Music: Gordon Lightfoot at B.B. King's

Text and photos by George Molé

Canadian singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot appeared at the B.B. King Blues Club on 42nd Street on Wednesday, July 24, and bonded with an enthusiastic audience of more fans than I ever imagined he would have in New York.

Looking a bit gaunt--the singer suffered from several serious medical issues over the last decade or so, including a stroke--and backed by an excellent four-piece band, Lightfoot, 74, gave the packed house two hours of his trademark melodic folk-rock, including several of his most well-known songs.

 

Lightfoot's distinctive voice, if not quite as robust as on the recorded versions of his work we've all heard for years, nonetheless more than carried his finely-written tunes.  "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," "Sundown," "Carefree Highway" and, of course, "If You Could Read My Mind," were interspersed with less familiar and, at least to this listener, less interesting folk numbers.

The haunting "Edmund Fitzgerald," in particular, raised goose bumps, as Lightfoot sang:
 
"Does anyone know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind her."

"Gordon, yaw the man!" someone in the audience called out at one point, in a perfect Brooklyn accent.  "That sounds good from a New Yorker," Lightfoot joked.

"I don't like to mess around too much onstage with the guitars," Lightfoot mused absently, while tuning one of his instruments.  But he seemed to enjoy letting the audience in on a few technical points of the musician's craft.  "I'm using a capo now," he told us at one point.  "See, I brought it down a tone."

Speaking of craft, I hadn't realized before what a gem of songwriting craft is his biggest hit, "If You Could Read My Mind."  But I saw it on this night, through his understated but deeply-felt performance.

"If I could read your mind, love
What a tale your thoughts could tell
Just like a paperback novel
The kind that drugstores sell.

"When you reach the part where the heartaches come
The hero would be me
But heroes often fail
And you won't read that book again
Because the ending's just too hard to take."

It's writing like this that resulted in Lightfoot's songs being recorded by artists like Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Johnny Mathis, Barbra Streisand and many others.  “I can't think of any Gordon Lightfoot song I don't like," Dylan once said.  "Every time I hear a song of his, it's like I wish it would last forever."

It was a pleasure to see that Lightfoot, as ingrained a part of our culture as decades of radio play could make him, and whose career spans more than half a century, is still going strong, and still receives copious respect and affection--even from New Yorkers, who may not seem like the most natural audience for his music.  As we waited after the show for him to come out from backstage and chat--which he did, most graciously--one guy told me, "I've seen him live about 15 times."

I'm not sure yet if I'd want to see him 15 times.  But I sure would like to see him again if he comes back to New York for another gig.

Music: Swingin' with Daddy G. and Gary U.S. Bonds at the B.B. King Blues Club

Text and photos by George Molé

On Wednesday night, June 5, I made what turned out to be a happy last-minute decision, and went after work to see the classic R&B singer Gary U.S. Bonds at B.B. King's, the great music club on 42nd Street.

Bonds is best known for his 1961 hit "Quarter to Three"...


Gary U.S. Bonds

...which, I hadn't realized previously, is sort of a paean to the saxophonist Gene "Daddy G." Barge, and Daddy G.'s band, the Church Street Five. And it is Daddy G. who does the unforgettable sax work on that song. Check out the lyrics:

"Don't you know that I danced, I danced till a quarter to three
With the help, last night, of Daddy G.
He was swingin' on the sax like a nobody could
And I was dancin' all over the room.

"Oh, don't you know the people were dancin' like they were mad,
It was the swingin'est band they had ever had.
It was the swingin'est song that could ever be,
It was a night with Daddy G.

"Let me tell you now,
I never had it so good
Yeah and I know you never could
Until you get hip with that jive
And take a band like the Church Street Five.

"Oh don't you know that I danced,
I danced till a quarter to three
With the help last night of Daddy G.
Everybody was as happy as they could be
And they were swingin' with Daddy G.
Blow Daddy!..."

Well, Daddy G., now 86 years old, still works with Bonds, and was there at this show. And, wow, he still makes that saxophone walk and talk.

Bonds (l.) with Gene "Daddy G." Barge

At one point Bonds left the stage and Daddy G., joined only by a bassist and, later, a guitarist, sang and played a long meditation called "Way Back Home," that could only be compared to some of Van Morrison's deepest work for otherworldly beauty.


Daddy G.

The entire show was otherworldly, Bonds at the top of his game and joined by a few noteworthy friends.  At one point Southside Johnny (apparently without any Jukes) dueted with Bonds.


Bonds (l.) with Southside Johnny

Later, Chubby Checker came out and did "The Twist."
 

Left to right: Chubby Checker, singer Dee Dee Sharp and Bonds

I hadn't realized that this song was anything but pop fluff, but Checker is a deceptively serious and powerful performer in person, and "The Twist" ran through the small room like a locomotive.


Chubby Checker

A great show overall. And afterwards, I hung around and got to chat with both Bonds and--even cooler in a way, he being Bonds' muse--Daddy G. himself.


Your correspondent with Daddy G.



