Tag Archives: J.R. Taylor

Set List: Ludacris, Tobi Keith, The Isley Brothers, and more

2004-07-29 Music

The Set List

By J.R. Taylor and Ed Reynolds

July 29, 2004Little Charlie and the Nightcats
In a world saturated with bad blues acts, swing and jump blues masters Little Charlie and the Nightcats provide redemption for the most worn-out genre in the history of music. They’re the best blues band in the world. Despite Charlie Baty’s talent at dashing off clever and tasteful guitar licks, the real show-stealer is harmonica virtuoso and wry vocalist Rick Estrin. (Estrin’s immaculate, eye-popping suits are worth the price of admission alone.) His gangster persona never fails to entertain. (Saturday, July 31, at Workplay; 7 p.m.; $15-$17.) — Ed Reynolds

Mac McAnally
He started out as the Warren Zevon for the Jimmy Buffet set. Mac McAnally then spent the ’80s putting out great country-pop albums that could’ve spared us the Americana movement had they been more successful. Fortunately, he’s been covered enough to guarantee that labels would fund his own string of ’90s releases (most of which went straight to the cheap bins). The patronage of David Geffen has also ensured the occasional windfall from projects like the soundtrack to The Prince of Egypt. Europeans still haven’t discovered McAnally as a cult figure, though, most likely because very few recording artists can do justice to his unashamedly emotional tunes. Adrienne Barbeau has recorded an impressively torchy version of “All These Years,” though. (Tuesday, August 3, at Zydeco; 8 p.m. $15.) —J.R. Taylor




Little Charlie and the Nightcats (click for larger version)

KISS/Poison
Don’t mistake this for a KISS reunion tour. It’s really another fine summer cash-in, but it pales next to the potential of the Gene Simmons solo tour we should be enjoying. Poison deserves the privileged opening slot, though, since they were always The Ramones in spandex. Nobody wrote better pop songs about girls and best friends—at least, for about two years back in the ’80s. Here’s a Don Dokken quote that really sums up the band’s long career: “Poison’s having the last laugh on all of us. It makes me feel like I wasted a lot of time practicing guitar and reading poetry.” (Tuesday, August 3, at Verizon Music Center; 7:30 p.m. $25-$60 R.S.) —J.R. Taylor




	Poison (click for larger version)

Garrison Starr
Don’t blame Hilary Duff because Garrison Starr isn’t on a major label. Airstreams & Satellites is an album worthy of any woman who’s been around long enough to be Duff’s mom. True adult pop still doesn’t sell—but if it did, Starr’s defiant jangle-pop would ensure that her posters covered the bedroom walls of many beleaguered adults. (Wednesday, August 4, at Workplay; 8 p.m. $17; Laser’s Edge in-store concert; TBA; free admission.) —J.R. Taylor

Toby Keith/Terri Clark
They’re still terrified of Southern rednecks, so Toby Keith has certainly done his part to keep country scary for the national media. The press will never get close enough to appreciate his complexity, either. In that same spirit, Terri Clark’s new Greatest Hits collection showcases one of country’s most bizarre femmes—or soft butches, as the case may be—who has an angry sexuality that doesn’t scare away the fans of her fun and tuneful work. (Thursday, August 5, at Verizon Music Center; 7:30 p.m. $32-$64.) —J.R. Taylor

Ludacris/Lil Jon & the East Side Boyz/Sleepy Brown/David Banner
Everybody knows Ludacris is so crazy, and Sleepy Brown is still an unknown quantity when not performing with Outkast. That leaves David Banner, who is this bill’s biggest deal as the critics’ darling of Crunk—mostly because he adds a spiritual spin to rapping about the joys of bouncing along in a Cadillac. Banner also has an impressive stash of instrumental tricks, and everyone likes the idea of storytellers coming out of Mississippi. Lil Jon & the East Side Boys, however, remain the true Kings of Crunk, and not just because they used the word as an album title back in 2002. Their big jeep beats are the closest that Southern hip-hop will ever get to matching the stigma of bad Southern Rock blaring from Camaros. (Friday, August 6, at Alabama State Fairgrounds; 7 p.m. $25 per day; $40 for weekend.) —J.R. Taylor

The Isley Brothers featuring Ronald Isley/The Gap Band/Bobby Womack/Avant/The Bar-Kays
The Isley Brothers are back to being chart-topping pop stars, so there’s little to add there. The Gap Band and The Bar-Kays are equally iconic as vanguards of funk. So that leaves Bobby Womack sorely in need of being remembered as a soulful crooner whose long, long career has him defining any number of genres. This singer/songwriter has plenty of hits to fill his stage time, but Womack could’ve also built an entire alternate career out of some stunning album tracks. He’s still a great live act, too. Avant also appears as the token young-blood soul man who’s probably thrilled to share a bill with guys who were legends before he was born. (Saturday, August 7, at Alabama State Fairgrounds; 5 p.m. $25 per day; $40 for weekend.) —J.R. Taylor




	The Isley Brothers (click for larger version)

Bobby Womack
When Bobby Womack was a young man singing in a gospel group with his four brothers, his father, Friendly Sr., warned of eternal damnation if his son went secular, which acquaintance Sam Cooke was encouraging him to do. So what did Womack do? He convinced his brothers to join him on the secular circuit despite threats of damnation. They changed their name from the Womacks to the Valentinos, and released a pair of songs written by Bobby that would be famously recorded by The Rolling Stones ["It's All Over Now"] and The J. Geils Band ["Lookin' for a Love"]. After going solo, Womack later penned many songs for Wilson Pickett (including “I’m a Midnight Mover” and “I’m in Love”) and recorded in the studio or performed live with acts such as Ray Charles, James Brown, Aretha Franklin, and Sly & the Family Stone. As a solo artist, he had a string of R&B hits, including “Woman’s Gotta Have It,” “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out,” and the blaxploitation classic “Across 110th Street” (last heard on the soundtrack to Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown).




	Bobby Womack (click for larger version)

But despite his success, Bobby Womack might have wondered if his dad had been right, because tragedy was not far behind. Womack married Sam Cooke’s wife a few months after Cooke’s murder. The resulting ill will in the R&B community stalled his career, and he began battling a drug addiction that almost killed him. In 1974, Womack’s brother was stabbed to death by his girlfriend at Bobby’s home, and in 1978, Womack’s son Truth Bobby died at the age of four months. Another son committed suicide at age 21.

