When music buddy Stephen-in-the-Adirondacks asked about Warren Zevon last week, memories and music ganged up on me, starting with a 1978 Page Hall show – and not just because he jumped off the piano.
He climbed to his feet slowly then, with painful effort. “I think I hurt myself, doing that Michael Jackson shit,” he rued.
Zevon had leaped off the piano, hoping, I think, to land in a split but instead crashing in an awkward heap.
He was hot then, more than he was hurt. His star-making third album “Excitable Boy” had just hit, dragging listeners through dusty back alleys of LA, out of the sun and into the gloom – a grown up record, in other words, and quite perfect.
So was his band, including Waddy Wachtel – has ANYBODY ever looked more like a rock-star guitar hero than Waddy? – also bassist Bob Glaub, second guitarist Michael Landau, a drummer and a keyboardist – maybe Russ Kunkel and Kenny Edwards. Waddy’s website lists the album credits: http://waddywachtelinfo.com/WarrenZevon2.html. All those players orbited around Linda Ronstadt who recorded many Zevon songs, helping him become known.
The student concert board ran Page Hall then, a jewel-box theater on the old uptown campus in the Pine Hills student ghetto. The board aimed big bucks that semester at rock acts with big futures including Elvis Costello, Talking Heads, and Zevon, whose partial set-list here sparkles with trenchant tunes writ very large by his killer band and his hard-edged voice.
He came back around, a few times; but as his records fell short of “Excitable Boy,” he had to let the band go and become a solo performer, a “mobile gestalt unit” he dubbed himself. His life, his music and his career traced ups and downs tall as the Alps, deep as Grand Canyon: divorce, drink, drugs, being dropped by record labels.
Stephen sent me this link to a pretty good profile.
Before one tour, I did a phone interview with him. He answered candidly: humbly relating his oblique associations with Igor Stravinsky and the Everly Brothers. But then, something he said made me think of a book I’d just read.
“The Songlines,” by Bruce Chatwin, an explorer-writer of lapidary, micro-precise prose, tells of Australian aborigines’ belief that songs describe in detail the geography of the entire continent from end to end. Each tribal band’s folk-lore takes up the tale from the last so a traveler could chart the entire physical reality of that vast island by the songs. Moreover, and here’s where things got magical and Zevon became fascinated with the idea, the aborigines believe not only that the songs describe the land in its physical features, but the songs maintain its very existence. The songs make the land live.
So, I bought him a copy.
As it happened, his local stop on that tour coincided with another show that I had to see, in preference to his – probably NRBQ. So, I gift-wrapped “The Songlines,” wrote a note expressing my regrets at missing Zevon’s show and had a fellow music writer deliver it to him backstage.
Time passed, bringing more Zevon albums and tours, and an interview or two.
The next time we spoke, he started the interview saying, “The Songlines.” Confused at first – I’d actually forgotten giving him the book by remote control – I marveled that he had remembered it.
My last Warren Zevon show was in the winter of 1991 at Saratoga Winners, a sizable road house on Rt. 9 north of Albany and south of Saratoga Springs that has since burned down.
In an interview before that show, Zevon said he was excited about making a new album, that he had found the producer he wanted: Gurf Morlix.
I thought he’d made up the name until I found Gurf in the Austin phone book. Like New Orleans musicians who remain unknown out of town because they never play elsewhere, Morlix is an Austin guy who at first seems an unlikely choice, their vocal styles are so different. Bold and brassy, Zevon all but shouts, while Morlix murmurs or half-whispers in a morose moan. What unites them is a straightforward guitar rock sound and a dangerous wit, as on my favorite Morlix album, “Finds the Present Tense.”
Zevon died before he could make the album, in September 2003.
A documentary on him (included that interview on Letterman’s “Late Show” where he advises “Enjoy every sandwich,” also a lunch with Carl Hiassen. Zevon was already deep into the cancer that would soon kill him, way too soon. As he pulled a vial of morphine from his pocket, Barry remarked, “I admire a man who brings his morphine right to the table.”
Zevon could have used some of that when he jumped off the piano at Page Hall, back in his drinking days.
But his songs brought everything to the table.
In the songs on his 15 albums (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warren_Zevon_discography – and the two-CD 1996 compilation “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead,” Zevon stepped bravely in front of a mirror that revealed himself, in all his failings and strengths, unashamed as an X-ray. He looked around at the world with the same fearless candor and a film-maker’s eye that sketched characters as vivid as Tom Waits’ or Harry Crews’.