Music: Gil Scott-Heron, RIP

Introduction:  I'm mourning the loss of Gil Scott-Heron, the influential singer and writer, who passed away yesterday at 62.  I saw him perform in late November of last year, and was blown away by his humor and the power of his words and music.  This account of that memorable show appeared on this blog a few days afterward; I'm reposting it today as a tribute to a troubled man and compelling artist.  Sadly, the miracle I hoped for in the last paragraph was not to be.

Gil Scott-Heron at B.B. King Blues Club--

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

On Tuesday I told a friend of mine, another cop, that I was going to a concert that night.  Who was I going to see?  I thought for a moment how to explain an artist whose name I wasn't sure he would recognize, and on whom I'm no expert myself.

"His name is Gil Scott-Heron," I said.  "He's kind of an old-time soul singer, who also did some sort of rap."

He pondered briefly, then remembered.  "Oh, 'The Revolution Will Not be Televised'" he said triumphantly.  "Bet you didn't expect me to know that."

Perhaps due to that very song--his most well-known, which has been featured in commercials--more people have indeed heard of Gil Scott-Heron than one might expect.  But few actually know much about him--partly because his work is so hard to categorize, and partly because his checkered personal life has kept him from the level of fame his talent might otherwise have earned.

I remember Howard Stern years ago doing a hilarious dissection of Scott-Heron's "Whitey on the Moon."  "Are we supposed to take the NASA budget and pay his sister's rent?" Stern asked rhetorically.

And I'd see Scott-Heron mentioned periodically in the papers, often because he had been arrested in upper Manhattan, the police having come across him in a crack house or observed him buying drugs.

But I knew little about his work--which was seldom presented on radio or television--other than that it sometimes involved spoken-word pieces set to music.  Still, that alone was intriguing; to see how powerful such a recipe can be, check out this clip of Jack Kerouac reading from On the Road over Steve Allen's jazz piano (the best part starts at the three-minute mark).

A fine New Yorker profile in August gave a saddening overview of Scott-Heron's life and art, the art having all but dried up as crack addiction took control of the life.  His current scene, as I recall the piece, is a squalid one of relative isolation, financial woes, poor health and long disappearances that end with him being tracked down by friends in SRO hotels, sleeping off a high.

Yet he had gotten himself together enough this year to put out a new album, I'm New Here, and to schedule some appearances.  I got tickets to his planned October concert at B.B. King's, the great club on 42nd Street, only to learn upon arriving that it had been postponed "due to artist illness."  Enough said.  The gig was rescheduled for Tuesday, November 30, and I again bought tickets, wondering if he'd show up for that one.

Did he ever.

When Scott-Heron took the stage--at only 61 a gaunt, ravaged, white-haired scarecrow of a man--everything you ever needed to know about the results of drug addiction was on display.  His gaze was unfocused; he seemed weak and unsteady on his feet.  And his mouth worked continually, as if he were chewing on something; when he began to speak, his words were muffled and unclear.  "I think his false teeth don't fit right," my date whispered sadly.

It was easy to see why several announcements had been made to the audience, prior to his coming out, that photography during the show would not be tolerated--to photograph him as he was would have been too great a violation of his dignity.  The next time I hear a liberal whinging about the unjust severity of the Rockefeller drug laws, I will picture this talented man on that stage, brought to ruin by drug dealers' poison.

And yet...

Whatever makes Gil Scott-Heron himself is apparently still there, despite all damage to his body and spirit, if this brilliant performance was any gauge.

He opened with a long monologue that combined Borscht Belt humor with wry observations that were sometimes political, his voice becoming clearer and stronger as he went on.

An example of the former:  "A Jewish lady is waiting at the airport for her daughter to get off the plane with her new husband, who the lady has never met.  She sees the daughter walking toward her with an 8-foot-tall brother.  The lady yells, 'I said a rich doctor.'"  (Get it?  She wanted her daughter to marry a rich doctor, not a witch doctor, but perhaps the daughter misheard her...well, if you have to explain it...)

An example of the latter, riffing on U.S. foreign policy: "I just got back from Europe."  Pause.  "The Europeans are worried about you."  Pause.  "See, they in-between us and whoever we gonna be f---in' with."

Yes, Scott-Heron's worldview, from what I know of his writing and what he said at this show, is some amalgam of Black militancy and plain old leftism.  And yes, I think about as highly of that philosophy as any other White cop would.  But in Scott-Heron's hands, leavened with humor and music and wordplay, it becomes powerful, nuanced and worth hearing.

I won't try to provide a setlist, not being familiar with many of the songs, but the music was a rich mixture of blues, R-and-B and jazz.  He played keyboards most of the time or just sang, backed by a small band that included a guitarist, a bassist, a riveting harmonica player, and a female keyboardist/singer.  Especially memorable was a song called "Is That Jazz?," preceded by a monologue purporting to explain how jazz was invented (seems there had been something called "jizm music," which originated in brothels, and something else called "ass music"--and, well, "You know how folks in America always be squeezin' shit together?...").