Throughout his adversity, Womack continued to record and was generally known as a bit of an iconoclast. At one point in the late ’70s, Womack badgered his reluctant label into letting him do a full album of country music, something he’d always loved but that the label regarded as commercially inadvisable. The album, BW Goes C&W, sold poorly. What’s more unfortunate is that the label didn’t release it under the title Womack reportedly wanted: Step Aside, Charley Pride, Give Another Nigger a Try.

Womack’s output slowed throughout the ’80s and ’90s. His last studio recordings were a 1994 album for the label owned by friend Ron Wood and a 1997 gospel album, Back to My Roots. (Saturday, August 7 at Alabama State Fairgrounds, August 6 through 8; $25 per day, $40 for the weekend.) — Ed Reynolds

White Animals
The White Animals date back to precious days when a band had to be sure they had good songs before investing in studio time. They’d be D.I.Y. legends if they’d been turning out bad punk rock. Instead, the White Animals deserve to be heroes of jam bands everywhere for pioneering trashy frat-rock that bespoke a World Music collection instead of a token reggae LP. Actually, they’re probably responsible for a lot of really bad music from bands that followed in their wake. At least their recent originals are pretty good, and they’re touring seldom enough to make this show worth seeing. (Saturday, August 7, at Zydeco; 10 p.m. $10-$12.) —J.R. Taylor

Patterson Hood
In retrospect, Patterson Hood had little to worry about at the start of 2001. His band, the Drive-By Truckers, was already getting more press than any other project from this rapidly aging rocker. Any musician about to tour behind a popular album doesn’t get much sympathy for being recently divorced, either. Hood nevertheless worked out all of his bad feelings in his living room on his new solo album, Killers and Stars—a pleasant diversion from the determined Southern goth of the Truckers. The album is less of a singer/songwriter bid than a look at the self-loathing and self-obsession that eventually turn into grander obsessions for the band project. Hood’s feeling much better, of course, and maybe this solo appearance will bring up some of the poppier tendencies that some of us still hope to hear again. (Thursday, August 12, at Workplay; 9 p.m. $12.) —J.R. Taylor

The Set List

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By J.R. Taylor and Ed Reynolds

July 14, 2005

Carole King

Alongside Bob Dylan and Hank Williams, Carole King ranks as one of the great American songwriters of the 20th century. Unlike Williams and Dylan, who relied more often than not on singing their own hits to create their legacies, King’s reputation was launched in a tiny cubicle with a piano in New York’s famed Brill Building, writing for others. Her credits include “One Fine Day” by The Chiffons, “Up on the Roof” by The Drifters (Neil Diamond and Dean Martin also did interesting versions),” “Pleasant Valley Sunday” by The Monkees, “Oh No, Not My Baby” by Dusty Springfield (absolutely stunning), “Go Away Little Girl” by Donny Osmond, “Hi-De-Ho” by Blood, Sweat, and Tears, “Don’t Bring Me Down” by The Animals, “The Loco-Motion” by both Little Eva [her baby-sitter] and Grand Funk Railroad, and “Chains” by the Beatles.

Her legend as a performer was sealed in 1971 with the release of Tapestry, a remarkable album featuring “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?,” “So Far Away,” “Natural Woman,” “It’s Too Late,” and “You’ve Got a Friend.” The record made soft rock hip, a California-besotted sound that was eventually turned to mush by less talented writers like the Eagles, Poco, James Taylor, and a slew of other post-hippies who tried to substitute with electric and acoustic guitars what King had done on a piano.

To witness Carole King sing from her astonishing catalogue is a rare treat. Stage fright (and no doubt an endless supply of money earned over her career) kept her from live performances for years. Recently, she has undertaken extensive tours armed with only a piano and a pair of guitarists. Perched behind the grand piano, King’s fingers pound the keys aggressively as her bouncing head of curls and endearing smile exhibit a childlike enthusiasm. If she’s scared, she doesn’t show it. Her voice has aged to a soulful rasp, and despite her 63 years, she’s still as easy on the eyes as ever. (Thursday, July 21, at the BJCC Concert Hall) —Ed Reynolds

India.arie

There was a time when India.arie was going to be the supreme mix of Sade and Joni Mitchell. Now she’s just a perfectly reasonable presence on the soundtrack of Diary of a Mad Black Woman. Arie didn’t exactly come unhinged between Acoustic Soul and Voyage to India, but she certainly sustained a certain meltdown. It was all foreshadowed by self-obsession that went past navel-gazing and straight to the masturbatory—and you know there’s something seriously wrong when that’s a turn-off from a soul sister. It’s been several years since an actual album, but Arie’s voice holds up even when her melodies don’t. You’ll still want to ignore those lyrics. You’re better off trusting a U.N. oil-for-food program when it comes to advice for the downtrodden. (Friday, July 15, at the Alabama Theatre; 8 p.m. $39-$45) —J.R. Taylor




	Kelly Clarkson (click for larger version)

American Idols Live

Everybody knows that it’s Dick Clark’s “Caravan of Stars” on the short bus. You can also consider it a missed opportunity to shoot a superior reality show, since Bo Bice, Carrie Underwood, Constantine Maroulis, and the rest must be miserable on this obligatory summer tour when they could be pushing their solo careers. At least nobody’s going to be straining their voice while sharing a bill with nine other acts. It’s also a considerate way of cramming plenty of novelty acts onto one bill without having to pay Dr. Demento—or William Hung—as an emcee. (Friday, July 15, at the BJCC; 7:30 p.m. $37-$47) —J.R. Taylor

Kelly Clarkson/Graham Colton Band

Wait five days, skip this year’s models, and marvel at how a gal who chirps like a generic cell phone ring tone went on to win Idol and become . . . well, probably a cell phone ring tone. That slutty new makeover isn’t very believable, but who cares? Neither is Breakaway—although it’s really fun to hear her making a bold move from her pop past that still fizzles out with generic ballads. In a few moments, she almost rocks as hard as Quarterflash, though. File this as another fun cultural moment, and you’ll have a good dopey story when you’re sitting around reviewing the decade in 20 years. People might also remember Graham Colton as the Tab Hunter of mild jam-band pop, except Tony Perkins wouldn’t go to the movies with him. (Wednesday, July 20, at Boutwell Auditorium; 7:30 p.m. $25-$40)—J.R. Taylor

18 Visions/He Is Legend/The Black Maria

And here’s the point where post-thrash-punk-whatever becomes album-oriented rock. 18 Visions and The Black Maria are both perfectly fine and impressive acts whose songwriting uses every dopey trick that’s ever been utilized by Styx, REO Speedwagon, Heart, and other bands that you’re not supposed to like but you really do. (Well, in the case of REO Speedwagon, up to around 1978.)

