Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Basic Instinct
If you know rock and roll, you ought to know the name Bo Diddley. If you don’t know who that is, then it’s time to turn off the teenybopper MTV and get into some of that real stuff.
I got to catch him at House of Blues, a restaurant cum performance establishment that rips off the “blues” moniker in the name of profit. The place itself reeked of pretentious attempts to be bluesy, but came of as being more cheesy than anything else. It didn’t help that the ticket prices were ridiculous, about as much as a whole day of entry to a blues festival. But well, there aren’t many blues and rock and roll greats from the old days left, so I didn't have much choice.
The band that opened for him made matters even worse. They claimed to be a blues band and even had an upright bass, but listening to them for a whole hour was, to put it nicely, very tiring. The 3 of them were technically proficient musicians, but should have been in 3 different bands. Pain-inducing volumes, atrocious sound mixing and over-the-top playing from 3 people who weren’t listening to each other made it totally unbearable for me, but somehow everyone else was enjoying it.
The guitarist cum vocalist played loud and fast, making a great show of himself and forcing his amp to feedback at every opportunity, intent on pummelling listeners into submission. The drummer, lost in his own Dream Theater world (I don't have any bones with them, but this is the wrong place for that kind of stuff), crashed on every cymbal he had as though he were being paid by the crash and double-pedalled the kick drum as though it would have chewed off his legs otherwise. The bassist plodded along with cliched bass lines which didn't do justice to the upright bass, and was just simply out of place. There were moments when they started off some songs promisingly, but eventually spiralled downwards into aural chaos once the first verse was over. They ended every song as though it were the last song of a stadium rock concert, which would have been great if it WERE a stadium rock concert, but doing all that under the guise of a blues band is preposterous. I barely made it through the whole hour, all the while entertaining serious thoughts about throwing down my ticket and walking out in disgust. That would have gone against the flow of the general audience sentiment, but I know what I like and what I hate.
The best bands leave you feeling energized and ready to go, but these guys managed to do the exact opposite. I was only sitting on a stool for one hour, but I felt as though I’d been doing an intensive gym workout (something I haven’t done in a very long time). However, my desire to catch Bo Diddley was stronger than that. Each power chord and boom of the kick drum threatened to drain my energy down to the last drop, but I found it in me to hang on with that glimmer of hope, like hanging off a cliff with my pinky, that somehow, something would redeem that evenings’ suffering.
After a 15-20 minute reprieve, Bo Diddley took to the stage. An elderly gentleman, his broad frame was barely held up by his awkward gait as he lumbered towards his chair in centrestage. He was simply but neatly dressed in a short sleeved shirt, complete with the fedora hat has a popular association with the blues, thanks to the Blues Brothers. A guitar tech handed him his trademark rectangular Gretsch guitar, a sure sign that Bo Diddley was in town and ready for action.
His first few songs went by rather ambivalently, not entirely satisfying but still listenable. His fingers may have become rusty with age, but his voice had a certain gravitas to it. Echoes of Muddy Waters rang out in his gravelly baritone, though it was lost in the passable but lacklustre band arrangements. The grit was missing, like a bowl of tom yam soup short on chilli.
After about 4 songs, Bo Diddley stopped to fiddle with his amp a bit. His unsteady hands strummed a few chords here and there, as though he were trying to start a song but fumbling through it and looking quite confused. He consulted his bassist, conferring about some unknown issues and for a while, he left the audience wondering what was going on, though they remained encouraging. After a brief exchange with the soundman, he started strumming again to check out his sound, and paused briefly.
The chords started flowing again, a slow but constant trickle gathering momentum at dangerous speed. Without warning, like a sudden gush from a broken pipe, those previously unsteady hands started hammering out his trademark beat, an incessant, hypnotic pounding like a shaman administering his cure for the musical ills. The primordial stew of rock and roll came to a boil, bubbling furiously as Bo Diddley kept stirring it up. He shook off the shackles of age and dug deep into the beat that made him famous. Soon, the driving rhythm became an unstoppable freight train chugging away at full speed. This was the moment I had been waiting for.
Everything else just fell into place. The rest of the band picked up on his lead and fell into the groove that he laid down. He may have been all of 76 years old and seated in a chair, but his energy was infectious, and he showed just why he was a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-er. He may not have been very different from the earlier band to most of those in the audience, but for me it was a different dimension altogether.
After that was done, he started to preach the word of rock and roll, and took his time to remind everyone about where it came from. Hallowed names like Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Chuck Berry and Jimmy Reed were all given due mention. He then went into more personal subject matter, capturing attention with a familiar refrain.
“Listen up now, this is some serious shit here”.
Though he was light-hearted and humourous about it, the message was clear. He detailed his struggle with back problems and losing 2 toes to diabetes, earning himself much applause for his strength and conviction to carry on playing. Though his guitar playing showed signs of age, his voice and spirit were still going very strong, and didn’t look like they were going to quit anytime soon. His songs may have been symbols of teenage rebellion a while back, but now he was living out his own rebellion, defying the onset of age to keep on rocking.
He carried on with a few more numbers, even shuffling over to the drumset at one point and doing a duet on a floor tom with the drummer, playing what I’d describe as a “jungle beat” and raising a helluva racket on the last song. Thunderous applause rang out as he departed the stage, waving his hand as he took his leave, a true member of Rock and Roll Royalty.
Never before in my life did I ever get to experience both extremities of the musical spectrum in one night. It was a classic showdown of over-indulgent extravagance vs deep unadulterated groove.