I admit it; I caused that ugly snow-mess on Tuesday morning.
You know: trees and utility lines down, power out, traffic signals dead and everybody driving like cowboys late for the rodeo.
Let me point out that others helped me; I know I wasn’t the only one.
But, see – I jinxed us.
I collected our three snow shovels and the ice chopper I got to replace the one that the last awful storm killed.
Remember that bullet-proof ice foam that coated our world like a glazed donut?
Well, I collected the replacement ice chopper and all three snow shovels, and I shoved them into our toolshed. And I boxed up our snow boots and clamp-on ice creepers and hauled them up into the attic.
I’lll keep the boots by the door, the snow and ice removal tools on the front porch – always, year round.
Good Friday can feel grim for many, but Friday felt very good indeed for mostly-boomer-vintage rock fans filling Albany’s Palace Theater to see Bonnie Raitt and longtime friends NRBQ.
Compressing 12 songs into just 40 minutes, NRBQ introduced new numbers from “Dragnet,” their 37th album since 1968, and hopscotched around through so many musical styles their opening set seemed too short to sample them all. No Thelonious Monk bebop (except oblique percussive detours in Terry Adams’s piano romps), no Sun Ra space flights, but lots of other fun. Their rockabilly stomps – “I Want You Bad,” That’s Neat, That’s Nice,” “Howard Johnson’s Got his Ho-Jo Working” with a powerhouse vocal by saxman Klem Klimek— and Chuck Berry’s highway hit “Back in the USA,” with hot solos by Adams and guitarist Scott Ligon, set up slower songs. The Everly’s “Let It Be Me” sparkled in breathtaking harmonies from Ligon and bassist Casey McDonough, who locked great grooves with drummer John Perrin.
NRBQ played better than they sounded; the PA somewhat muffled and weak. They earned big applause anyway, especially in their guests section where I sat; Johnny Rabb (his own all-star rockabilly crews, and the Neanderthals) on my left, David Schachne (the Rhythm Method, and French Letter) on my right and Paul (F. Lee Harvey Blotto) Rapp a row behind.
All musicians start as fans, and stay fans; all musicians are NRBQ fans, and nobody applauds as enthusiastically. I could hear their gasps around me as NRBQ crooned “Let It Be Me,” and Schachne remarked how Duke Levine’s guitar fills in Raitt’s “Just Like That” felt (Mark) Knopfler-y, just as I scribbled that in my notebook.
While NRBQ played from deep in their varied influences, Raitt played her own style, flavored with others’; so she’s the bigger star and they opened. Forays into reggae and Afro-pop expressed her own distinctly bluesy musical personality.
Like NRBQ, she mixed new songs from “Just Like That” (due next week) with favorites that made her an early 70s folk-blues star, then a subtle, solid interpreter of great songwriters’ best tunes ever since.
Noting Friday’s Palace show was her third gig in 2-1/2 years, she and her band sounded wonderfully strong, versatile and confidently smooth in 18 songs over 105 minutes onstage.
Three of her first four songs were new; the jaunty “Made Up Mind,” the funky “Waiting for You to Blow” and “bluesy “Blame It On Me” bookending the familiar “Longing In Their Hearts.”
She put the crowd in her pocket right away and got a good, un-cued singalong in John Hiatt’s “Thing Called Love” just five songs in.
Her all-aces band helped: drummer Ricky Fataar, bassist “Hutch” Hutchinson (whom she used to introduce as “from the Neville Brothers”), keyboardist Glen Patscha (whose Ollabelle bandmate Amy Helm Raitt hailed from the stage) and guitarist Duke Levine (on loan from Peter Wolf’s band).
Raitt proved again and again that she could have hypnotized, thrilled, awed and amazed all by herself, and not just with sizzling slide guitar runs. She sat at times to finger-pick, folk-style, but her voice is her best instrument. Raitt doesn’t pack the human-trumpet power of her blues-women heroines, but she sang Friday with all the punch any song needed. She’s as subtle a vocal pop-rock-blues-whatever song magician as we have now. And we’ve had her on our radios and stages so long it’s easy to take her for granted – until she shows up again, like Friday, to knock our socks off, again, and turn our hearts inside out.