The Black Maria is in especially good shape coming off of Lead Us To Reason, and it’s baffling that they’re stuck in the opening slot here. Meanwhile, I Am Legend is a mainstream metal act coming off of the surprising ambition of I Am Hollywood. The noise can venture towards more prog than punk, and there are a few other self-referential layers that make Legend the Thomas Pynchon of lit-rock—except they know how to keep it short. (Saturday, July 23, at Cave 9; 7 p.m. $10)—J.R. Taylor

Ivan Neville’s Dumpstaphunk

He should be a rock legend just for having been told by Keith Richards that he really needed to straighten out his act. And now he’s eight years sober and still stuck with a family heritage that—outside of New Orleans—is good only for scoring lots of free drugs on the jam-band circuit. Dumpstaphunk, fortunately, is a smart strategic intervention that imposes plenty of song structure on a quality band that could actually get away with jamming. They’re not the new Meters, but Dumpstaphunk also has Ian Neville to make it even easier to be the next best thing. They’re also smart enough to rely on other people’s songs—including at least one Meters cover. (Wednesday, July 27, at Zydeco; 8 p.m. $10, 18+) —J.R. Taylor &

City Stages 2004

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City Stages 2004 City Stages

Blockbuster Stage

Friday, June 186:30 p.m. Ray Lamontagne7:50 p.m. Los Lonely Boys

9:15 p.m. Keb’ Mo’

11 p.m. The Robert Cray Band

Saturday, June 19

1:45 p.m. June Star




Shelby Lynne (click for larger version)

2:40 p.m. Clare Burson

3:45 p.m. D.B. Harris

4:50 p.m. Chris Knight

6 p.m. Steve Forbert

7:25 p.m. Drive-By Truckers

8:50 p.m. Lynyrd Skynyrd

Sunday, June 20

1 p.m. The Scott Ivey Band

2 p.m. Adam Hood

3:05 p.m. Meteorite

4:20 p.m. Tony Joe White

5:45 p.m. Dave Alvin & The Guilty Men

7:10 p.m. Shelby Lynne

8:40 p.m. Loretta Lynn

(Artists are listed alphabetically by first name.)

Adam Hood

Currently based in Auburn, Hood sounds a lot like Steve Earle searching for long-lost James Taylor and Joni Mitchell roots. —Ed Reynolds (Sunday, June 20, 2 p.m. to 2:45 p.m.)

Clare Burson

Clare Burson’s voice has a particular lucidity—a Southern ease. Though most of the tracks on her 2003 full-length debut album, The In-Between, are forgettable, Burson has her moments. The subtle, girlish vocals that dominate most of the album turn unexpectedly sultry with “Don’t You Do Me,” a song with a sedated yet seductive sound (Old World-inspired accordion, and mandolin riffs) and vocals that are reminiscent of—dare I say—Fiona Apple? Burson’s overall style is no doubt influenced by her ear for bluegrass and Irish-inspired music, which she learned from playing violin for more than 18 years. But it wasn’t until her college years that she taught herself to play guitar and write songs—most of which are lyrically sweet and innocuous.

The In-Between is just what one would expect in a first effort from a 28-year-old singer/songwriter steeped in her Tennessee roots—plainspoken love songs, earnest musings about long dusty roads to Memphis, and a crew of acclaimed Nashville musicians to beef up her songs with bass, drums, lap steel, organ, and accordion. —Danielle McClure (Saturday, June 19, 2:40 p.m. to 3:25 p.m.; and also at City Stages Unplugged: Friday, June 18, 11:55 a.m. to 12:20 p.m.)

D.B. Harris

Now based in Austin, Texas, this Birmingham native’s band features cry-in-your-beer country music, Tejano, rockabilly, and some material that wouldn’t sound strange coming from Joe Ely. Definitely worth checking out. —Bart Grooms (Saturday, June 19, 1:10 p.m. to 2:10 p.m.; and also at the Blockbuster Stage: Saturday, June 19, 3:45 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.)

Dave Alvin & the Guilty Men

Any hack will tell you that Dave Alvin grew up under the buzz of the high-tension wires strung across rural California. Big deal. There’s plenty of old folks living under high-tension wires strung across suburban America, and you don’t see them churning out terse, bluesy tunes. Alvin’s spent more than 20 years as a critic’s darling, and that might help explain why his best album remains a live effort that frees him from his studio indulgences. He seems to understand better than his supporters that his music only truly matters when he’s playing with his longstanding touring band. A live set from Alvin can even make his crappy old college-rock tunes (anybody remember The Blasters or X?) sound fresh, immediate, and really, really important. —J.R. Taylor (Sunday, June 20, 5:45 p.m. to 6:45 p.m.)

Drive-By Truckers

Sure, they’ve cornered the market on Southern Rock, but how hard was that when the competition was Nashville Pussy? Last year’s Decoration Day has now lead to a solo album, Killers & Stars, from band leader Patterson Hood, and both projects suggest that the Drive-By Truckers are, in fact, doomed to be constantly undervalued in the musical marketplace. They might as well reject the rock world that will only marginalize them and begin their rightful stance as displaced folkies simply trying to make sense of their surroundings. Lesser albums such as Warren Zevon’s The Wind and Neil Young’s Greendale will get more unabashed hype, but that’s okay. England Dan & John Ford Coley outsold Dirk Hamilton, too. —J.R. Taylor (Saturday, June 19, 7:25 p.m. to 8:25 p.m.)

