I had to face it-- I had a problem.
I was in deep-- a helpless addict. Totally hooked.
I'd been off the stuff for almost a month but-- discretion be damned-- I could resist no longer. And so, spineless Duck that I am, I returned to the scene of the rhyme: Michael's Bistro where Richmond's Jazz Poets Society were due to spew more of their almost criminal creativity.
I didn't even intend to review the show, having recently gushed at some length about their rap-and-jam soul ranting. But I rationalized my visit, lying to myself that it would be for "research" purposes only-- I'd take a couple of photos and talk to the band. I wasn't just whoring my press credentials for totally selfish ends. Not me, baby. I've got this thing under control.
Of course, the nasty truth having a stench too powerful to deny, I eventually came to terms with my disorder-- Poetic Jazzoholism. Scraight up funky. Dig. I left the show a better Duck.
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The following night (July 13) found me back again grooving to a different "jazz" band, Bill Cardine and Zack Blatter's unusual resophonic dobro-jazz trio.
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| jerry's kids |
Continuing in the ubiquitous Jerry-did-it-and-so-can-we tradition, Cardine-- fresh from his new gig as dobro-slinger for the Larry Keel Experience-- has joined forces with fellow bluegrasser and Walker's Run bassist Blatter to form a nifty little alternative acoustic jazz experiment. (Remember when Garcia put out Almost Acoustic and suddenly all the Deadheads played bluegrass, their repretoires taken entirely from the album's songlist? --Similar effect, only now it's Jerry's jazzerfolk David Grisman connection doing the influencing.)
Time on the road with six-string-thunder wizard Larry Keel has beefed-up Cardine's already impressive dobro chops, and the jazz band experiment provides a good outlet for him to stretch out over some Miles Davis and Duke Ellington. But I was still feeling spent from the previous night's wicked indulgences so I bailed out to get some rest.
Things got weirder before returning to normal.
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The following night at the Outback Lodge my groove was forcefully recalibrated by the "solid Christian messages" of the Rev. Billy C. Wirtz.
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| more like rev. silly |
I believe "full of shit" adequately describes Wirtz's ruling muse. Maybe it's "completely full of shit"-- I'm unsure. Either way, it quickly became obvious that here was somebody who understood the complexities of the drinking class... someone who actually cared about his audience's hard-earned buzz and wasn't gonna let that thing die unchampioned! Here, here!
Interestingly enough, the six-foot-four tatoo-covered Wirtz is actually a former Virginian, having called Harrisonburg his home for well over a decade. Now he lives in Florida. Daytona Beach, I think he said. --Biker haven, spring break destination. Miles of trash they call a beach.
I can't imagine a more fitting home for this hulking, hair-spraying, trash-ranting keyboard player and subtly psychotic entertainment dynamo. The Rev. is a trip, constantly stopping the band (the absolutely ripping Danny Morris Band in Charlottesville) to take the audience on preachey side-journeys puncuated by rim-fire band pounces usually leading to similar conclusions-- somebody needs to loosen up, get laid, show their tits or drink more. These "sermons" seem to come straight from the hip, with the Rev. just making crap up and seeing how far he can go with it. It's pretty impressive, really.
In the first set he makes reference to doing the "one-handed macarena with spitting Ricky Martin," and then later holds a ceremony to exorcise the "demon of chronic masturbation" that has so viscously gripped his audience. By the second set (and so many beverages) the horde is at his perverse mercy and groupies have begun to dance drunkenly right in front of his keyboards, pawing at each other to show Rev. Billy their boobs. It's a hilarious sight.
To top it all off, Wirtz is "down" with a whole cast of regional blues rippers including sax player Mike Elswick and guitarists Sandy Grey (now of the Hogwaller Ramblers) and Billy Brockman (of Big Ray and the Kool Kats), all of whom took turns in the spotlight. The show was a hoot.
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Saturday night I eased into Trax's Culture Collision show for Myson, Gift Horse and the disappointing Man Mountain, Jr. (Yawn...)
O.K. Myson rocks. A fine scratching DJ with a taste for funk and soul, he provided the interim musics from his two turntables back by the soundboard. He was the highlight.
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| mouth of a gift horse |
Gift Horse is a strong swing and a miss. Heavy guitar pop, all pumped-up and "full of the moment"-- jumping around-- real intense, way into it, but... lacking something. Their tunes sounded pretty cool-- lots of ascending passages pulling you into the changes, but their singer's voice is (sorry, man) not radio-ready-- even a little tiresome. I stood there the whole time and never once discerned a lyric. Too bad. So close.
Man Mountain Jr. didn't quite cut the mustard either. The band sounded pretty cool at first-- bass, drums, percussion, guitars-- but every time they did the super-funk DROP!... nothing happened. They didn't kick-- they usually slowed down. And their vocalist/emcee was BOR-ING. Granted, I had seen the happeningest rap crew in the admittedly slack state of Va. just three days prior, but I wasn't gonna sit through this trying-hard-and-failing "this is how we're gonna make this thing happen" B.S. any longer than I had to. Lame-O.
--Cripsy Duck