An Interview with Angela Moyra

'Sometimes I’m more open with my music than I am in my personal life,' says the singer/songwriter, underscoring the candor that informs her debut LP, 'Fickle Island.'

Interview: Meiko Experiments, Gets Personal on New LP, 'Dear You'

Meiko discusses her new album, its minimalist, mood-driven electronica and the most personal lyrics of her career to date.

Review: Justin Hayward - 'Spirits...Live'

The Moody Blues legend scales it down for a rare solo tour, mixing burgeoning inspirations with old magic.

DVD Review: Queen - Live at the Rainbow '74

This performance captures Queen’s emergence into immortality as a band with muscle and snarl to spare.

An Interview with Randy Owen of Alabama

The band's lead vocalist and songwriter of some of its greatest hits discusses the music that has made Alabama legends.

June 26, 2012

Listen Up, It's Buddy Guy

“It’s kind of scary,” says Buddy Guy, his voice quivering with ominous unease. “Blues music is like an endangered species almost.

“The few of us that’s still left,” he adds, “they don’t play our music for some reason much anymore, hardly any.”

Guy, 75, knows of which he speaks. In a narrative steeped with down-home candor reflective of his Louisiana roots, his new autobiography, When I Left Home: My Story, co-written with David Ritz, underscores how amongst the most mythic figures of the Chicago blues he forged his artistry to become one himself—and ultimately one of the last of a dying breed.

He paid his dues as a sideman and session guitarist at various labels, most notably signing in 1959 to Chess Records, home to many of the musicians whose raw and potent sound had provided him a formative influence.

“When I was coming up,” Guy says, “I heard it, and that’s what drew me to play it.”

For nearly a decade he contributed to sides by the likes of Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and Junior Wells, the latter with whom he’d forge a longstanding musical partnership.

Guy earned his legend, however, as a wild man on the live stage—or on top of bars, tables, chairs, even out on the sidewalk—of whatever nightclub or juke joint that would have him. A whirlwind of skill and flamboyance on the axe, he exhilarated audiences and, in time, an equally passionate retinue of guitarists—Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, Jimi Hendrix, and Keith Richards, to name but a few—took notice.

“Jeff Beck and Eric Clapton said they didn’t even know a Strat could be played blues on until they saw me,” Guy notes in a rare but justified moment of immodesty.

While his showmanship proved as influential as it was awe-inspiring, it had always rubbed label president Leonard Chess the wrong way—consequently Guy never really eclipsed his supporting-role status as a recording artist at Chess—but the emergent popularity of blues rockers from Cream to the Jimi Hendrix Experience in the latter half of the ‘60s turned him around.

“Chess sent Willie Dixon to my house,” Guy remembers of being summoned to what turned out to be his boss' about-face. “I had never been in the office.”

Upon his arrival, Guy recalls, “He bent over and said, ‘I want you to kick me.’

“I said, ‘For what?’

“He said, ‘You’ve been trying to give us this fucking shit all your life and we’ve been holding you back. This shit is hot.’”

Guy ended up leaving the label in 1968 in search of more-promising opportunities, but despite his efforts he struggled to find his musical footing for years thereafter.

“My children didn’t know who I was until they turned 21 and walked in the blues club and said, ‘Dad, I didn’t know you could play like that,’” Guy says.

It wasn't until the late '80s, in fact, with such albums as Sweet Tea and Damn Right, I’ve Got The Blues that he began to reap the recognition he had so long deserved. Depending on your perspective, his music was played on the radio because it sold—or his music sold because it was played on the radio.

Regardless, Guy insists, “You never know what’s gonna be ear-catching or finger-popping until it go out there.”

There is seemingly no reward without risk for Guy, and even at this current phase of his career he relishes the chance to defy convention and exceed expectation.

He also refuses to grow complacent. “If I thought I knew enough on my guitar I’d be going out the world backwards,” he says. “You never get too old to learn.”

It’s a philosophy that keeps him hungry and encouraged—and leaves his disciples more and more amazed.

“I think he’s still evolving,” says George Thorogood, who has shared stages and traded licks with Guy over the years. “Every time I hear him he’s more supernatural than the last time I heard him.”

Guy is a six-time GRAMMY® winner, his most recent win coming in 2010 for Living Proof in the category of Best Contemporary Blues Album. He’s been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the Blues Hall of Fame. And he is a recipient of the National Medal of Arts, the honor perhaps most indicative of his significance.