June Star

These guys like to crank up the alt-country rock, beer-joint shit-kicker style, but they truly shine when easing into country ballads that feature pedal steel, harmonica, and mandolin. Andrew Grimm has a melancholy voice that is both gruff and twangy, and his songs fall somewhere between Gram Parsons and early R.E.M., but they are definitely rougher around the edges (a good thing in this case). Although June Star often recall late-model Byrds, Neil Young’s all-but-forgotten outfit The Stray Gators, or even Poco, it’s difficult to say if this versatile band is better suited to “Austin City Limits” or “A Prairie Home Companion.” —David Pelfrey (Saturday, June 19, 1:45 p.m. to 2:20 p.m.)

Keb’ Mo’

Keb’ Mo’ (that’s Swahili for Kevin Moore . . .) has a new album called Keep It Simple. The CD’s cover pictures the artist in Depression-era costume, seated in what looks like an old shack somewhere along the Mississippi Delta. On the title track, our back-to-basics bluesman sings, “I just wanna go somewhere and use my hands and keep it simple, real simple.”

Well, actions speak louder than lyrics, and here’s how Mr. “Mo’” keeps it simple: keyboards, violin, dobro, several guitars, synthesizers, a few back-up singers, six contributing artists from as many labels, four different recording studios, five engineers, and one assistant engineer.

There’s nothing wrong with taking full-blown, obsessively detailed advantage of today’s recording resources, unless you are posing as an authentic Delta blues artist cranking out some gritty, raw masterpieces for Fat Possum Records. Keb’ Mo’, by way of contrast, is making slick, blues-lite music that Disney might commission for its next big animated feature, assuming NPR doesn’t get to him first. Honestly, it makes Eric Clapton look like Howlin’ Wolf. This is music for fans of Randy Newman, Phil Collins, Bette Midler, Billy Joel, and sundry other middle-of-the-road, over-the-hill performers who, by the way, do indeed find gainful employment with Disney from time to time. “But wait,” Keb’ Mo’ fans and enablers reply, “He’s won two Grammy Awards.” To which one can only say, “Precisely.” —David Pelfrey (Friday, June 18, 9:15 p.m. to 10:30 p.m.)

Loretta Lynn

There’s not a single Trent Reznor song to be found on Van Lear Rose. In fact, 70-year-old Lynn has wisely dodged Johnny Cash’s mistakes and has utilized an influential young connection—that being highly-touted producer Jack White of the White Stripes—to record her first album comprised solely of originals. (At least, as far as I can tell from my collection of Lynn 8-track tapes. Is there anything more irritating than rock critics who suddenly become experts on country music once there’s a hipster angle?)

Anyway, Van Lear Rose snuffs out a thousand snide comments by being a truly great album. It doesn’t even sound like White had to step in to save the compositions. He’s still certainly responsible for several amazing moments where Lynn’s country stance succumbs to a British blues influence. A striking range of emotions is clearly the Lynn legacy, though. Now, there’s still the small matter of finding out how much daring new material will be sacrificed in favor of crowd-pleasing classics. Actually, who cares? (See interview, this issue.) —J.R. Taylor (Sunday, June 20, 8:40 p.m. to 9:55 p.m.)

Los Lonely Boys

Not since Mick Ronson co-produced the band Los Illegals has . . . oh, wait, nobody bought that Los Illegals album. Come to think of it, that whole thing was a crappy generic-rock effort distinguished only by some Spanish vocals. In sharp contrast, the self-titled debut of Los Lonely Boys features only a couple of crappy power ballads. The rest of the album—co-produced by Keb’ Mo’—is perfectly swell blues-rock. Never mind that the slick production makes the band sound more like Carlos Santana than Doug Sahm. Their shallow attempt at mining rhythm ‘n’ blues still allows the band to stumble upon plenty of greatness. Maybe they’ll even become successful enough to finally bury the Tejano genre. —J.R. Taylor (Friday, June 18, 7:50 p.m. to 8:50 p.m.; and also at City Stages Unplugged: Friday, June 18, 1:15 p.m. to 1:40 p.m.)

Lynyrd Skynyrd

Lynyrd Skynyrd have always been way over the top, whether it’s the barrage of three guitars when two would do or the incessant, countless guitar solos that made each weary version of “Free Bird” seemingly never end. The band transformed the Confederate flag into a worshipped icon while making the term “redneck” a proud label for men sporting mullets and women wrapped in halter tops. (Appropriately, the original Skynyrd boys were dropouts from—you guessed it—Robert E. Lee High School in Jacksonville, Florida.) Lynyrd Skynyrd simply refuses to go away. They’re back with their first studio album in three years, and, quite frankly, it’s the same tired Southern boogie-woogie they’ve recycled for years. It’s no surprise that they named it Vicious Cycle.

When original singer Ronnie Van Zant, who was fondly remembered by his wife in a VH-1 special as “just a redneck who loved to fight,” died in a 1977 plane crash, many thought that “Free Bird” had finally been grounded. Instead, the song became a request literally screamed at every concert, regardless of which band was performing. The only bright spot in the ongoing saga is the return of Blackfoot guitarist Rickey Medlocke to the Skynyrd fold. Medlocke played drums in the band in 1971, left for a year, and then returned briefly when the band featured a two-drummer lineup. The next time around, Medlocke returned as the third guitarist.

Guitarist Gary Rossington and keyboardist Billy Powell are the only other original members. Johnny Van Zant, who was 13 when Skynyrd first hit the big time, replaced his late brother as lead vocalist. He was recently interviewed by comedic hipster Dennis Miller, who asked Van Zant if he realized the band had a monster hit in the works when he recorded the vocals for “Free Bird.” Van Zant simply smiled and politely told Miller that it was his late brother Ronnie who had originally sung the song. Lucky for Miller that Ronnie’s dead, because he would have kicked Miller’s ass all over the television studio. (See interview, this issue.) —Ed Reynolds (Saturday, June 19, 8:50 p.m. to 10:35 p.m.)

