Music Writing by Carson Arnold
Music Writing by Carson Arnold
BUDDY GUY, LONG HAIR, ACCORDION LEFTOVERS
Rock 'n roll, I ain't seeing you. C'mon, our boy Dylan now chargin' 75 bucks a tick behind a keyboard, Sam Phillips dead, Radiohead's latest mouse music for the new-wave mess...say what? GET WITH IT! It's currently high-times for the old dudes; Solomon Burke, Tom Waits, Dylan, Johnny Cash. Yet, these days, staggering through the noose of a record store, or tagging along the rump of some conglomerate/mall/freezer/cha-cha whatever, searching for the new wax, it's as though I've invisibly lurked into the gathering of a posh cockfight-- everyone sorta hustling about, idle, barely communicating, anticipating for the two roosters to show-- to arrive-- waiting for the next ba-boom to crash, land, burn, baby-whoosh. TAKE US AWAY! So far, no action to report, though. Here and there some stellar album, some unhinged fur every few months, big deal, so what. Now, they say I'm young, but I just don't care no more about the latest buzz, the current hootenanny pipin up, the next rah so-and-so who use to be with this group on that label and now after a revitalized drug habit is here to claim the mary-jane with songs of loss and redemption as sung under the verses of basically: HOW TO STAND UP STRAIGHT: with nodding approval from Elvis Costello when asked to comment from a bathroom stall. Yay. Nah, sorry, the juice ain't flowing today; nothing to grab by its bloody horns and ram to the ground where, before us kids knew it, JCPennys is advertising torn jeans and flannel Ts for thirty bucks a "Seattle Style" (and no, cup-cake, Greil Marcus doesn't receive these, we're just the webmasters, thanx). Instead, I resort to more maddening tactics like listening to this aimless typewriter bleed and debate through a Mary Wells record; uh-nothing can--BOOM--take me away--BOOM-- from my guy--BOOM-- my guy. Where's that romance colliding with a un-refusable disease of energy heard occasionally throughout the 90's delirium of Concrete Blonde or V-3? Anyway...this could be worse, you could be scanning over my gunk writing of Gut Bank-- (who are they?)-- 80's grrl group, produced by Roger Miller, pre-L 7, though L's a far slam of a band better-- if none of that lukewarm gargle made a bit of solitary sense, that's probably a good sign; you're invited for a full night of Faith No More bath-to-bath with Motown's most extinguished hits just tumbling, rolling, tumbling. And if you can locate a mix-tape of both Jethro Tull and Traffic's seven only decent songs, bag that along, too. Or maybe cajun-metal...if that even exists. Enough said. You're either singing half-time, cleaning the seats, or building the stadium. Grab your finest moment and let it fly...
Rarely will I review an album upon its release date, unless it's so flesh that it torches justice to everything I've seen, heard, or known, but even then that's limited to the second jangling side of Highway 61 Revisited, or hell, some neighbor's raw demo tape left to dry; it doesn't take much. Usually, I let a record cool; let the wolves tear it, watch it travel down all the scales and viaducts, right up until I find its jewel case cracked behind a Lawrence Welk record and its disc scratched to shat somewhere 'neath a dashboard stable of jesus get me through these stoplights. At that point, it has a story to tell ya, so listen. Back in the egg of 2001, if you dragged yourself into a record shop you may have been greeted by Buddy Guy's Sweet Tea grinding from floor-to-roof like a car spinning towards you on a hill of black ice. When encountering such a tornado, you had either two choices facing you: get out or get in; die or live. But look here, nothing stands as babylon in the blues, nor any other music really, than Buddy Guy's electric showdown of guitar solos. Of course the inflated icons