Cripsy Duck's view from Charlottesville - 4.3.01

3/30/01
Dark Star Orchestra at Trax

Having been a UVa. undergrad back when the Grateful Dead still ruled the regional roost-- Steal Your Face banners dangling peacefully-yet-arrogantly from windows along Mad Bowl, fraternity guys pitching frisbees and kicking hacky sacks to the too-loud refrains of "Shakedown Street" and "The Greatest Story Ever Told," University cops raiding and even successfully shutting down TKE fraternity for possessing a small arsenal of pipes and bongs and... brace yourselves... two hits of LSD (approximately $8 worth of dope for which one dude served 13 months in prison-- and it wasn't even his acid )-- I have trouble resisting Dead-related nostalgia. So when the Dark Star Orchestra came to Trax last Friday, I succumbed to the urge yet again.

D.S.O. definitely raises the bar for tribute bands, being, as they are, a philosophically sincere relapse of the vibes-men whose concerts they revive tune-for-tune, deriving their shows from archived setlists found in the famous tome Deadbase. I say "raises the bar," because the Dead underwent many personnel changes over their 30-year run-- the five "main" members being only the core-- and D.S.O. attempts to remain faithful to these variations.

For instance, the Dead went through keyboard players like Spinal Tap went through drummers, each keyboardist having a distinct sound and "vibe." They enjoyed periods with only one drummer and long stretches with two. And at one point they even indulged in a female "lead" vocalist.

D.S.O. alters their line-up to reflect these changes, so, if they are doing a show from say, 1974, they might drop one drummer and add a "Donna" (female vocal), their keyboardist might play primarily piano (as did Keith Godcheaux, the pianist of the period), and their"Jerry"-- a guy named John Kadlecik, might play with equipment and tones that reflect the shows of that time. The result: authentic simulated Deadness.

It's pretty cool. The show they played March 30 was taken from the Dead's performance at Oakland Colliseum on Feb. 26, 1994-- towards the very end of their career. Unfortunately, this was the weakest link in the Dead's run. I basically gave up hope after they lost Brent Mydland in 1990, finding their subsequent shows-- many of which featured both former Tubes keyboardist Vince Welnick and Virginia resident Bruce Hornsby (on piano and accordian, no less)-- lacking the fully-gelled pump and luster of the '80's line-up.

Friday's setlist, while dipping into gems like "Lady With a Fan/ Terrapin," was clearly from the period when Jerry just wanted to get offstage as fast as possible so he could chase the dragon in peace. (That's "smoke expensive Persian heroin" for you non-substance abusers out there.) Oh well. Still great fun. I especially enjoyed walking around afterwards announcing my "kind veggie burritos," and looking for rides to Norva (D.S.O.'s next stop) like at a real Dead show. "Doses, mushrooms, kind buds... I need a miracle..." Long live Jerry!

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3/31/01
Norman Blake at the Prism Coffeehouse

If you read this column regularly then you've probably caught me disdaining southern culture in the past. Maybe you agreed, maybe you thought I was a jerk. Whatever, I really don't care. Because, despite the fact that country folk music and bluegrass remind me of my midwestern extended white trash family and the way some of them toss around their bigotries like a cherished toy, I still try to recognize talent, sincerity and genius in any of its forms. So, to me, George Jones is still an amazing vocalist depite the fact that his is principally the music of truckers and rednecks. And Norman Blake is still my hero.

Blake is a most uncommon American icon in that he makes no pretense of being anything other than what he is: an almost forgotten link between old country and folk. He does not attempt to pass himself off as a bluegrasser, though he picks guitar with a finesse that has flatpickers snatching up his instructional videos en masse. And he's no showman-- just a guy who plays guitar and knows a bunch of "old country music," as he puts it.

I've seen him accompanied by Tony Rice, arguably the greatest flatpicker in the genre, and Blake rose to the top like cream. He's just cool. Weathered, wavering voice, beautiful old Martin small-bodied guitar, a million licks and a million tunes and lore about them and their variations. He's a walking old time America reinactment and a very hip individual who seems really cognizant of his place in time. It's always an honor to check him out.

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4/1/01
Stroud and stuff at Starr Hill

I roll in around 2:30 in the morning, talking my way past security and up the stairs. This is not the Starr Hill I'm used to. There's another P.A. set up, and a couple of music-sensitive lights flicker on one wall. My glasses fog up instantly, and as I remove them, I see people dancing with glow sticks. Guys are rolling around on their heads. A fog machine bellows sweet-smelling smoke from one corner. People are milling around and Stroud, a regular D.J. at Club 216, is about to take over the turntables. Stroud mixes some wicked house and shows off his new remix of the Naked Puritans' "Machines of Loving Grace" which recently garnered a rave review at www.energyuk.net. This music is clearly disco's evil offspring, but I find myself slowy succombing to its persistent pulse. Creepy, but super fun.

--Cripsy Duck

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