|
Thursday, 14 January 2010 05:27 |
JamCruise exceeded all expectations. I felt myself quickly settle into place as the everything guy, singing with Tim Bluhm, improvising horn lines with Jeff Coffin and picking banjo with Railroad Earth’s front line. HBR, too, settled into position as the sun-coming-out, arms-in-the-air specialists.
Our picking workshop in the Zebra Lounge and our stripped-down play on Grand Cayman, part of a benefit for the greening effort, had the kind of vibe that only happens with acoustic instruments. Our Thursday, plugged-in play on the outdoor mainstage (which felt more like a Sunday play) was our highlight – the sun burst through the clouds like a celestial bowling ball, clouds caroming in every direction. Hands were raised, Bloody Marys were toasted. Nat’s new tune, “Like the French,” was a hit. I think we have a theme song for the Europe tour.
I play gigs all year round, but I rarely have the chance to listen to as much live music as I did this past week. To boot, much of it was made by friends. Railroad Earth’s sets (with Keith Moesley in the bass chair) were as warm and rich as ever, even when the winter winds on the pool deck were nearly whipping the hair right off their heads. The Mother Hips broke their usual hearts and Ryan Montbleu won over crowds as both a bandleader and a solo acoustic act.
But my bros weren’t the only ones playing through the storm. James Brown and Frank Zappa were on board. Not everyone saw them, but those who did couldn’t take their eyes away. Maceo Parker drove his nine-piece band through James’ grooves like a turbo-charged limousine, and, like his mentor, he didn’t just play. He conducted his band, like a funky Leonard Bernstein, fists clenched, stopping and starting and steering his sleek contraption around every musical corner on the funk map. It’s a map he helped James Brown make, and he keeps its borders sacred. “Oh, I love jazz,” he said, after a heady keyboard feature. “I love to listen to it when I’m cleaning my house, you know. But when I get on stage, I just need something funky.” His needs were met. Repeatedly.
While Maceo held court up on the pool deck, Frank Zappa’s music, brought to life by son Dweezil and conspirators, pushed me far enough back in my theater seat to align my spine. The compositions were released into the auditorium like rare, savage birds. Ducking was useless; spectators could only gaze on in awe as the fierce creatures whipped the ocean air into a frothing, feathery tornado. Every tap of the roto-tom, every flute trill, every mercurial guitar riff was in its apportioned place. Through all the pyrotechnics, Zappa led the band with his trademark cheesy grace, even while singing “ram it up your poop-chute” in three-part harmony. Especially while doing so, in fact. I don’t know that I’ve ever been both so disturbed and so comforted by the same song.
This weekend, New York, and then home, for resting, recording and reinvigorating. With any luck, by the time Bryan’s son is in the world I’ll have started work on a solo EP, hopefully done by July. Look for side-project notices from all of us during our sojourn. I hope to see you all this summer at the festivals and this fall in Europe! Life’s short - let’s sing on the streets of Amsterdam, float the Seine and goof our way around the British Museum. It’s never too soon....
-Erik |