of rock music itself have surfaced astonishing, overlapping notes, but the twinkle and charm of Buddy was that for probably half of his career it was a fiasco, but surviving it-- the late 70's and on, hagged into that polyester big-sound, not knowing what to do with a black man/real blues man, star to the poodles. This was a period when the hound garage blues, of which he first revolutionized, then abandoned, kicked back into full throttle with the R.L. Burnside/John Spencer a' la mode grizzly merge. Soon, every mishap and hero who knew zero of the blues a day before, had his head turned. Burnside's bad, no doubt, but his guitar dominates little glam. There's no correct word to distinguish this sound either; three drums in a corner, a few Peavey amps assisting a mean load of guitars and bass, mostly young white guys bored with punk-art accompanying Mr. Blues who don't talk too much-- elder, humble, creaked back in a wooden chair-- a girl cooling a twelve-pack in the frig, the entire clam cut in an hour against one large empty room, a few neighbors outside witnessing what they had previously observed rolled in on wheels two hours prior. It's an entire reverb and sweaty rhythm of echoing grunge that's caught between the hazy rhythm of reviving the old tradition and discovering that, damn! we rock heavier than rock and all those white dudes! You can hear this on Sweet Tea-- as is heard in long hauls of Luther Allison, Hendrix, bits of Robert Nighthawk and his Chicago backlash-- where such a pinnacle of intensity and discovery is reached, that what slides down the slope afterwards, is a cacophony of incidental magic that, brother, you better make sure ya play at extreme volume in order to catch its scream!! As my head drops cold onto the top plate of this typewriter with Charley Patton guzzling on, blues has always devoured this energy-- even acoustic; Rev. Gary Davis, Bukka White-- just somewhere back in the fifties it all got caked over and pampered. Yet, with rock 'n roll presently choked in the balls as ever (who plays guitar a solo these days?) the breeze in the door paints that this here style of Buddy's thunder melody is not the blues, but an explosion avenging with a high potential to awake the sleeping giant of youth, by-gones, music, and wherever you wanna throw the lung. The commissioners of the old traditional blues, though, (whoever they are; academic white guys still searching for Robert Johnson like the world was some gallery) all feel betrayed by Buddy and R.L.'s new rancor; "pooh, it's not blues". But Buddy-- the new Buddy-- ain't blues no more, and is beyond the point of a caricature of its own origins; nor a slave. Of course, who knows what he thinks he's doing now-- him and his guitar could very well be just screwing off as far as I'm concerned, and Sweet Tea is one of those albums that sounds better than the actual experience probably undertook. But to me, his impulse is an alternative to what rock-- if you're a hardcore romeo to it-- seemingly has lost in the revolving doors of, well, my man, just plain dorky crap. There's always been this, but has had at least some warp or substitute of some kind included. Pop music introduced as "hip" and "daring" (stuff on late night tv) all sounds, looks, and performs like The Association lost their peach-fuzz like Jim Morrison's poetry found a music video and here we are. It's so boring. Anyway, rock and Brando-guitars, however, have had its innumerable moments in the past with that same 'ol unstoppable pedal-to-the-floor/legs-out-the-door karma. At the pulse of my brain, my list slings something like this:
1. Frank Zappa, Hot Rats (the first side especially, after Beefheart)
2. Mc5, "I Want You Right Now" (even though they fail to keep time upon the let-go, it's perpetually a golden slice between heavy-metal and punk. A toss up between The Buzzcocks.)