A connoisseur of heartbreak, a cello made of tears in the sad ones, Raitt rued her losses at their full depth. The claustrophobic karma of “Back Around” early on and “I Can’t Make You Love Me” as her first encore, made the happy ones soar in sunny contrast. “Thing Called Love,” “Nick of Time” and “Love Sneaking Up On You” partied hearty. And she proved an adept story-teller, speaking through others’ souls. She crooned her late pal John Prine’s “Angel from Montgomery” better, as he’d likely admit, than he ever did.
Right after that, she sang the new “Living for the Ones,” mourning the recent losses of 14 friends, including Prine. But then she shook off her grief in “Love Sneaking Up on You.”
Despite the unfamiliarity of new tunes from “Just Like That,” the show played like a highlight film, from sheer performance quality, the sincerity of Raitt’s song intros and her canny choices of what to play and how.
Intro’ing the new “Blame It on Me,” she remarked that “where love doesn’t work out, that’s where I make my living,” then earned big applause with a scorching slide solo before yielding the spotlight to Patscha’s organ break. Then she shifted gears seamlessly from that moody blues into Hiatt’s “Thing Called Love” – all sunny slide guitar scorch.
She settled into the band at times, like a chair, or drove it like a hot rod; the boss, the big sister. Sometimes when Levine soloed – and he always had something to say – Raitt drifted over to stand alongside, and she turned to watch whenever anybody behind her hit an extra-cool riff.
At the end, she brought out NRBQ Terry Adams for rollicking piano in “Green Lights,” a 1978 ‘Q song she recorded in 1982. She expressed surprise that she’d still be playing it at 72, but loyally proclaimed “Bonnie and NRBQ, forever!” – a durable and often dazzling delight on Friday.
NRBQ fans will likely pilgrimage to the Hangar on the Hudson on June 4 for their full ride headline show.
“They always disappoint us,” cynically mused a veteran campaign operative character on “The Wire” after helping elect an insurgent Baltimore mayor to replace an entrenched corrupt one.
Hello, Kathy Hochul – and that sure didn’t take long.
While making herself readily available to big donors, our new-ish governor ignores the pleas of St. Clare’s Hospital pensioners betrayed by the Roman Catholic Diocese of Albany, abetted by a stand-aside State of New York. The governor won’t even meet with these fraud victims. While these august institutions might wish for tRumpian teflon immunity, this stink sticks to them like white on rice.
Meanwhile, the NYS budget includes a $850 million Buffalo Bills boondoggle, further enriching a frack-gas billionaire and America’s richest sports league.
Akin to that outrage, that same state budget allocates $10 million for a hockey arena in what should be riverside parkland along the Mohawk in Schenectady but which instead holds a casino and condos for our own oligarchs. Instead, this will replace a perfectly serviceable ice facility on the campus of Union College, a private institution.
Why pay public money for private facilities most taxpayers will never see nor use, and which would cost us money out of pocket if we tried to enter them?
Meanwhile, anyone who’s driven, bicycled or walked in Schenectady lately knows the crying need for road repairs. Anyone who’s watched Eastern Avenue and other roadways become rivers as water mains fail also knows there’s trouble under those same roads. Back on the cratered surface, how about protecting us from wild-west driving?
Spend our tax dollars on what we ALL need – rather than waste it on big-ticket toys for the few.
While paid media hypes these projects – and inexplicably wastes time reporting the travails of opening a Chick fil-A – really? – it’s gratifying to see retired newspaper people raising alarms.
Rex Smith, retired editor of the Albany Times Union, blogs persuasively and with clear reasoning and unerring moral compass at https://www.upstateamerican.com/.
Just as Joe Biden could win every single electoral vote by enforcing the Do Not Call List, somebody could reap boomers’ billions by providing un-changing services and technology.
For us of a certain age, few upgrades ever improve things. Most innovations don’t, either.
So, how about keeping dependable, familiar systems and technology stable and understandable rather than racing to tinker, confuse and render obsolete the stuff we already have and – oh, yeah! – raise prices?
“Mini” means small, or smaller than usual; and “split” means divided, usually in two parts.
So, bowling? A narrow split between pins left after the first ball?
HVAC supplier Fujitsu’s web-site says mini-splits are heating and cooling systems with separate temperature control outputs in different rooms. They’re heat pumps with outdoor compressor/condensers and indoor air-handling units.
Retire “mini-splits” – and “ATM machines.”
I mean, Automatic Teller Machine machines?