The Robert Cray Band

Although guitarist/vocalist Cray inevitably gets called a bluesman, he’s never stayed in the blues mainstream. With a smooth vocal style that owes more to soul and gospel than any blues singer you can name, Cray and his longtime mates (keyboardist Jim Pugh, bassist Karl Sevareid, drummer Kevin Hayes) continue to work at evolving a blues-influenced mainstream R&B/rock hybrid. Cray and Co. may not always hit the heights of early successes like the breakthrough Strong Persuader album (1986), but at their best, they make terrific, moving music indeed. Cray’s songs have been covered by artists as diverse as Albert King, B.B. King, Eric Clapton, Del McCoury, and Tony Bennett, and Mick Jagger has been heard to kvetch admiringly about Cray’s vocals, instrumental talents, and the fact that he’s good looking as well. “It’s not fair,” whined the Stone. See for yourself. (See interview, this issue.) —Bart Grooms (Friday, June 18, 11 p.m. to 12:30 a.m.)

Shelby Lynne

2000′s I Am Shelby Lynne was a brilliant pop album that defied years of record company oppression. The record’s surprising success put the country songstress in an ideal position to dictate her next big move, which turned out to be the moronic sellout of 2001′s Love, Shelby. That joke just gets funnier every time it’s told. Anyway, Lynne tried rebounding with last year’s Identity Crisis, and it was a nice step away from the gloss toward minimalism. Interestingly enough, it’s even as much a step away from I Am Shelby Lynne as it is from her previous disaster. The only problem is that Lynne’s true love seems to be slick balladry. She remains a fine songwriter, but that haphazard career still makes her the kind of musician who makes illegal downloading seem totally understandable. (See interview, this issue.) —J.R. Taylor (Sunday, June 20, 7:10 p.m. to 8:10 p.m.)

Steve Forbert

See interview, this issue. (Saturday, June 19, 6 p.m. to 7 p.m.)

Tony Joe White

Tina Turner opened the door for his European comeback in the early ’90s, but Tony Joe White is mostly forgotten in the places he defines. Even the most suburban Southerner can relate to White’s “Homemade Ice Cream” and “Rainy Night In Georgia,” although his “Polk Salad Annie” remains a novelty on the level of Jerry Reed’s “Amos Moses.” On the other hand, Tom Jones and Elvis Presley both found “Polk Salad Annie” worth covering. There was a time when White was positioned as a similar chest-hair-sporting stud during his short heyday as the Swamp Fox. He even attempted a perfectly legitimate bid for disco stardom back in ’76. Today, however, White’s very reliable as a funky bluesman with an offhand manner toward his fine guitar work. Fans on other continents already know all this, but here’s a rare chance for his countryfolk to catch up with the legend. (See interview, this issue.) —J.R. Taylor (Sunday, June 20, 4:20 p.m. to 5:20 p.m.) &

The Set List — 2004-03-25

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2004-03-25 Music

The Set List

By J.R. Taylor, Ed Reynolds

Shades Mountain Air featuring Glenn Tolbert
Shades Mountain Air is a local bluegrass/gospel combo led by Gary Furr, pastor of Vestavia Hills Baptist Church and a former guitar student of local bluegrass picker Glenn Tolbert. The group will be joined by Tolbert for an evening of bluegrass standards and mournful gospel favorites. Tolbert, who currently teaches guitar to employees at U.S. Steel in Fairfield, is looking forward to performing some of the more tragic sacred tunes. Anyone who has heard him sing can testify that Tolbert’s nasal tenor is tailor-made for such distressingly hopeless songs. He’s particularly fond of a funeral number called “Who Will Sing for Me?,” a lonely lament that prompts Tolbert to reflect on his many years of performing, and, ultimately, the day he is laid to rest. He’s so moved by the lyrics he can’t resist reciting a verse during a recent telephone conversation: “Oft I sing for my friends, when death’s cold hand I see. When I reach my journey’s end, who will sing one song for me? When crowds gather round and look down on me, will they turn and walk away? Or will they sing just one song for me?” (Tuesday, March 30, Moonlight Music Café, 8 p.m. $8.) —Ed ReynoldsThe Marshall Tucker Band
No band better epitomized Southern rock during the late 1970s than The Marshall Tucker Band. It was the era of the “extended jam,” when the most endearing route to an audience’s heart was an eternal guitar solo, song after song. Marshall Tucker’s contribution to the genre was the lightning fast, bare-picking thumb of guitarist Toy Caldwell, who soared through jazzed-up country leads that seemed to go on forever. Caldwell doesn’t play those long solos anymore because he’s dead, just like his brother Tommy, with whom he started the group in 1972. Singer Doug Gray is the lone original member remaining in the band. His belting vocals will no doubt create nostalgia for those nights when Tucker classics like “Can’t You See,” “Take the Highway,” “Fire on the Mountain,” and “24 Hours at a Time” filled Boutwell Auditorium’s rafters, right along with the aroma of dope. (Friday, April 2, The Yellow Rose. $15.) —E.R.

Lonestar/Jimmy Wayne
We’re coming up on 10 years of Lonestar, meaning that they’ve outlasted their contemporaries in *NSync. They were much cuter back when they all dressed like the Cowboy from the Village People, though. Sometimes, you should just ignore Q”ueer Eye for the Straight Guy”‘s Carson Kressley. So, let’s see . . . boy band comparison, made fun of their clothes . . . oh, yeah, they actually remade Marc Cohn’s “Walking in Memphis” into the kind of manly street version that made Cher’s version sound, in comparison, like it was sung by Bob Dylan.

But, of course, Lonestar’s greatest sin is that they give guys such as Steve Earle and Elvis Costello the chance to bitch and whine about the country scene. But those guys are just envious that they’re not as handsome as opening act Jimmy Wayne, who believes his rough childhood allows him to sound really manly as he pleads with you to love him. (Friday, April 2, Alabama Theatre, 8 p.m. $39.50.) —J.R. Taylor



	The Marshall Tucker Band (click for larger version)

Slipknot/Fear Factory
I prefer bands patterned after the film 2000 Maniacs rather than Neon Maniacs, but you can’t help what those suburban kids once stumbled across on cable back in the early-’90s. At least it’s easy to believe that the members of Slipknot could also be killed by water. They bring some nice hooks to their plundering of death metal. And you have to go see them live, because you’ll feel stupid cranking them up in your car stereo anytime before 3 a.m.

