A shamanic ceremony couldn't have secured more perfect weather over the Oregon Ridge Park for
Walther Productions' Walther's Grassroots Festival Saturday, August 19 in Cockeysville, Md. With 85 degree peaks and blissfully blue skies occasionally dotted with fat cumulus clouds, it was a festival-goer's dream day. And that was just the weather.
Onstage the music worked its way from freaky in the morning-- with sets by Baltimore's techno-inspired Lake Trout and New England's Jazz Mandolin Project-- to sophisticated in the afternoon with David Grisman and his culturefest Quintet and Bela Fleck's folk uberjazz Flecktone orchestra-- to deeply funky and occasionally disturbing with majestic Maceo Parker and the ineffable Medeski, Martin and Wood closing out the twelve hour marathon.
Unfortunately, coming as I was from central Va., I missed Lake Trout's 11:00 A.M. slot, and in fact didn't show up until late in the Jazz Mandolin Project's set, which, in retrospect, is o.k. since my personal saturation point for orgasmic musical experiences is somewhere around 2.5 bands. --Six was going to be a stretch for me anyway. (More power to the 12-band-a-day people, for whom a $35.00 ticket to a festival like this is a serious bargain.)
The tune I caught of the Jazz Mandolin Project was an extended funky freakout-- the trio ripped out an addictive little groove while bandleader Jamie Masefield tore a slide electric mandolin solo up the middle.
Isn't it interesting how "jazz" as an idiom has been retooled since Phish stepped into the grand psychedelic limelight with their fistful of Zappa-jazz idiosynchrocies? Nowadays, folk-leaning types with well-developed musical sensibilities peddle improvisation and experimentation (usually with strong funk tendencies) as a jazz-form. I guess that's o.k. It certainly makes for some interesting jams.
Between sets I ducked backstage and ran into my old chum Sandip Burman, the Calcuttan tabla player on the Flecktones' new record, Outbound, now accompanying the band on on some dates. Sandip has a heart of silver and, wanting to aid my journalistic endeavors as much as possible, attempted to network me to a few of the stars standing around (it's gonna take him a while longer in the U.S. to get used to the concept of "laid back-- no hassles"-- my personal modus operandi)-- with the end result of me being ejected from the backstage area after following him unannounced onto Bela Fleck's tour bus. Bela was totally cool about it, but it was clear that without proper credentials I was causing security a certain amount of consternation. (Gee, I just wanted to sponge some free suds and rub elbows with superheroes-- like the other umpteen-thousand people standing around here...)
David Grisman, that regal old hippy Dawg and the closest thing most of us will ever get to Jerry Garcia, ambled on next with his high-brow folkified mutant crew. The sun was hot and so were they, and Grisman was clearly in his element having some laughs with the crowd and leading his group of cronies through the cultured future-folk that is his trademark.
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| fleck and dawg |
Grisman is quite a thing to behold, playing like an eloquent champ and bearing, as he is, the dubious honor of having fathered the jazz-informed on folk instrument idiom that clearly impacted the Sam Bush's, Tony Rice's, and Bela Fleck's of our world (and the jam bands that follow). He was one of the first guys to record totally different music on traditionally appalachian instruments and make it stick. (You can almost imagine that classic nasally Californian whine dicatating to future composers: "Look guys... it's not all gonna be in G or A or D.... you can even play a suspended 11th on one of these things...") He's cool as a tool, and his band is padded with buddies who are not only great players but entertaining enough for the old Dawg himself to be afforded an occasional visible rise out of them.
Flutist Matt Eakle demonstrated his uncanny capacity to blow from the deep center of his being, contorting with ecstatic abandon during his more intense passages. Joe Craven was nothing short of the coolest on mouth-generated and real percussion and fiddle. Argentinian guitarist Enrique Coria flatpicked and bore witness to the serene and passionate beauty of the flamenco guitar. Bassist Sam Bevin, after only a few weeks on the job (standing in for Jim Kerwin, on hiatus after his wife's recent passing) did a remarkable job of lending an individual voice to the band's foundation. For a young guy, he didn't seem at all intimidated, even adding some strange squeaks and fart noises between tunes. Weirdo.
Of course, everyone rose to full attention when Bela Fleck joined the boys for a rousing rendition of Grisman's "16/16" that hinted at but didn't quite attain a little Fleck/Grisman tete-a-tete. The set closed with a strangely jazzy "Shady Grove" and an "Arabia" mutation, both derived from audience requests.
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| now THAT'S a bass player |
Following that blissful shakedown came
Bela Fleck and his double-strength
Flecktone orchestra joined by pan steel drummer
Andy Narell, bassoonist
Paul Hanson, horn player
Paul McCandless, and my friend the Indian instigator
Sandip Burman, all of whom appear on the new Flecktones record.
It's difficult to sum up the Fleck effect, diverse and intense as its elements are. Musically, their new world folk/jazz with electronic drums and poppy bass is almost too high-brow-- verging on new age even. But the Flecktones are, and have always been, a showcase band chocked to overflow with powerful artists, and the adult contemporary jazz-inspired material they produce is engineered to flaunt their notable strengths to the fullest.
Bassist Victor Wooten was, as always, unstoppable-- a true machine of low end intensity-- deeply funky, soulful and always shockingly inventive-- a dude who blows minds for breakfast. (Compass Records has just released Yin Yang, a project he's done with Dave Matthews' mutant super-drummer Carter Beauford. Talk about a match made in heaven.)
Bela himself is still a wizard on electric and acoustic banjoes, running the gamut of styles from hard fusion to down-home and leading his band with nods of the head and physical cues like the do-si-dos he and Wooten do when setting up bass leads-- a naturally theatrical "passing of the baton."