Similar Cranky Gripe
A great metropolitan newspaper announced recently that YMCA branch in downtown Schenectady to reopen May 1. The paper’s print edition erroneously illustrated this announcement with a photo of the building the YMCA vacated in 2013.
The Schenectady Y at 13 State Street moved its residents to a renovated former factory at 845 Broadway and built new athletic facilities three blocks east at 433 State Street.
A Sad Note
Ralph Michael Spillenger died this week after surgery to repair an aortic aneurism. Albany-born, he became a California-based touring musician before returning homeward to launch twin careers in making and presenting music; along with drinks and New Orleans-style food. His restaurants the Bijou, the Bayou and Jillians were perhaps better known than his band the Students. But he loomed larger over the area’s music scene than those roles might suggest – a jam session stalwart and a familiar face at many, many concerts. He was one of my validators, discerning fans whose presence at shows confirm expectation of a high level of quality, seriousness or curiosity. I was always happy to see him and share our takes on the music.
Others have commented on Facebook – where Ralph had worried about the surgery – on his sometimes prickly personality. Comments suggested he was difficult. Not with me. He was always friendly, funny and very much in the know.
Sadly, we won’t see him at shows any more – like Greg “Sarge” Haymes (Blotto, Nippertown), Tony Markellis, Caroline “Motherjudge” Johnson, Dale Metzger (super fan), Tom D’Ambrose (Sharks), Mark Craig (Music Haven), Doug White (Units/Fear of Strangers), Keith “Cheese Blotto” Stephenson, Nick Brignola, Lee Shaw, Jack Fragomeni, Larry Jackson, Ernie Williams, Herb Chesbrough (SPAC), Lena Spencer (Caffe Lena), Jackie Alper (WRPI), Bill Spence (Old Songs, Fennig’s All-Star String Band), Richard “Doc Scanlon” Lainhart – and many others, including dozens of now-departed touring musicians who played here.
This isn’t to add more sadness to a time with way more of that than we need.
Remembering, missing and honoring these musicians and presenters who have left the building, I feel, more than anything else, deep gratitude that they were here to help build our vibrant live music scene.
They tugged us through a long, dark tunnel, but lit from time to time with love or hope, and showed us the way.
Cowboy Junkies singer Margo Timmins explained their roadmap Sunday at The Egg. She said she and her siblings (guitarist and main writer Michael and drummer Pete) would mourn their mother in songs from “Ghosts” (2020). “We’re a cover band,” she proclaimed, announcing they’d play selections from “Songs of the Recollection” – then would play “the songs you want to hear.”
So, somber stuff, surprises, then favorites – starting with the resurrection saga “Good Friday,” the BIG hope, right out of the box. Soft at the start, held in a somber groove with Jeff Bird’s harmonica in the creases, Margo’s voice lifted in power to belt in defiance. Next, she confessed confusion about life and death in the menacing drone of “I Don’t Get It,” again stretched by Bird’s harmonica.
Around him, and Margo, quietly rose the Canadian chamber-rock band’s understated strength: Alan Anton’s bass so sly and sparse and subtle he made Phil Lesh sound like Jaco, bridging Pete Timmins’s Ringo-simple beats with Michael Timmins’ wry rhythm guitar.
Margo then lightened the mood, sort of, noting, “Well, we’re back” but hedging her bet by noting nobody knows for how long – just as nobody knows the secrets of life and death framed in “I Don’t Get It.”
“Sing Me a Song” acknowledged the possibility of joy, and summoned it, rocking under a wailing Bird electric mandolin solo.
Staking Margo’s cover-band claim, they slow-waltzed Waylon Jennings’s “Dreaming My Dreams With You,” proclaiming “I’d rather believe in love,” despite heartache.
Then things turned darker still; mourning their mother in the lament “Desire Lines” with an eloquent Bird lap slide solo, but then they underlined its stated intent to “celebrate life and the people we love” in a joined run through “Breathing” into “You Don’t Get to Do It Again” with its understated direction to do our best, all of it, now.
This suite surveyed loss as inevitable but somehow uplifting, in part through the sheer beauty of their sound. In “Desire Lines,” Anton’s bass probed through space like a lighthouse scanning a roiling sea, and it guided the upshift into “Breathing,” pushing the beat under Bird’s electric mandolin.
Bird’s lap slide linked beautifully with Michael’s guitar in the Rolling Stones’ slow “No Expectations,” Margo turning on her stool to watch Bird etch his solo.