Fear Factory, however, is an unjustly overlooked act that probably gave Slipknot the idea of toning down the ambition and upping the wardrobe. They’re (mostly) back after a very short break-up, more than likely spurred by the realization that few musicians share their commitment to finding beauty among the “possessed demon” vocal sound of which death metal bands are so fond. (Friday, April 2, Sloss Furnaces, 7:30 p.m. $29.50) —J.R. Taylor

Amy Rigby
Nobody had a bigger audience to tap than Amy Rigby in the mid-’90s, as her albums Diary of a Mod Housewife and Middlescence examined the plight of aging hipsters torn between the lure of traditional happiness and the restraints of a fabulous lifestyle. The suddenly single mom didn’t have to revamp her style, either, since she’d spent the ’80s as a pioneering urban-country popster. Rigby simply had to grow into the shambles that she once adored. A move to Nashville, however, has reduced her to being great only on every third song. Until the Wheels Fall Off managed to be one of last year’s best albums, but she’s clearly outgrown the Americana handbook. Rigby is still underrated as a vocalist, though, and her sharp wordplay remains more honest than clever. (Saturday, April 3, Moonlight Music Cafe, 8 p.m. $10.) —J.R. Taylor

Emerson Hart (of Tonic)
Well, the billing is certainly a good way to teach people the name of the lead singer of Tonic. That band was so faceless that nobody even noticed when they attempted a big sell-out with their Head On Straight album in 2002. Emerson Hart had already relocated to Nashville, too, which is usually a move made by songwriters who age more gracefully—like, you know, Seals & Crofts. Anyway, Tonic is still a band, and remain best known for forgettable ballads that bask in big rock settings. Those songs touched many people, and $5 is certainly a reasonable price to hear how those tunes sound better in stripped-down versions. (Tuesday, April 6, The Nick, 8 p.m. $5.) —J.R. Taylor

Kate Campbell
Her narrow view of the South guides Kate Campbell’s assurances that you are truly, truly stupid—unless, of course, you’re in her audience, in which case you are assured that you’re nearly as fabulous as Kate Campbell. Why, you can even watch her marvel at just how pathetic people are with their miserable little dreams. This former Samford University student doesn’t like how Birmingham looks, either, but who cares? Campbell’s the kind of woman who’ll show up in your living room and complain about how your Bible isn’t dusty enough. One of her recent lousy albums is called Monuments, and has tombstones for sale on the cover. (Thursday, April 8, Workplay, 8 p.m. $20.) —J.R. Taylor &

Dead Folks 2005, Cinema part 1

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2005-02-24 Features

Dead Folks 2005, Cinema part 1

A look back at the notable names and personalities who called it quits last year.

By David Pelfrey, Ed Reynolds, J.R. Taylor

February 24, 2005

Janet Leigh

The shower scene in Psycho must be one of the top five most recognized moments in cinema history. For the uninitiated, it is certainly one of the most disturbing. Leigh herself was not troubled by the scene during its production, which called for some 50 setups. Yet after seeing the final result on screen, the actress chose never to take a shower again (apparently a bath makes the bather less vulnerable). Leigh (77) had some excellent turns in Orson Welles’ quirky thriller Touch of Evil (another film in which she is menaced in a hotel room) and opposite Frank Sinatra in The Manchurian Candidate. Daughter Jamie Lee Curtis enjoyed status as a scream queen during the 1970s and early ’80s, most famously in Halloween, in which Jamie was basically following in Mom’s footsteps. An older generation of film fans remember Janet Leigh as one of the dolls in MGM’s mid-1950s stable of buxom gals, as well as her much publicized marriage to screen idol Tony Curtis. Their short-lived domestic bliss was detailed, ad nauseam, in brilliant Kodachrome for all the screen tabloids. —D.P.




	Janet Leigh (click for larger version)

Carlo DiPalma

There is an immediately recognizable visual style in Woody Allen’s films made after the mid-1980s, most notably in Hannah and Her Sisters, Shadows and Fog, Radio Days, Alice, and Deconstructing Harry. Several characters may be in a living room, a hotel lobby, or on a Manhattan sidewalk while a scene continues with almost imperceptible zooms, few if any edits, cuts, close-ups, or shifts in camera angle. Because Allen is uniquely adept at staging entire scenes for such “master shots,” and because Carlo DiPalma (79) understood how to capture those scenes without rendering dull, static images, DiPalma’s colleagues often referred to him as the “master of the master shot.” The pair collaborated on 12 films, most of which also boast a trademark honeyed glow that DiPalma achieved without filters, making him a master of lighting in the bargain.

The cinematographer acquired these skills during the Italian neo-realist heyday of the 1940s and early 1950s, but refined his craft, to much acclaim, during the 1960s with Michelangelo Antonioni and Bernardo Bertolucci. In fact, DiPalma was behind the camera for Blowup, Antonioni’s stylized, enigmatic mystery that became an internationally recognized symbol of the swinging ’60s. —D.P.

Rodney Dangerfield

“When I started in show business, I played one club that was so far out that my act was reviewed in Field and Stream,” went one Rodney Dangerfield (82) joke about his life without respect. It took him until age 42—his second attempt at making a living as a comic—to parlay his many years of failure into a staple of pop culture. “I get no respect” was a mantra that would be his ticket to stardom. No comic has ever been more successful mining the same concept over and over. With one hand constantly loosening his necktie as if it were a noose, Rodney Dangerfield’s bulging eyes, sweat-drenched face, and natural delivery of one-liners landed him on “The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson” more than 70 times. He starred in the films Caddyshack, Easy Money, and Back to School, among others. In 1995, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences rejected Dangerfield’s application for membership. Outcry from fans forced the Academy to change its mind, but Dangerfield declined the offer. —E.R.

Fay Wray

Fans of Femme Fatale or Fangoria magazine appreciate the type of actress (phenomenal babe) who spends her career in B-to-Z horror films and thrillers, most of which go directly to video or the cable movie channels. Occasionally one of these dolls breaks into the mainstream, but most of them enjoy being almost famous strictly for their killer bodies and their screams. Now that she’s passed on, perhaps Fay Wray (96) will become the patron saint of these gals, considering that she started the whole thing more than 70 years ago.




