satirist Dan Hicks has been writing music for HBO and hocking commercials for Levi’s Jeans and Mc Donalds. Recently, he revamped his band, the Hot Licks, recorded ‘00s generous 15-song comeback, Beatin’ The Heat, and began touring. Playing his first New York City gig in 20 years, Hicks captivated a Bowery Ballroom audience filled with dyed-in-the-wool former hippies (including jug band fixture Jim Kweskin and WFMU d.j. Rita Houston) and party-spirited thirtysomethings.

A laid-back beatnik with a pure ‘n easy pre-rock folk-Jazz obsession, the soft-toned, flinty voiced Hicks performed for nearly two hours, dousing his set with intermittent quips and sarcastic snips. His songs, as always, had a relaxed, unhurried vibe that weighed ever gentle on the mind. Many were spiced with a breezy samba feel and a lounge-y ‘40s cocktail bar effervescence, especially the delicate “End Of A Love Affair.”

Credit guitarist Tom Mitchell, violinist Brian Godcheaux, string bassist Ozzie Andrews, plus politely soulful backup singers Debbie and Susan for giving Hicks solid support. During the Gypsy Jazz excursion of Cozy Cole’s “Topsy,” each musician performed a terse solo showcasing virtuosity. Then, wry mandolin-laced “Where’s the Money,” feel good summer stroll “Strike It While It’s Hot” (done as a duet with Bette Midler on the new LP), and voodoo love song “I Scare Myself” (featuring Rickie Lee Jones’ sultry voice on the new LP) located a contagiously low key serenity somewhere between J.J. Cale, Michael Hurley, and It’s A Beautiful Day.

Hicks bragged about getting “Motley shitfaced” before settling into the cracked bourgeois white-Blues, “Got My Paycheck Today,” then delivered “Black-Headed Buzzard” in a style that seemed half freight train Blues, half Appalachian Mountain folk. For an encore, he swiped a Western Swing ditty from Texas legend Bob Wills; smiled through the ironic “How Can I Miss You When You Won’t Go Away”; and eased into Beatin’ The Heat’s protagonistic serenade “I Don’t Want Love” (featuring former Stray Cat guitarist Brian Setzer on the studio version) and the sweetly bluesy confection “My Cello.”

Since leaving seminal pre-psychedelic ‘60s San Francisco band the Charlatans, Hicks very capably has spliced vintage American music genres with quirky originality and cornball absurdity. Now, nearly three decades since his high water mark, ‘73s Last Train To Hicksville, this Little Rock, Arkansas-born relic has still got the naive charm, deliberate smirk, and youthful anxiety of artists one-third his age.

High Times Marijuana Music Awards / Wetlands Preserve / Sept. 6, 2001

True stoners attending High Times Marijuana Music Awards (a.k.a. the Doobie Awards) were enlightened by not only the fine herb burning at Wetlands, but also dope-related heavy music resonating loudly through the foggy air past 1 A.M.

Hosted by half-baked offbeat comedian Jackie ‘The Jokeman’ Martling (who spit out lukewarm to totally hysterical one-liners) and directed by HT editor Steve Bloom, sturdy bong awards (assembled by neighboring A-1 House of Trophies) were handed out to winners in several dope-related categories between each 15 minute band segment. Short videotaped music clips of each nominee were projected on a side wall, adding to the ceremonial feel of the presentations.

To get the evening started, New Jersey’s Atomic Bitchwax (Stoner Rock Band of the Year) drifted into blistering, psychedelicized instrumental jams. Led by guitar phenom Ed Mundell (concurrently a member of Monster Magnet), AB really hit stride during a spiffy version of Tommy Bolin’s “Crazed Fandango.” Next, Boston’s sociopolitical metal-punk combo Tree (winners of the Rally Band Award) hauled out a few energetic rants.

Legendary marijuana advocate/ backdated hippie David Peel (whose ‘68 LP Have A Marijuana and ‘72 LP The Pope Smokes Dope were primal countercultural treasures) won the Marijuana In Music Award and truly impressed the audience. Unlike Peel’s off-key solo acoustic meanderings occasionally featured on the Howard Stern Show, he took the stage with a serious band that definitely kicked out the jams. Later on, the band Dope, winners of the Hard Rock Album Award for Felons & Revolutionaries, provided a fistful of Goth-inspired metal that rattled everyone’s frazzled brain cells.

Though I regret missing Jazz veteran Charlie Hunter (Jazz Album of the Year recipient) and the Cannibus Cup Band (due to some intermittent mind-expanding inhalation at the club’s basement level), I faintly heard their sweet sounds wafting through the Wetlands interior.