Cover songs took over the second set, Neil Young’s consoling classic “Don’t Let It Bring You Down” launching a full-band run that closed with an easy shuffle through Lightning Hopkins’s blues “Shining Moon.” In between, Michael uncorked a wild wah-wah guitar solo in “My Little Basquiat,” then Bird matched his fire in “Nose Before Ear,” going far outside in an electric mandolin break that brought the first applause all night for a solo. In “Shining Moon,” Bird slipped hot harmonica runs around Margo’s skat singing.
Young’s violent “Powderfinger” opened a three-song acoustic set as Pete and Anton left the stage to Margo’s voice, Michael’s guitar and Bird’s acoustic mandolin. Margo said she’d been too young to feel fully the theme of Townes Van Zandt’s “Rake;” it’s about aging; but the now-silver-haired singer got all of this somber song on Sunday. Bird switched to harmonica in “S and their own “Something More Besides You,” another slow one – before Pete and Anton rejoined the trio for the set-closing sequence.
In “Bea’s Song,” they fatalistically warned “You can always see it coming but you can never stop it;” but then they served up their sweetest, most serene tune – a cover of Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Jane.” It started in glorious guitar noise – and Michael later soloed here, big and beefy – that framed Margo’s echoey wordless vocal. Then the lyrics took shape and the thing rocked and soared as Bird’s electric mandolin chimes strong.
Their own serene “Misguided Angel” closed the set, and they harvested the applause quickly, returning efficiently for Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight” – written by Alan Block and Donn Hecht, but Patsy’s until Cowboy Junkies borrowed it for a slowed down, sparse rendition full of understated soul.
They rubbed the same minimalist mojo on David Bowie’s “Five Years” with a strong Margo vocal and the same strong blend of Michael’s electric guitar with Bird’s electric mandolin that carried most songs.
Despite its often-somber feel, the music seemed to lift Margo’s mood over the two set show that entranced the three-quarters-full Swyer Theatre with full-on Cowboy Junkies hypnosis. While her movements seemed contained and casual, they helped sell the songs. The compact band’s sound soothed or seethed and their lyrics faced down fickle fate and death itself. They communicated powerfully as their restraint urged a hard-earned kind of serenity. Their elegance reached out, and drew us in.
A few songs seemed to end before they finished, notably “My Little Basquiat,” leaving me wanting more. When the band stretched a song with instrumental breaks, bursting a tune’s customary tasteful containment felt exhilarating. When Margo pushed her voice from a confiding murmur to defiant yell, when the guitars burst from mellow strums to amped howls, and when the beat blasted into punk-rock romps, Cowboy Junkies brought a thrilling sort of liberation, of lift-off.
By the end, they expressed deep gratitude for the crowd’s respectful listening. In fact a Facebook post by the band said, after the show, “The best night of the tour, no doubt. Thank you Albany. You helped us remember what this is all about.”
I Don’t Get It
Sing Me a Song
Dreaming My Dreams with You (Waylon Jennings)
(You Don’t Get to) Do It Again
No Expectations (Rolling Stones)
Don’t Let It Bring You Down (Neil Young)
My Little Basquiat
Nose Before Ear
Shining Moon (Lightning Hopkins)
Powderfinger (Neil Young)
Rake (Townes Van Zandt)
Something More Besides You
Sweet Jane (Velvet Underground)
Walking After Midnight (Patsy Cline)
EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT
AN INTERVIEW, RECALLED
Originally published as Jukebox for Friday, July 25, 2008 in the Daily Gazette¶
Space – the size and shape of space – has always shaped the Cowboy Junkies’ spectral sound, with space, for thought, between the notes.¶
Their cramped Toronto garage/rehearsal space encouraged them to play quietly, as did neighbors and police. Recording “The Trinity Session” in the acoustically warm space of Toronto’s Trinity Church expanded their sound to star-size in 1987, paradoxically allowing them to play in such grungy, loud spaces as Albany’s QE2. Returning to Trinity Church 20 years after their landmark album, they recently re-recorded its songs and filmed the performances for the DVD that accompanies the new “Trinity Revisited,” playing in a circular space that encloses the viewer. On Saturday, they will play in a very different space: Albany’s vast Empire State Plaza at the day-long, free-admission Plaza MusicFest.¶
“We’ll be playing some of the Trinity songs for sure,” predicted Cowboy Junkies’ guitarist and main songwriter Michael Timmins last week by phone from Toronto. The band has played those songs occasionally ever since, yet had forgotten how they sounded in the church until they returned. “Literally from the first couple of notes playing in there, it all came flooding back,” he said. “It’s an inspiring, inspiring sound,” he said, perfect to celebrate the original.¶