	Fay Wray (click for larger version)

Yes, that’s Wray, circa 1933, in the hands of a giant gorilla named Kong as he makes his way through Manhattan and up the side of the Empire State building. During the long production of that epic thriller, Wray was loaned out to other studios for such obscure movies as Doctor X, The Vampire Bat, and a mean little action-adventure film with Joel McCrea called The Most Dangerous Game. By the time she was perched with the big guy atop the world’s tallest skyscraper, Wray was known as “the scream queen.” One might argue that she helped make the building famous. Someone thinks so, because the lights on the building were dimmed for 15 minutes last summer to honor Wray’s passing. The actress (actually an extremely fetching brunette in her other roles) maintained a sense of humor about her association with the New York landmark, remarking in 1993, “Every time I’m in New York I say a little prayer when passing the Empire State Building. A good friend of mine died up there.” —D.P.

John Randolph

The balding character actor with a beaming smile and thoughtful eyes seems to have been middle-aged his entire screen career, but that’s because his work was stalled in the 1950s after he was blacklisted. An original member of the Actors Studio, Randolph (88) distinguished himself on stage before making his motion picture debut in 1955 in The Naked City. A decade later John Frankenheimer cast him in the science fiction film Seconds, and Randolph’s career as a character player on television and in motion pictures took off. He was outstanding as Jack Nicholson’s mobster father in Prizzi’s Honor and as the bookstore tycoon in You’ve Got Mail. Randolph also made brief appearances in almost every television series ever made, but he may be remembered for his recurring role as the dad on “Roseanne.” An unrepentant socialist, Randolph was active in leftist causes most of his life, eventually chairing the Council of Soviet-American Friendship, which arguably casts the blacklisting matter in an entirely different light. —D.P.

Russ Meyer




A scene from Russ Meyer’s Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (click for larger version)

Only Western civilization could produce savages like Russ Meyer, who truly understood the course of conflict in the wild. As the world’s greatest director of (human) nature films—including Supervixens and Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, Meyer (82) spent the ’60s and ’70s making fantastic soap operas in which large-breasted women romance, fornicate, and engage in mortal combat with white-trash men. His instincts as an outdoor filmmaker were guided by far more than inexpensive sets; granted a big Hollywood budget with Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, Meyer simply had his warring tribes fighting in the arenas of Beverly Hills mansions. Like any auteur towards the end of his career, Meyer recognized the fulfillment of his vision, working towards a complete overview of his lifelong obsession with the female animal: a multimedia project entitled The Breast of Russ Meyer. When you’re the Marlin Perkins of mammaries, being witty is a secondary concern.

And on a personal note: The above was written in the present tense for a 1994 series of trading cards entitled Crackpots & Visionaries. The cartoonist assigned to illustrate the card was a friend of Meyer’s, and was concerned that my bio was disrespectful. He sent it off to Meyer who gave his approval. I met Meyer the next year, and we talked so much about his military years and Alabama—where he kept a fishing cabin—that his films barely got mentioned. A truly great guy, and what a shame to lose him to Alzheimer’s this past year. —J.R.T.

Ron O’Neal

Go and watch Superfly again—it’s pretty impressive how Curtis Mayfield’s score actually says more than any dialogue in the actual movie. Ron O’Neal (66) really saved film in his amazing turn as the titular drug dealer. Too bad that he was facing the same studio system as Pam Grier. There was no place for a black leading man with that kind of charisma, so O’Neal was stuck in the lousy sequel Superfly T.N.T. His complex villainy also couldn’t save The Master Gunfighter, which was heavily hyped as Tom Laughlin’s bid to expand his empire beyond the Billy Jack franchise. O’Neal survived the ’70s, though, and would go on to steal plenty of scenes as a dashing character actor in films such as Red Dawn and The Final Countdown. —J.R.T.

Paul Winfield

As another sign of Hollywood cluelessness in the ’70s, Paul Winfield (62) was regularly cast as a salt-o’-the-earth black man in rural films such as Sounder. In truth, Winfield was more like a black Christopher Walken than a male Cicely Tyson. His rich, fruity voice was put to its best use as the gloating narrator providing sordid details about various nice towns on the A&E Channel’s “City Confidential” crime documentary series. Winfield’s weird presence had also been put to better use in the ’70s with Trouble Man and Conrack, while the ’80s provided him with a turn as a cunning record executive in a Wiseguy story arc. He never quite got the defining role that he deserved, but Winfield made a lot of mediocre films suddenly seem dangerous just by his mere presence. —J.R.T.

Mercedes McCambridge

The old National Lampoon gag went basically like this: how to tell Mercedes McCambridge from Barbara Stanwyck? Barbara carries a whip; Mercedes is named after a car. The joke is a mild allusion to Stanwyck’s rather butch role in the television western series “The Big Valley,” as well as to McCambridge’s minor cult status as, well, a screen dyke. To understand how McCambridge (85) might have established herself as an icon of the celluloid closet, simply witness her roles in Giant and Johnny Guitar. Those turns as the toughest old broads in the west can make Charles Bronson look swishy. If those roles fail to convince, then her leather-clad villainess in Touch of Evil should remove any doubts.

McCambridge was one of the original members of Orson Welles’ Mercury Theater, justifiably so because the actress was a phenomenal voice talent. She was familiar to listeners tuning into “Inner Sanctum Ford Theater,” “I Love a Mystery,” and other programs from the radio era. Her most unique job in that capacity came many years later when McCambridge provided the voice of demon-possessed Linda Blair in The Exorcist. —David Pelfrey

The Set List — Hank Williams, Jr., .R.E.M., and others.

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2003-09-11 Music

The Set List

By J.R. Taylor, Ed Reynolds




	Hank Williams, Jr.