Then, I guess, Gil Scott-Heron left the B.B. King Blues Club and headed north, back to the streets, back to his crack life.  And we who like his work and admire his gifts, witnesses to a tragedy we're powerless to stop, could do nothing but pray for a miracle that might lead to his liberation, to his recovery, and to many more years of music and poetry.

Music: Gil Scott-Heron at B.B. King Blues Club, 42nd Street, Tuesday night

On Tuesday I told a friend of mine, another cop, that I was going to a concert that night.  Who was I going to see?  I thought for a moment how to explain an artist whose name I wasn't sure he would recognize, and on whom I'm no expert myself.

"His name is Gil Scott-Heron," I said.  "He's kind of an old-time soul singer, who also did some sort of rap."

He pondered briefly, then remembered.  "Oh, 'The Revolution Will Not be Televised'" he said triumphantly.  "Bet you didn't expect me to know that."

Perhaps due to that very song--his most well-known, which has been featured in commercials--more people have indeed heard of Gil Scott-Heron than one might expect.  But few actually know much about him--partly because his work is so hard to categorize, and partly because his checkered personal life has kept him from the level of fame his talent might otherwise have earned.

I remember Howard Stern years ago doing a hilarious dissection of Scott-Heron's "Whitey on the Moon."  "Are we supposed to take the NASA budget and pay his sister's rent?" Stern asked rhetorically.

And I'd see Scott-Heron mentioned periodically in the papers, often because he had been arrested in upper Manhattan, the police having come across him in a crack house or observed him buying drugs.

But I knew little about his work--which was seldom presented on radio or television--other than that it sometimes involved spoken-word pieces set to music.  Still, that alone was intriguing; to see how powerful such a recipe can be, check out this clip of Jack Kerouac reading from On the Road over Steve Allen's jazz piano (the best part starts at the three-minute mark).

A fine New Yorker profile in August gave a saddening overview of Scott-Heron's life and art, the art having all but dried up as crack addiction took control of the life.  His current scene, as I recall the piece, is a squalid one of relative isolation, financial woes, poor health and long disappearances that end with him being tracked down by friends in SRO hotels, sleeping off a high.

Yet he had gotten himself together enough this year to put out a new album, I'm New Here, and to schedule some appearances.  I got tickets to his planned October concert at B.B. King's, the great club on 42nd Street, only to learn upon arriving that it had been postponed "due to artist illness."  Enough said.  The gig was rescheduled for Tuesday, November 30, and I again bought tickets, wondering if he'd show up for that one.

Did he ever.

When Scott-Heron took the stage--at only 61 a gaunt, ravaged, white-haired scarecrow of a man--everything you ever needed to know about the results of drug addiction was on display.  His gaze was unfocused; he seemed weak and unsteady on his feet.  And his mouth worked continually, as if he were chewing on something; when he began to speak, his words were muffled and unclear.  "I think his false teeth don't fit right," my date whispered sadly.

It was easy to see why several announcements had been made to the audience, prior to his coming out, that photography during the show would not be tolerated--to photograph him as he was would have been too great a violation of his dignity.  The next time I hear a liberal whinging about the unjust severity of the Rockefeller drug laws, I will picture this talented man on that stage, brought to ruin by drug dealers' poison.

And yet...

Whatever makes Gil Scott-Heron himself is apparently still there, despite all damage to his body and spirit, if this brilliant performance was any gauge.

He opened with a long monologue that combined Borscht Belt humor with wry observations that were sometimes political, his voice becoming clearer and stronger as he went on.

An example of the former:  "A Jewish lady is waiting at the airport for her daughter to get off the plane with her new husband, who the lady has never met.  She sees the daughter walking toward her with an 8-foot-tall brother.  The lady yells, 'I said a rich doctor.'"  (Get it?  She wanted her daughter to marry a rich doctor, not a witch doctor, but perhaps the daughter misheard her...well, if you have to explain it...)

An example of the latter, riffing on U.S. foreign policy: "I just got back from Europe."  Pause.  "The Europeans are worried about you."  Pause.  "See, they in-between us and whoever we gonna be f---in' with."

Yes, Scott-Heron's worldview, from what I know of his writing and what he said at this show, is some amalgam of Black militancy and plain old leftism.  And yes, I think about as highly of that philosophy as any other White cop would.  But in Scott-Heron's hands, leavened with humor and music and wordplay, it becomes powerful, nuanced and worth hearing.

I won't try to provide a setlist, not being familiar with many of the songs, but the music was a rich mixture of blues, R-and-B and jazz.  He played keyboards most of the time or just sang, backed by a small band that included a guitarist, a bassist, a riveting harmonica player, and a female keyboardist/singer.  Especially memorable was a song called "Is That Jazz?," preceded by a monologue purporting to explain how jazz was invented (seems there had been something called "jizm music," which originated in brothels, and something else called "ass music"--and, well, "You know how folks in America always be squeezin' shit together?...").

Then, I guess, Gil Scott-Heron left the B.B. King Blues Club and headed north, back to the streets, back to his crack life.  And we who like his work and admire his gifts, witnesses to a tragedy we're powerless to stop, could do nothing but pray for a miracle that might lead to his liberation, to his recovery, and to many more years of music and poetry.