Undoubtedly, most of the younger crowd was on hand to catch California’s reefer-inspired hip-hop/ punk enthusiasts Kottonmouth Kings. In town to promote their vital second album, High Society, leader Brad Daddy X, rappers D Loc and Saint Vicious, DJ Bobby B, and 6’6″ dancer Pakelika (the Silent Assassin) highlighted the evening with assertive, spontaneous joints, taking home Band of the Year honors.

It was also a pleasure to see in attendance members of HT’s undefeated Central Park-based softball team, the Bonghitters. Happily, I was invited to play three games with the Bonghitters this summer. Unfortunately, I didn’t play enough to receive a team jersey.

Other Doobies Award winners for 2000 included Dr. Dre’s The Chronic 2001 – Album of the Year; Rocker T’s “Sensible Proposition” – Pop Song; Fastball’s The Harsh Light of Day – Best Rock; Cypress Hill’s Skull & Bones – Hip-Hop; Rage Against The Machine’s The Battle of Los Angeles – Rap Metal; Jimmy Page & Black Crowes’ Live at the Greek – Classic Rock; Rocker T’s If You Luv Luv Show Ya Luv – Reggae; Charlie Hunter’s eponymous LP – Jazz; Armand Van Helden’s Killing Puritans – Dance; Grass – Soundtrack; Gov’t Mule – Best Jam Band. Deceased Grateful Dead legend Jerry Garcia received the Lifetime Acheivement Award.

W.C. Handy All Stars / B.B. King’s/ Nov. 9, 1999

Midtown Manhattan’s upscale dinner club, B.B. King’s, hosted an entourage of vital, cocksure bluesmasters, the W.C. Handy All Stars, this rainy eve. By no means a mere nostalgia showcase, these experienced performers have all been nominated for coveted Blues Foundation Awards. Most tore through a quirky, fast-paced opening jam countered by a slow, deliberate one.

As I sat back to devour salmon washed down by Stella Artois Beer, seasoned Memphis harp player/ guitarist Charlie Musselwhite soloed with a traditional 12 bar Delta Blues, a Lightnin’ Hopkins-like “Down By The River,” and a stark, desolate “Darkest Hour.” Virtuoso Rhode Island guitarist Duke Robillard then kicked out an upbeat number accompanied by Doug James (baritone sax) and Gordon Beadle (tenor sax) and a languid, down-tempo turnabout “learned from Stratocaster master Albert Collins.” A consummate showman, Robillard then teased the audience with a lowdown introspection that quietly faded into the dark recesses of this spacious club. His pained facial expressions and clenched teeth affirmed the intense, flickering moodiness as he let out gruff groans.

Joe Louis Walker stepped out for “Walkin’ Across the Floor,” decorated by Robillard’s tailgator licks and Musselwhite’s train whistle harp. A hip shaking, hand clapped boogie followed, featuring Walker’s raspy raps and a wailin’ dual sax break.

An unheralded musical pioneer inspired by T-Bone Walker, Johnnie Johnson went uncredited as a reluctant rock and roll originator in the ‘50s (co-composing most of Chuck Berry’s formidable hits). This night, the seasoned St. Louis native tickled the ivories with absolute grace. Wearing a brown suit and page boy hat, he soloed a juke joint catwalk before Robillard, the saxes, and the house rhythm section of bassist John Packer and drummer Jeffrey Mc Allister came aboard for a half-spoken “Kansas City” that showcased Johnson’s historic right hand melody. For a mood-stricken instrumental change-up, the slow groovin’ “Georgia On My Mind” preceded Johnson’s signature tune, the perky “Tangeray” (which benefited from Robillard’s sly solo and flatulent sax blurts).

R & B diva Trudy Lynn took hold, declaring, “Is everybody feelin’ alright!” The silver-haired sparkplug (dressed in tiger stripe bolero and eye-grabbing leopard-spotted gown) broke into Jimmy Reed’s oft-covered “Big Boss Man” prior to purring, moaning, and belting out a dusky medley of the risqué “Little Red Rooster” and the weathered “Stormy Monday.”

The only disappointment of the night was headliner Little Milton’s decision to milk one jazz-licked jam and a depression-bound mantra instead of relying on his awesome Stax, Sun, and Chess recordings. A hardy baritone whose astounding “If Walls Could Talk” and “Grits Ain’t Groceries” inspired the likes of Robert Cray and the Allman Brothers, Milton’s self-effacing humor and rambling confessions were fine, if a bit long-winded and exhausting.

Nevertheless, the crowd left in high spirits when the entire entourage (sans Walker) got everyone on hand to stand up, clap, and join in for the Gospel-styled rant, “Hey Hey The Blues Is Alright.” Respectfully, it was dedicated to the memory of W.C. Handy, the premier traditional blues icon.