But the icing on the Flecktone cake was the special guest musicians. The electric bassoon revealed itself to be a powerfully freaky instrument in Paul Hanson's effect-heavy hands. At one point he and saxophonist Jeff Coffin got into a wicked little midi horn duel-- a funky blowing session of deft one-up-manship on synthesized clavinet noises. Steel drummer Andy Narell was amazing on the Caribbean pans, spinning blissful clouds of soft metal tones through several of the jams. And Sandip Burman, although difficult to hear in the mix during the full band sequences, was afforded opportunities to do some nifty tabla dueling, first with Wooten's bass, and then with Fleck's banjo. The crowd was clearly enamoured with the Indian drums, yelling "TURN IT UP" and roaring approval after his crafty triple-fast rhythmic conversations.
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| irresistably funky |
As the sun fell behind the trees, tapers were asked to turn off their decks for
Maceo Parker's set as dictated by the band's contract. They filed in and warmed up the stage with a chant of "Come on Maceo," and then... there HE was, bouncing out onto the grass with horn in hand to say a big silly hello.
It was like being slapped in the face by a huge funky church. They're all up there in suits, laying down the baddest, funkiest, fresh from the garden soulman jive this side of the J.B.'s and absolutely crushing it. In the world of testimonials, this is a high art sermon about the power of the funk in the hands of a truly righteous congregation.
It's hard for me to talk about what Maceo does without considering the realities of the context of Black America. Coloquial chants like "Pass the Peas" and "The Rabbitt's in the Pea Patch," have me wondering if African American activists ever give him a hard time for pandering to white audiences with his southern black folkisms and almost all brown band (the only pale face belongs to Will Boulware, the organist).
To do so would be spurious and short-sighted. Maceo, having been at the epicenter of James Brown's original funky inception, is the most credible artist in this medium, a phenomenally cool bandleader and the undisputed grandmaster of his horn style-- a voice so original you could pick it out of a field of brass. There is simply no way you could disrespect the show-- it's so... transcendent. So what if white kids love it?
The band was built like a rocket, solid and still flexible, propelled by the intensely powerful rhythm section of Jamal Thomas (drums), Rodney "Skeet" Curtis (bass) and the impeccable Bruno Speight (guitar). These three could conjure a will to boogie in the Pope himself. Hornmen Greg Boyer (trombone-- a D.C. native) and Ron Tooley (trumpet) did a very respectable job of blowing, singing and coming along for the ride. Also fun were the lead vocal spots by high-kickin' "Sweet" Charles Sherrell and the soulful Martha High. (There's something irresistable about a big beautiful black woman singing her ass off in high heels and a big blonde wig.)
Which brings us to Maceo's son, Corey Parker-- now in his third year with the band-- who M.C.'d, sang with the vocal section and rapped on a couple of the newer tunes. I hate to be a jerk, but what's that all about? There are a million cats who would die to rap with a band as fat and powerful as Maceo's-- most could rhyme circles around the younger Parker. He's clearly good for the overall vibe, but his lines are only so-so deft, not too rhythmically intense and end up coming off a little hokey next to the power of the raw funk. Besides, late-set musical genre side-trips just tend to distract from the power at the center of that amazingly funky groove where Maceo, the first and foremost apostle of Father James Brown's funk realitree, wails his epic wails.
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| maceo blows with the boys |
Medeski, Martin and Wood played a short set, free-jamming somewhat willy-nilly, tossing sounds around and then surfacing into deep funky pockets. The energy in the crowd seemed a little spent after all day with the heavies and then a serious kick in the butt by the magical Maceo (who also sat in on a tune during MMW's set). It must feel pretty silly to follow a show like Maceo's, but MMW still rose to the surface, a living experiment in self-determination flowering amidst their Blue Note sponsored "jazz credibility."
But they're no jazz band. They're no funk band either. They are a semi-cooperative group discussion of a variety of themes-- mostly funky ones-- pushed into the light by Billy Martin's brilliant drumming and their conglomerate fascination with experimental noises, chaos and groove.
John Medeski was obviously feeling a bit punkish as he lurched from keyboard to keyboard, squeezing different bizarre tones out of his assembled archaic equipment like a deranged scientist on absynth. Someone (I think they called him "Tom") kept wandering onstage with a video camera and getting right up in their faces, which they endured patiently-- a very surreal scene ultimately inspiring one reveler to break through the crowd barrier and strut like an Egyptian across the front of the stage.
They cut their set short after an hour and despite promoters' attempts to get them to play longer the festival was called to a halt which was probably fine since the crowd was looking saggy.
All in all, the sold-out Walther's Grassroots Festival was an admirably cool outdoor multi-band extravaganza. The team brought in an unstoppable line-up of serious superheros and orchestrated the whole thing without any major hitches. (We even drove away without meeting any traffic jams-- weird.) The only real drawbacks were long lines at the food vendors, which obviously pained event organizers since they continually apologized about it over the P.A. between sets. When they realized how long people were waiting for food, they rushed to the gates and insisted that security let people go to their cars and be allowed to re-enter. You don't see that kind of concern on the part of concert promoters very often. They clearly cared for the audience's well-being. Heck, water was only $1.00 a bottle-- talk about altruism!
Walther Productions is throwing three more events this season, Camp Bisco in Morris Pa., the Recipe Family Cookout in Albright, W.V. and the Autumn Equinox Music Festival at Capon Ridge, W.V., and if the Grassroots Festival is any indication of things to come, they should all be dy-no-mite. More info can be found on their website: www.walther-productions.com.
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