All told he is a master at his craft, but he characteristically downplays such accolades and acclaim. “Stuff you read about ‘Buddy Guy’s a legend’ and all that,” he says, “man, that’s something they give you.”

The proof is in the pudding, so to speak. Or, as Guy sums it up, “I’ve got a restaurant in Chicago. I may sit here and tell you how good my gumbo is because I’m from Louisiana, but you still ain’t gonna know ‘til you taste it. That’s the way the music is.”



When I Left Home: My Story by Buddy Guy with David Ritz is published by Da Capo Press.





June 8, 2012

Vonda Shepard is Superb on 'Solo' LP

Fans of television’s Ally McBeal will remember Vonda Shepard as the vivacious blonde songstress in the piano bar, usually playing some timeless tearjerker (“I Only Want to Be With You,” “Vincent”) or a suitably poignant original (“Maryland,” “Baby, Don’t You Break My Heart Slow”) on occasion. Her smoky, soulful voice instilled in the hit show’s often-quirky storylines an empathetic perspective while essentially functioning as the musical conscience of Calista Flockhart’s romantically hopeful yet impressionable title character.

Shepard had achieved some prior success—in 1987 she reached the Top 10 with “Can’t We Try,” a duet with Canadian singer/songwriter Dan Hill—but the visibility afforded her week after week thanks to Ally was incalculable. And, in return, she flat-out made a great show even better.

Shepard likewise shines on Solo, which finds her (and her alone, hence the title) reprising some of her most familiar and compelling performances. A sprawling rendition of the Duprees classic “You Belong to Me” is an instant highlight. However, it’s on her own material—particularly “I Know Better” and “Soothe Me,” both achingly sensuous and intoxicating moments—where Shepard’s vocal depth and range are best revealed and ultimately most affecting.

Altogether, Solo is superb.

(First published at Blogcritics.)

Australian Pop Duo Big Scary Falling for America

Australian duo Big Scary bring a bit of New Wave minimalism to Post-Modern pop with "Falling Away," the lead single to their upcoming debut LP, Vacation, which is set for a U.S. release on September 18. Lead vocalist/guitarist/keyboardist Tom Iansek and drummer/backing vocalist Joanna Syme construct a piano-versus-drums dichotomy throughout the songthink Night and Day-era Joe Jacksonalternating between a biting, insistent rhythm and strikingly lush, melodic passages. 

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June 7, 2012

Remembering The Last Time: Michael Jackson's This Is It

In the genre of concert films, This Is It is an anomaly. Most others document a particular live performance or composite performances from a tour.

Michael Jackson doesn’t sing or dance or do anything in this film in front of a live audience.

Yet to watch him rehearse for what was to have been a scheduled 50-night residency at London’s O2 Arena is to appreciate—however vicariously—every detail and note of what could have been an extraordinary concert experience.

As someone who’d long prided himself not just on delivering an enjoyable performance but in creating an elaborate, exhilarating spectacle, Jackson understood that this production—his first such performances in over a decade—would have to be epic. He knew his singular reputation as a live performer was on the line. Yet the music legend comes across as if what he’s doing—choreographing steps for his backup dancers, directing (and correcting when necessary) his band through each song on the setlist, fine-tuning every conceivable visual and lighting cue—is all but routine. He’s the coolest cat in the room.

Time and again he’s seen calmly instructing his band or choreographing steps to a particular song only in the next moment to become so enlivened by his own music that he begins dancing and jumping around like he’s stomping out an inferno beneath his feet.

In fact much of what makes This is It so compelling is how unforced, unaffected, and in the moment Jackson appears throughout, whether he’s singing a gorgeous refrain to “Human Nature” or giving in to a spontaneous, full-on workout of “Billie Jean” to the jaw-dropping astonishment of his star-struck dance troupe. The man worked harder than most to make what he did on the stage look seamless if not effortless, and certainly he possessed the talent to pull it off when it mattered. What’s evident here, though, is that he could deliver even when it didn’t.

Of course no one will ever be able to say whether the O2 engagement would have lived up to the hype that had surrounded it before Jackson's tragic death. However, if all you knew about his final days was the footage of him in this film, you’d have to believe it would’ve been an incredible comeback.

(First published at Something Else! Reviews.)