There was one clear winner in my book.
I got to catch him at House of Blues, a restaurant cum performance establishment that rips off the “blues” moniker in the name of profit. The place itself reeked of pretentious attempts to be bluesy, but came of as being more cheesy than anything else. It didn’t help that the ticket prices were ridiculous, about as much as a whole day of entry to a blues festival. But well, there aren’t many blues and rock and roll greats from the old days left, so I didn't have much choice.
The band that opened for him made matters even worse. They claimed to be a blues band and even had an upright bass, but listening to them for a whole hour was, to put it nicely, very tiring. The 3 of them were technically proficient musicians, but should have been in 3 different bands. Pain-inducing volumes, atrocious sound mixing and over-the-top playing from 3 people who weren’t listening to each other made it totally unbearable for me, but somehow everyone else was enjoying it.
The guitarist cum vocalist played loud and fast, making a great show of himself and forcing his amp to feedback at every opportunity, intent on pummelling listeners into submission. The drummer, lost in his own Dream Theater world (I don't have any bones with them, but this is the wrong place for that kind of stuff), crashed on every cymbal he had as though he were being paid by the crash and double-pedalled the kick drum as though it would have chewed off his legs otherwise. The bassist plodded along with cliched bass lines which didn't do justice to the upright bass, and was just simply out of place. There were moments when they started off some songs promisingly, but eventually spiralled downwards into aural chaos once the first verse was over. They ended every song as though it were the last song of a stadium rock concert, which would have been great if it WERE a stadium rock concert, but doing all that under the guise of a blues band is preposterous. I barely made it through the whole hour, all the while entertaining serious thoughts about throwing down my ticket and walking out in disgust. That would have gone against the flow of the general audience sentiment, but I know what I like and what I hate.
The best bands leave you feeling energized and ready to go, but these guys managed to do the exact opposite. I was only sitting on a stool for one hour, but I felt as though I’d been doing an intensive gym workout (something I haven’t done in a very long time). However, my desire to catch Bo Diddley was stronger than that. Each power chord and boom of the kick drum threatened to drain my energy down to the last drop, but I found it in me to hang on with that glimmer of hope, like hanging off a cliff with my pinky, that somehow, something would redeem that evenings’ suffering.
After a 15-20 minute reprieve, Bo Diddley took to the stage. An elderly gentleman, his broad frame was barely held up by his awkward gait as he lumbered towards his chair in centrestage. He was simply but neatly dressed in a short sleeved shirt, complete with the fedora hat has a popular association with the blues, thanks to the Blues Brothers. A guitar tech handed him his trademark rectangular Gretsch guitar, a sure sign that Bo Diddley was in town and ready for action.
His first few songs went by rather ambivalently, not entirely satisfying but still listenable. His fingers may have become rusty with age, but his voice had a certain gravitas to it. Echoes of Muddy Waters rang out in his gravelly baritone, though it was lost in the passable but lacklustre band arrangements. The grit was missing, like a bowl of tom yam soup short on chilli.
After about 4 songs, Bo Diddley stopped to fiddle with his amp a bit. His unsteady hands strummed a few chords here and there, as though he were trying to start a song but fumbling through it and looking quite confused. He consulted his bassist, conferring about some unknown issues and for a while, he left the audience wondering what was going on, though they remained encouraging. After a brief exchange with the soundman, he started strumming again to check out his sound, and paused briefly.
The chords started flowing again, a slow but constant trickle gathering momentum at dangerous speed. Without warning, like a sudden gush from a broken pipe, those previously unsteady hands started hammering out his trademark beat, an incessant, hypnotic pounding like a shaman administering his cure for the musical ills. The primordial stew of rock and roll came to a boil, bubbling furiously as Bo Diddley kept stirring it up. He shook off the shackles of age and dug deep into the beat that made him famous. Soon, the driving rhythm became an unstoppable freight train chugging away at full speed. This was the moment I had been waiting for.
Everything else just fell into place. The rest of the band picked up on his lead and fell into the groove that he laid down. He may have been all of 76 years old and seated in a chair, but his energy was infectious, and he showed just why he was a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-er. He may not have been very different from the earlier band to most of those in the audience, but for me it was a different dimension altogether.
After that was done, he started to preach the word of rock and roll, and took his time to remind everyone about where it came from. Hallowed names like Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Chuck Berry and Jimmy Reed were all given due mention. He then went into more personal subject matter, capturing attention with a familiar refrain.
“Listen up now, this is some serious shit here”.
Though he was light-hearted and humourous about it, the message was clear. He detailed his struggle with back problems and losing 2 toes to diabetes, earning himself much applause for his strength and conviction to carry on playing. Though his guitar playing showed signs of age, his voice and spirit were still going very strong, and didn’t look like they were going to quit anytime soon. His songs may have been symbols of teenage rebellion a while back, but now he was living out his own rebellion, defying the onset of age to keep on rocking.
He carried on with a few more numbers, even shuffling over to the drumset at one point and doing a duet on a floor tom with the drummer, playing what I’d describe as a “jungle beat” and raising a helluva racket on the last song. Thunderous applause rang out as he departed the stage, waving his hand as he took his leave, a true member of Rock and Roll Royalty.
Never before in my life did I ever get to experience both extremities of the musical spectrum in one night. It was a classic showdown of over-indulgent extravagance vs deep unadulterated groove.
There was one clear winner in my book.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 11:02 am 
