One bad gig, several good ones, and the passing of a musical magician

A couple of months back I went to a really rubbish gig. I’m not blaming the band entirely – it was a Monday night, I’d had one of those days at work, and I was standing at the Borderline on my own on an unseasonably hot day. I don’t suppose I was up for it. But nonetheless, the music wasn’t that good either.

Sirens of the Ditch, the first solo album by Jason Isbell since he left the Drive By Truckers, is a very good piece of work. He has that southern rock feel off-pat, but he combines it with some top quality singing and a songwriting style which demonstrates how leaving a multi-talented band to branch out on your own, to find a more individual sense of your art, can be a worthwhile risk. And at the Borderline, some of those elements were there – he sang well and his songs were for the most part good (although his tribute to the Band’s deceased legends, Danko/Manuel, seemed hideously inappropriate; delivering personal tributes is all very well, but there has to be some link to the object, otherwise the gesture is an empty one – like opening a copy of the Dandy and reading that it’s a tribute to Franz Kafka). But he really needs to get a new band – or at least a new guitar player. While Isbell himself played some very good solos, including some brave slide work, the other guitarist played the most hackneyed, un-nuanced, screamy guitar parts…it was as if he had just left home and was making the most of finally being allowed to turn his amp up and rock out, man. He was out of place.

The other problem was that it was far too much like being in a poor pastiche of a Southern-style hoe-down. I don’t mean to stereotype the Deep South in any way. But Isbell and his entourage seemed intent on doing just that, as he swigged from a bottle of Jack Daniels before passing it round to band members, some of whom visibly didn’t want it but felt obliged to take a manly swig. Guys, it costs a tenner in Asda, it’s not that cool. Worse, every time Isbell took a swig, various members of the audience indulged in really fake woops and hollers – I don’t know if these were genuine Southerners, impressed by Isbell showing the foreigners what life in Alabama is really like, or if they were Londoners engaging in a bit of escapism and make-belief after a day stuck in an office. Either way, it pissed me off.

Maybe I had just become a grumpy old man, and the fact that I didn’t enjoy myself was absolutely nothing to do with this gig? Not to be put off, I embarked upon a series of shows which I had higher hopes for – and they didn’t let me down. This spring I have witnessed some of the best live performances I have ever seen.

A couple of weeks after the Borderline pantomime, a friend and I entered a very strange venue, the Soho Revue Bar, to witness what was a lot like a coming out party for Lizz Wright. With poles running from floor to ceiling giving a hint as to the venue’s less savoury former use, and a dark red and blue burlesque feeling running around the cushioned seats and eerily lit bar, there was an odd anticipatory atmosphere before Wright hit the stage, earlier than scheduled. I have referred in passing to her latest album, The Orchard, elsewhere on this website, and for the most part the gig was a run-through of that album – though with the shuffle option selected.

Wright is a humble and unassuming performer – what first seemed to be her clasping herself in a classic pose of self-pity and internal angst was actually her indicating to her back-stage guy that she was cold and wanted more clothes. Perhaps inevitably, what he gave her was a loose, flowing wrap which your mum wouldn’t deem adequate to warm up a mouse, but it was in keeping with her musical style. Standing still in the middle of the stage, Wright used her deep, soulful vocals from her toes upwards, swaying only a bit as her music brought song after song to a culmination, a sense of life few performers can match based only on sheer tone.

She did dip back into her previous records, most notably with her cover of Neil Young’s Old Man. Singing it as if she had written it, indeed as if the old man in question was someone she had known her whole life (and in the subjective world of interpreting a song to suit your own needs and predilections, who is to say she hadn’t?), she brought the talented band and the eager audience up a level, closer to where she had been since the start, and after that things really got going. Elegant, stately, passionate – I would have gone to see her night after night if I could have done.

Another singer-songwriter I have been obsessively listening to this year, and another who adds jazzy inflections to a style of music that is otherwise quite different, is Jill Barber. In an underground cellar of a place, I witnessed a simple but striking performance: just Barber and her guitar, combining new songs and a few from For All Time, interspersed with endearing stories which put the songs in a nice context. My thoughts on Jill Barber have been recorded elsewhere, but the main point from a persona perspective is that I had just got off a long, delayed train journey, I was very hot and bothered, but Jill Barber did what Jason Isbell couldn’t – her songs blew my troubles away. That evening I was also reminded how well your friends tend to know you. When Barber asked for requests and I immediately shouted out a song name (I thought other people would too, but they didn’t…), she not only played the song, but asked my name and thanked me after playing it. When afterwards I commented on how embarrassing it had been, the friend I was with just said “You loved it”.

Well, love it I may have done, but not half as much as I loved Alison Krauss, Robert Plant and what they created between them at Wembley Arena a few weeks later. Taking their under-stated masterpiece, Raising Sand, on tour, their live set offers so much more – menacing but acoustic-based Led Zeppelin covers, soft country/bluegrass laments, spicy Cajun blues-rock, and simply gorgeous harmonies.

