Review by Bokonon
“While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” Nearly twelve million views and counting. Every ukulele maker in the world owes Jake Shimabukuro a handjob. The 36-year-old cherub-faced phenom returned to the region in April, eager like a puppy to show off his latest disc, Grand Ukulele. Shimabukuro can shred, yes, he can shred, but he’s smart enough not to shred all the time – even if his lighting designer can’t seem to stop shredding the greens, blues and whites during the slow stuff.
Review by Bokonon
Photographs by Martin Benjamin
The E Street Band. The Attractions. The Caledonia Soul Orchestra. These are combos talked about in hushed, reverent tones. They hold keys to secret doors. They know the combination to the safe.
The Rumour, too.
Bruce Springsteen. Elvis Costello. Van Morrison. They hold keys. But Graham Parker has to knock.
True, the angry little ex-pat has written some remarkable songs. He has British soul to spare. And he can make an evening pop, especially in front of a band like the Figgs or the Rumour. But there’s a reason he’s never risen to the heights of his heavyweight peers. He’s just really, really good; not great.
Review by Bokonon
Photographs by Tim Livingston
Slim like a knife, looking sharp, vest buttoned, guitar in hand. Alejandro Escovedo says Texas, but he speaks New York. He looks Austin, but he wears L.A. At Club Helsinki, on an April evening, Escovedo, 62, but not a day over 45, takes on a new role — Duke Ellington from Saltillo. The Duke wrote music for the ages, but he penned charts for his particular band of the day. Escovedo, too, lets his players sign his work. David Pulkingham is gone, so is Billy White. Where Joe Eddie Hines once blazed across the spectrum, where John Dee Graham used to riff almighty, now Ricky Ray Jackson takes the chair — literally on pedal steel and figuratively on six-string.
In Hudson, songs from Big Station (“San Antonio Rain,” “Bottom of the World”) take on a new shimmer. Songs from Gravity (“Paradise”) remember leaner, younger days and sing again. And “Castanets” just fucking rocks, don’t argue, it’s the truth.
By Bokonon
So, here’s little informal Nippertown survey. It’s the dawn of another year, so I’m doing some housecleaning (while listening to Billy Bragg, naturally), purging and so on. As I look at my shelves of books and records, I’m thinking again of selling a bunch of CDs. I’m curious how many music fans over the age of, say 35, have gone completely over to files (by ripping and selling their collection) or have dropped CDs in favor of Spotify or a similar service.
So, who still has CDs, and who doesn’t?
Sonny Landreth
Review by Bokonon
Photographs by Ed Conway
Charlie Christian. Les Paul. Jimi Hendrix. Eddie Van Halen. Sonny Landreth. The mathematical problem with this series is that few listeners have heard of Sonny Landreth, while even non-guitar-geeks are aware of the historical significance of Charlie Christian and Les Paul. But Landreth has taken the electric guitar on a similar leap forward, forging a singular slide-based style that leaves the likes of Eric Clapton with their mouths hanging open.
Landreth’s ridiculous chops were on full view recently at Hudson’S Club Helsinki, where he used all seventeen fingers to make his instrument squeal like a pig, sing like a bird and do the shimmy like my sister Kate. Naked. Holding a banana.
Really, he’s that good.
Story by Bokonon
Good news from Woodstock. Levon Helm Studios has decided to “Keep It Goin’.”
To that end, the Studios have initiated a fundraising program that will allow Midnight Rambles to continue apace at the historic barn on Plochmann Lane.
Those who’ve attended a Ramble know that few experiences match the incredible music and camaraderie that goes on within those walls. Even with Levon gone, his bandmates and their special guests will keep his memory alive and keep the barn rockin’.
Ray Wylie Hubbard
Review by Bokonon
Photographs by Andrzej Pilarczyk
Albany’s a Texas town of late, with the coming and going or incipient arrival of Lone Star legends like Butch Hancock, Walt Wilkins, Gurf Morlix, Alejandro Escovedo, Kinky Friedman and so on.
Ray Wylie Hubbard brought Texas downtown a few Mondays back, playing to a mullet-shaped crowd that was all business in the front and hootin’ and hollerin’ in the back.
How could you not hoot to “Snake Farm?” Ask the people in the front, not me.
Review by Bokonon
“Some can’t dance and I guess I’m just one of the unfortunate few…”
Thus spake Tom T. Hall, describing me to a…well…T.
But you don’t need to dance to enjoy the Dance Flurry, especially since the annual festival books all sorts of concerts, workshops and jams that have nothing to do with the old soft shoe.
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