“We decided to invite some friends and guests (Ryan Adams, Natalie Merchant and Vic Chesnutt) and re-approach those songs 20 years later and see what energy the guests bring.” They invited artists they admired and who admired their original “Trinity Session” album. They had never met Adams, for example, but knew from interviews that he saw the album as crucial to his coming of age as a musician. Merchant was an old friend and inspiration. “When we were just starting out, (Merchant’s band) 10,000 Maniacs would come through Toronto quite a bit and we used to go see them all the time. (His singing sister) Margo would really study Natalie,” said Timmins. Touring at times with Chesnutt they found that “Vic has such a unique style and way of approaching music, so he was an obvious choice.”¶
But would it work, would the pieces fit? “We admired their work and we knew that they had respect for what we did,” Timmins said. “But we didn’t know how the three of them would fit in individually or as a group.” Trusting their mutual admiration and their experience, they barely rehearsed one night then recorded the next. “We had to push them a bit,” Timmins recalled: “We want you to step up and put a bit more of your personality in there.” He said, “They were almost too deferential at times but once we got them singing and performing, then it flowed really, really naturally and easily.”¶
Some of that natural ease stems from the expertise of film-producers Francois and Pierre Lamoureux. “They’re musicians, too; so they understood the music,” Timmins said. “They were very aware of making sure the cameras were not part of the music. They formed us in a circle and they kept all the cameras on the outside.” This draws the viewer inside that circle, surrounded by the band. You can see how the songs formed from shared intuitive knowledge and how the players listen to, enjoy, acknowledge and play off each other. “It all comes down to listening to the other musicians and how they’re expressing themselves and trying to complement that or feel your way into it,” said Timmins; neatly describing how the band formed and found its sound.¶
Inspired by Neil Young’s proto-punk noise, then by the sparseness of bluesmen Lightin’ Hopkins and John Lee Hooker, guitarist Timmins and bassist Alan Anton, with a similarly skeletal approach, had played together in bands since 1979, learning together. “For (drummer and brother) Peter (Timmins) and (singer and sister) Margo (Timmins), this is their first band,” said Michael Timmins. “So they developed their style around us, and the four of us in many ways really developed as a unit; that’s really and truly how we learned our instruments.” Apart from police interruptions in their rehearsal space, their quietness came from Margo. “She felt more comfortable with a quieter approach to her voice and in order for us to hear her and go with her voice, that influenced us,” said Timmins. Their sparseness came from bluesmen such as Hopkins and Hooker “who use very few notes,” as he said. “Every note they choose has personality to it.”¶
The musical personality that the original “Trinity Session” introduced to the world in 1988 is often quiet, slow and sparse, but it allowed them to give up their dayjobs (Timmins used the band’s van for courier runs) to tour rock clubs, including QE2. “That was a jam, jam-packed show,” said Timmins. “After ‘Trinity’ exploded, that was one of our first major club dates in the states where it was absolutely insanely packed.”¶
Empire State Plaza should be packed on Saturday, too, for the five-act free Plaza Music Fest, near the cozy Egg where Cowboy Junkies played their most recent local show several years ago. Some outdoor shows can feel like a Toronto church, but Timmins knows that most don’t. “Sometimes those shows are very beautiful,” he mused. “If it’s a nice night and people are sitting there quietly and they’re there to listen to music, then you can cast a certain spell.” However, he realistically acknowledged, “If it’s a certain type of crowd, we might not try and cast a spell.” He said, “We might just kind of rock out and have fun. We can push our music in a lot of different directions; there’s a lot of stuff in our repertoire that, if we need to rock out, we can rock out. We just feel the evening out.”¶
Watch this recollection of the late, great Greg Haymes, by his great friend Michael Eck – both dear friends and colleagues of mine.
Some parts of Eck’s reminiscence resound particularly.
We three went to the Iron Horse in Northampton together once to see Richard Thompson. I think I was the only one with a functioning, semi-dependable ride in those days; and that was one of the best musical road trips ever, because of the quality of music-crazed talk.
And I heard that marvelous tale of the Neville Brothers’ after-party there from each of those guys, a shared tale of wonder.