3. Jeff Beck, Truth
4. Hendrix, Jimmy Page, and John Mayall combined (duh...)
5. Vernon Reid, Mistaken Identity
6. Neil Young, Weld (really only disc one, though)
7. The Pretenders, The Last Of The Independents (dig the first four tracks only)
8. Dinosaur Jr., Green Mind
9...Buddy Guy, Sweet Tea
...And there's always Keith Richard's icy wah solo off "Sympathy For The Devil" slithering outta the villa of nowhere-- a damb shattered, a bridge built. I always liked it on the Rolling Stones' Altamant set in '69 where Jagger takes a gaze out into the bruised audience divided under the vacancy of Hells Angels and hippies and exclaims, "I don't know why you catz go all crazy every time we play this song. Cool it, okay?" Jeez, Mick, I dunno why either. For a second, he sounds almost worried, partially considerate, as if un-reassured if this wild ride was gonna be worth its buck in the end, what the death-toll would rise to, and if the harmony he had been forewarned about was indeed broken, and what was leftover was to forever entertain the accordion of a muted demon unsatisfied. They played on anyway. Who else would? Now, there are many factors for the crowd's erratic anxiety besides just plain universal discord and the passing of the gun. It's exactly my similar reaction to Buddy's Sweet Tea-- they're turned on, compulsion's in the air, heavy tones of a heavier spirit wet the fingers. Seemingly, the need to rebel, thrash, and sometimes terminate, is not abnormal in these situations. With the right fragrance, an avid Beethoven narcotic could very well adapt to a Rob Zombie show if put to the task; it doesn't take much but a little fun zany, get it? "Sympathy For The Devil" always will be a fang of angst-- one of the better ones-- where at least in my drumming head, when Richard's squawked his guitar solo under the whoo-hoo, it depicts a slash between the ol' calm melody and today's hot self-destruction. It's so genuine, Jagger came inches away from being shot for it that night, defended by some Angels bloke, which is part political irony to the whole era and series of peace, love, and flowers in your hair equality. The Stones' original verve of Muddy Waters, then sounding about as far away from the Mississippi as its waters could run into the sweat of a Jack Daniels resting ontop of Richard's amp. Save that for the books, man. I just say...cool.
What do I know? Not much. A good album. What else is there? I'm getting beyond my point.
What I like about Buddy on Sweet Tea is that he scares white people...and turns me on. It's good to hear this in most cases. Dead Prez, Pharaoh Sanders, Howlin' Wolf, even Schoenberg compositions petrify. That was my first impression when hearing it un-gag in a record store. Few white guys have achieved this face of the blues-- 'ol Stevie Ray Vaughn's now treated as some background lounge laxative, even though despite his booze and fast car 'a comin are a frightful affair to remember when fired at high, charging decimals. But hell, if I were to blast Buddy through a suburban neighborhood at work, they might effuse some law prohibiting such an act. I could get sued, or better, ignored. 'Cuz hey, they're expecting rap music, not this hoarse voice that sounds like a saw ripping through a steel roof on a hot day. Not that! Both rock music and the new-day dawn of blues/I own a bottle-neck I am now John Hurt/ has a problem with letting down its guard to display a touchstone of sloppiness, silence, and the great spontaneous. Neil Young in Weld is an example of doing so. Sweet Tea, another. The cover shows an old swamp cabin scratched into the opening of a shrub clearing-- possibly referencing where it was recorded-- similar in wilderness to the lizard surroundings around New Orleans; though hard to find, many a dilapidated shack can be discovered in my evergreen cave. Inside the jacket (now as if entering the cabin), a slanted picture of Buddy all tarnished and humble stares out at you, as though a photograph forgotten on the table: "You in, or you out?" Oh, I'm in. The first track, "Done Got Old", deals a tone-setter, divorcing any notions of the old jubilant Buddy juicing up everyone's gumbo. Slim on a young voice, but married with one acoustic guitar wisping about, he softly sheds these lines with the first second. Pling:
Well, I done got old...can't do the things I use to do...cuz I'm an old man...(the guitar then talks back to him in turn. Far more subtle and shaken than Junior Kimbrough doing it.)