Robert Plant really showed his subtle side at Wembley, blending well with Alison Krauss and not dominating proceedings. In fact, for all of Plants world-weary and experienced touches, it was Krauss who really shone. She is a revelation - such a beautiful voice. The best moment for me was her version of Down to the River and Pray, famous now for its appearance on the Oh Brother, Where Art thou? Soundtrack. The song was performed a cappella, with Krauss in the spotlight singing the first section on her own, with Plant, Buddy Miller and the Stuart Duncan giving it three part harmony backing vocals, around a second mic. Incredible stuff. And who could fail to be entranced by Alison Krauss? There was an odd incongruousness, seeing this ‘country chick’ with green dress (billowing in the air conditioning like a warped version of Mary in Thunder Road) and cowboy boots in the middle of a massive dingy London garage, otherwise known as Wembley Arena. But when she sang, it all made sense.

There were solid versions of most of the songs from the album, with Killing the Blues being a personal highlight for me (actually it wasn’t one of the better songs on the night, and my main feeling when they started it was less elation and more a strange sense of relief that I wasn’t going to miss out). As for the Zeppelin covers – such as When the Levee Breaks, and the Battle of Evermore, the blend between reinvention and respect for rock classics was just right. Evermore featured faithful mandolin playing and lively, edge-of-seat harmonies. The long intro to When the Levee Breaks was an aggressive duet between the violins of Krauss and Duncan, followed by long, drawn-out vocals from Plant and Krauss.

It is also worth mentioning the strange cult of T-Bone Burnett. The man is clearly a great producer – the sound he created on Raising Sand is captivatingly unique (actually, until this album, my favourite example of his work was the Wallflowers’ second album, Bringing Down the Horse, rather than the Rolling Thunder guitar and the Oh Brother soundtrack for which he is more famous). The man obviously has a lot of style, and knows his music history. But the camera operators, for the big screens, kept focusing on him as he strummed his rhythm guitar, while ignoring Buddy Miller's endless stream of licks, solos and fills. Also Burnett’s’ two-song set was in your face, kind of cool, but a bit out of place. Buddy Miller and Stuart Duncan were definitely the unsung heroes of this show.

Musically speaking, Plant/Krauss show hasn’t been topped this year, for me anyway. But when you bring together the music, the performance, the atmosphere and the sheer exhilaration that only live music can provide, Bruce Springsteen is the best live performer by, oh I would say about a hundred thousand miles.

My ninth Springsteen show was definitely more of a party than a concert. People I know who sat in the stands (for this took place at a football ground, the strange huge squat stadium that Arsenal’s Emirates) tell me that it was a very good show. Certainly the setlist was pretty interesting, for a Springsteen show, with rarities like Point Blank getting an airing. For my old friend, my new friend and me, it was more an excuse to sing, shout, dance, drink some beer, and relish the general wonder of a Bruce Springsteen show. Right from the outset, he was off the stage and into the crowd, and we lapped it up – one of Springsteen’s talents is that however indifferent you are to one of his songs, in a concert he will make you love it and appreciate it in new ways; for those few minutes at least. So it was with 10th Avenue Freeze-out for me, which normally I dismiss as being a nice slice of horn and pop, but forgettable amidst the rockers, lefty ballads and epic tales of life turned every which way.

Amidst the reveling, it wasn’t until the very end of the show that the tragic and poignant background to this tour hit home. As organist Charles Giordano took his applause, we were reminded that he was only present because of the illness and recent death of Danny Federici, an original member of the E Street Band. Since the early 1970s, Danny had been adding his shimmering and swirling organ to Springsteen’s songs – lending them the notes between the notes, the solos which reminded us exactly which boardwalk Springsteen and his band had come from, and the fills which made sure that the music sounded organic and fresh, never hackneyed and plonky (especially as rhythm piano and straight-beat drums became ever more prominent on Springsteen’s records).

Back in 2003, I had a great time attending Springsteen shows in London, Dublin and New Jersey, but for the most part the enjoyment was in the occasion – getting to the second row in Dublin, seeing him in his home state in the US. Musically, the better shows I have seen have been the indoor ones – Wembley Arena with the E Street Band, solo at the Albert Hall, and the Seeger Sessions Band hootenannies in 2006. But Danny Federici’s solos always shone through the most musically mundane of shows – while Springsteen, van Zandt and co focused on entertainment. Federici sat back and let his fingers do the talking. I remember his solo lifting You’re Missing to another level, highlighting the actual subject of the song. I remember his playing on My City of Ruins making me think of everything I have ever known to have gone bad, and instilling me with a sense of hope at the same time.

Danny, maybe others will see your like again; I don’t know. For me, you were a true magician, one of those one-off musicians whose inventiveness and soul made me think and made me dream. Perhaps most of all, I know that as long as I remember that music like yours is possible, I will never abandon going to gigs, however hot and dingy and unpleasant it might sometimes seem, because I know that unexpected pleasures and emotional highs may always be in store. Given this spring’s experiences, for this I can only offer you thanks. Rest in peace.