Hank Williams, Jr.
Though he first appeared on the Grand Ole Opry at age 11, performing his late father’s tunes, Hank Williams, Jr., later chose to rebel against the expectations heaped upon him as the son of the greatest country music singer of all time by cranking up the electric guitars and extolling the virtues of smoking pot while sipping Jim Beam. Never mind that his dad had been shooting up morphine long before Hank, Jr., puffed his first joint. Maybe the real reason he chose to rebel was that his father nicknamed him Bocephus, after a dummy used by a Grand Ole Opry ventriloquist. Regardless, Hank, Sr.’s devout legions didn’t quite know what to make of Junior’s version of a hillbilly, but his undying allegiance to the Confederate flag had them in his corner in no time. Originally viewed as an embarrassment by hardcore country fans, Williams Jr.’s, crass songs were merely caricatures of the plaintive, stark beauty of country music. For the past decade, however, he’s been more or less a saving grace in a world where Shania Twain and Tim McGraw are revered more than Loretta Lynn and George Jones, though he’ll never live down those jingles that promote “Monday Night Football.” (Saturday, September 13, at Oak Mountain Amphitheater, 7:20 p.m.; $10-$39.75. R.S.) —Ed Reynolds

Jay Farrar
It’s been hard times for those who prefer Son Volt to the suddenly-sanctified Wilco. Jay Farrar didn’t even rate a mention in the Wilco documentary I Am Trying to Break Your Heart (despite his long history with Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy in Uncle Tupelo), and then Farrar’s first post-Son Volt project got swamped in the wake of Wilco’s lousy Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Fortunately, this bought Farrar the time to record ThirdShiftGrottoSlack, an EP on which he finally ditched Americana and started exploring his avant leanings. Now, all of his visions have come together with Terroir Blues, a 23-track collection of gorgeous, quiet compositions augmented by noisy interludes and assorted reprises. Neil Young couldn’t have come up with a better mix of ambitious indulgence and genuine talent. The critics, naturally, aren’t pleased. Farrar probably couldn’t be happier. (Wednesday, September 17, at WorkPlay, 10 p.m. $20.) —J.R. Taylor

Hayseed Dixie/The Kerosene Brothers
Or Bill Dana opening for Jose Jimenez. Hayseed Dixie has been more successful than they could have hoped by playing bluegrass covers of AC/DC and Kiss. Now it’s time for the Kerosene Brothers to tour on Hayseed’s coattails—and those are mighty short coattails since The Kerosene Brothers are Hayseed Dixie in their purest form, before an indulgent side-project kinda took over their careers. Choose Your Own Title shows the Kerosene Brothers bringing that Hayseed energy to their own fun originals, with no hint of any deep insight having been buried by their successful alter-egos. It’s simply one good joke after another, and it’s not their fault if the joke has become more believable than most acts’ sincerity. (Wednesday, September 24, at The Nick.) —J.R.T.

R.E.M./Sparklehorse
They should be calling it the “Sorry About the ’90s” Tour since Michael Stipe can no longer tell the executives at his record label that questions about sales performance are “mean-spirited.” There have even been rumors of advance money being handed back, although that remains unconfirmed.




	R.E.M.

Let’s concede that some people out there are looking forward to buying R.E.M.’s recent best-of compilation, even after hearing the crappy new single. Meanwhile, the vast majority of fans haven’t really cared about anything R.E.M. has recorded since 1992. The fans haven’t missed a thing, either. Pete Buck still drinks and plays too much, Mike Mills remains the only talented member, and none of them know how to produce a rock album. The Michael Stipe co-produced American Movie, however, was a pretty cool film.

Sparklehorse, incidentally, is an R.E.M. tribute band, in that leader Mark Linkous’ rote sound collages—occasionally containing a good melody—are a tribute to how so many lame art-rockers have been able to limp along thanks to R.E.M.’s support over the years. Thankfully, that’s pretty much over, too. (Wednesday, September 24, at Oak Mountain Amphitheatre, 7:30 p.m. $15-$60 R.S.) —J.R.T.

The Polyphonic Spree/Starlight Mints/Corn Mo
Redefining both cult-rock and the cult of Mitch Miller, Tim Delaughter’s (former singer for Tripping Daisy) traveling band of white-robed glee clubbers sounds like an honest big deal on Beginning Stages of the Polyphonic Spree. They also do a fine job of burying the lame Sunshine Pop scene that came skipping out of the 1960s. Unlike their hippie forebears, this 24-piece ensemble plays off orchestral arrangements and fun synth touches to create truly entertaining pop masterpieces.




	Corn Mo

There’s also the occasional artistic misfire. But the only real problem is that nobody seems to remember how to actually produce a record by a big choral group nowadays. You have to see the band live to appreciate some of the delicate touches that are wiped away in the album’s traditionalist rock mix.

Starlight Mints are a proudly trippy act in their own right, getting past their dull power-pop roots and now indulging in a lot of privileged quirkiness on Built for Squares. And it’s left to Corn Mo to represent the Great Spirit in his role as the Heavy Metal/Prog-Rockin’ God of the Accordion. (See feature, this issue.) (Thursday, September 25, at WorkPlay, 8 p.m. $15) —J.R.T.

Caitlin Cary/Mimi Holland
College begins, and this former Whiskeytown girl stays on the road, and that’s pretty good news for fans of both country-pop and spoken word. There’s simply no live act that better captures the simple charm of a witty Southern gal—except maybe Rufus Wainwright. And the band plays up the jangle-pop subtext that makes I’m Staying Out such an impressive recovery from Cary’s lousy debut album. (Cary only, Friday, September 12, at Laser’s Edge CDs, 5:30 p.m. Free admission; Cary and Holland, Friday, September 12, at WorkPlay, 9 p.m. $15.) —J.R.T.

Blue Rodeo
Remember how stupid those Brits looked battling it out between Oasis and Blur? Canadians were reduced to taking sides between Blue Rodeo and The Tragically Hip—two interesting, brooding bands that each took their time compiling an album’s worth of decent live material. Blue Rodeo gets some bonus points for being a lot more Canadian, though, slowly compiling an epic farmland rock opera. In the process, they managed a few masterpieces and a lot of pleasant minor tunes. They’re still a big deal back home, but it’s always enjoyable to see Blue Rodeo working small clubs and pulling out greatest hits for an audience that’s never heard of them. (Friday, September 12, at The Nick.) —J.R.T.

Leon Redbone
It’s funny how quickly Leon Redbone has been forgotten in the midst of the continual O’ Brother mania, despite his having a long-standing set list that could’ve passed for a rough version of the film’s soundtrack. He’s certainly contributed to his own low profile, too. A night at the local public library seems like a step up from touring kiddie shows, but at least it’s one less tax dollar being spent on a professional storyteller. And though his Panama Jack routine was thoroughly tired by the ’80s, he’s spent his old age priming himself as a blues guitar god capable of replicating lost artists. Redbone’s death will be like losing Tiny Tim, taking a good section of the Great American Songbook with him. (Friday and Saturday, September 12 and 13, at the Hoover Public Library, 8 p.m. $15.) —J.R.T. &