...And it repeats like this for minutes, sounding perfect, hypnotic, growling. Inheritance of any blues shouldered by the likes of Lightnin' Hopkins, or even better, Muddy Waters' Folksinger, sounds vividly distant-- it's more of a lush prayer, and a discreet intro to the additional killer to come. The song rests a singing wrinkle where few blues men-- blues men-- have survived to picture and sway their own legend in the making; to watch what will be and control how it should all conclude. Every instance where he pronounces and express his age; I'm an old man; it's dogged howled with all creases and cracks hummed within the joints, evident and flowing. A quick silence strikes, and outta the ponder comes a snare-drum overlapped by a cymbal, rising in altitude, preparing for a take-off into the mirage. Remember Jimmy Page thrashing after his suspended solo in "Heartbreaker"? This is the same feeling, 'cept it's Buddy Guy singing, which is a whole lotta love different than Robert Plant, if you get my drift. Plus, "Baby Please Don't Leave Me" soars. With the military drums steadily climbing, an interlude of space hithers-- you know the room they're playing in-- the drums can't go no louder, while everybody watches the work in action, someone begins a count: ah-1..ah-2..3..., the rhythm: ka-boom-ba-ba-boom-ka. Suddenly a bass outta the undertow slowly humps alive, three jazz notes more romping than hip-hop, and WHAM, outta the back, cleanses over Buddy's guitar. Ripping the air. Like Lester Young. Like nothing heard nor thought. Like I must listen to it once again for the sake of a better description. Don't wait. Here, for some seven odd minutes, the ear undertakes a porthole of this exploding mistletoe. I can just imagine those gargoyle amps tattered to the corner room, Buddy's voice barking lines of oh-baby-please through distortions of tuberculosis slam. The whole gang and band yielding at nothing. Let's face it, Sweet Tea's volcanoes peak only when Buddy plays his guitar; weens the dial, and cranks that strat to all living rant. God. This is the blessing of being alive and with it. I, maybe even you, hate a proficient solo of any kind. We want a conversation full of peculiar vibe and jive, it blossoms all sorts of crazy attractions. Take B.B King for instance, Buddy's linear rival. He plays with everybody, is everywhere, sometimes even next door,and plays like a goddamn surgeon. His whole outfit dressed to que, his varying band of the neverending tour performing like assistant medics to the concise point of arrival and deport. Sometimes I think he locks his members in a cage when all through. Except for Cream, this is Eric Clapton as well. All too afraid to show a weak moment. But hey, B.B's cool, no problemo, but predictable, that's all; lacking the rip-saw of the juice that Buddy now evolves. I like a drummer or guitarist who doesn't know where he is. But he does, that's the thing kickin', he does. This is blues and jazz especially, rock can sustain only so much of this fringe. But when doing so, it's an overload, where even if half the music is a shaky comatose, we're still promised something hot outta the tint will fire forth a solo, a slight twist, or some odd dissent, and zonk! a classic album is united.
Mostly throughout the other songs, there's a sweaty hangover of Yojimbo-rock that Los Lobos has dragged to the blood for decades. That 'ol slow hit 'n run freeze that makes ya croon, makes ya escape into the saga. The thing with Buddy and this whole devil got my garage sound, is that none of it pertains to the rigid skip to my skap twelve-bar-blues formula that's shuffled a pop and a top anywhere from Kansas City to my owl of Vermont. I knew blues hadn't expelled to these avenues eight minutes into the seventh track, in which Buddy, perhaps indirectly, pronged psychedelia into the session. It's a psych that I tend to love, too-- that translucent freak-gonzo in The Beatles' "Tomorrow Never Knows". Though only lasting about forty seconds, while under its drunk influence, it's a fury from an unknown stampede...aaarroOOHHHA. Circling the fuzz, the tonsils of the amp bewitch back. Funny, bands exert themselves to the point of extinction to retrieve this element-- spend hours undressing a studio, killing one another, wasting our time-- while others varnish it unconsciously. This is why there's Buddy Guy and then...Santana. I shutter to think of it. But listen, you gotta get this album. That's the turkey. Do what you gotta do to have it by tonight, I mean it. Now, I'll admit, that I, not wanting to grow up, see the merits of ostracizing Sweet Tea. By pulling it to the reins of rock it could behead some value and quality to the blues...or so they say. But I just don't see the fuss. To me, that's a whole lotta choir talk corking. Rock is vital, a stimulation like any other, and I hate to see it cringing in the mirror. Buddy's not a savior, but a collection of whirling chain-reactions that should've been advancing for the last many years. C'MON! Long live Sweet Tea.
Grab any part of rock's tumbleweed before it all disappears. We'll meet again wherever an amp moans for more.
--Carson Arnold - September 3, 2003
copyright 2003 Carson Arnold
H(ear) is an online music column consisting of interviews and articles written by Carson Arnold. As an independent writer and musician living in the woods of Vermont with his family, Carson widely encourages one to submit their art, writing or any interesting piece of material that you would like to share. H(ear) is accepting both promos and demos for review or any other valuable music-related subjects. If you wish to make a comment or would like to receive H(ear) weekly by email please contact Carson at [email protected]
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