Killing the Blues

Last Wednesday, I travelled a long way for a very short meeting. It’s an occasional and necessary part of my job, so I don’t mind, but it does present me with some interesting choices about how to kill the time during interminable train journeys. On this occasion, I had finished my book on the outward trip, and as soon as I sat down in a seat for the return, I realised my mistake. The carriage was awash with, in fact totally overcome by, the last hurrah of a school trip. To put it more simply, it was full of noisy sixth-formers from a posh girls’ school. Other than one sitting quite close to me, who was arguing about the Middle East with a member of the school’s staff, they were mainly shouting at each other. “Emily, which house are you in?” “Ellis!” “Ugh!”

In time, the guy who was supposed to be supervising them tired of the Middle East peace process and opted to blot out the roar with his iPod. I chose to do the same. First up, an initial listen to Lizz Wright’s The Orchard – as it turns out, a gem of an album which hit me immediately. But more of that another time. All I will say about that album for now is that it contains only 13 songs, rather than the 50-odd that were needed to last me the journey. So as the last chords of a really very good cover of the Band’s It Makes No Difference faded into nothingness, I selected another recent release to help me with my continued cocooning process – Raising Sand by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss.

This is a lovely album. It has a strange subdued quality, unrelated to the objective dynamics of its songs, which change, as you would expect, in keeping with their moods. But even the loudest, most raucous numbers have a controlled and considered quality. I think this is partly a result of the talent of the musicians – crack performers all – but also a deliberate ploy by the producer, T-Bone Burnett, to emphasise the beauty of the two singers’ voices. On the one hand, we have Robert Plant – the blues-rock screamer of thirty years ago, re-emerging on this record as a force for wise, lived-in blues, the passing of the years dampening the volume but not the inherent power of what he sings. And across the mic from him, we have Alison Krauss, possessor of a lovely country-styled voice – one which is simultaneously a stereotypically ‘good country voice’, and a slightly edgy and versatile instrument.

As with every time I listen to this album, I find it difficult not to become fixated on the second track. This is something of a shame, as there are many fine songs beyond the opening brace. Their take on Gene Clark’s Polly is a faithful and yet fresh interpretation. Please Read the Letter builds and builds but never makes you think that Plant has done all this before. And Townes van Zandt would, I like to think, approve whole-heartedly of the haunting menace of their version of his Nothin’. But by the time I listen to any of those songs, I’ve listened to Killing the Blues at least twice.

Raising Sand generally defies classification, but despite its genre-defying title, Killing the Blues is a blues song. It fits all of the requirements: it is about love; it uses non-human objects and events as metaphors; and it avoids really complicated double-meaning. The chords aren’t too complicated – as in all the best blues. And the instrumentation augments and decorates the emotion delivered through the vocals.

The song opens with gentle strummed guitar and a simple drum rhythm; the first real colour comes from a pedal steel, adding a country touch to proceedings. When Plant and Krauss enter, they enter together, as they do in all of the album’s best songs. Each of them has a chance to shine on their own, with the other singing backup, echo, harmony or whatever. But when they sing together, they harmonise so neatly that you couldn’t say which of them has the melody and which is picking out the counterpointing notes. And because the song was written by one person, Roly Salley, and sung from that perspective, Plant and Krauss meld their voices and sing, together, as that lone narrator. The first line brings in that universal provider of metaphors for love – nature:

Leaves were falling, just like embers
In colors red and gold they set us on fire

So there’s the first less-than-literal lyric – we’re talking about leaves, not embers, it’s just that the leaves are like embers. But nonetheless, their colours are so stark that they set us on fire.

Burning just like a moonbeam in our eyes

Imagery within imagery, then, and you can hardly fail to notice it, because although the band weaves in and out, shifting and stopping and moving, it never rises above a whispered concurrence with the lines of the singers. So you hear every word, and relish the tone which delivers them.

By the time the second verse arrives, it’s confession time:

Now I am guilty of something
I hope you never do

It isn’t entirely clear what the narrator is guilty of, but the point is that there is a story behind the naturalist’s world-view – essential for a decent blues song. The refrain, although phrased as a description of a deed done, isn’t, I wouldn’t have thought, the confession. It’s more a culmination, a release from the guilt, than the initial cause of it:

Somebody said they saw me
Swinging the world by the tail
Bouncing over a white cloud
Killing the blues

His crime isn’t that he killed the blues; his crime was something else, and by killing the blues, he acquitted himself, or at any rate wiped it from his mind. By the last verse all we’re left with is a thoughtful lament, and a comment on some other conversation:

Now you ask me just to leave you
To go out on my own and get what I need to

That last line comes as a surprise, and I had to hear it a few times before I really believed in its existence. Amidst all this pensive, loving, regretful, tenderness, the narrator employs a classic old-school blues device – “get what I need to”. I need to go away from you and get what I need, and it’s okay, because you suggested I go! A bit clichéd, a good deal conflicted, and the clinching moment in viewing this song as a real piece of blues.

So don’t take the economy of the guitar break, the gentle murmur of the acoustic guitar, or the paced beauty of the vocals as signs that this is anything other than a down-home blues song. It’s dressed up in glad-rags, but the history, the tragedy, and the menace of the blues are in there, when you begin to disrobe this song. Enjoy it – but check out the rest of the album too.