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West Regional Report
Edited by Sarah Bruner - sarah@syrup.orgIn This Issue
Zero, Live at the Maritime Hall Eagle Creek Forest Defenders Benefit The Derek Trucks Band Review of the June 1999 Phil and Friends Shows
Zero, Live at the Maritime Hall
April 10, 1999Set One: Forever Is Nowhere * La Fiesta > Catalina * Eight Below Zero * On Your Way Down* * Baby, Baby
Set Two: Nefertiti > Cole's Law * Gregg's Eggs > Papa Was a Rolling Stone > Gregg's Eggs reprise * Anorexia * My My, Hey Hey (Out of the Blue) * Can't Keep a Good Man Down * Golden Road.
Encore: Whiter Shade of Pale * Use Me Up.
* with Lauren Miller, vocals.
** with Boots Hughston, alto saxTonight's show got off to a great start with the Zero Appreciation Dinner, held downstairs in the cafe at the Maritime. A couple of hundred people were there, it looked like, and it was nice to see this flesh-and-blood embodiment of the vibe upstairs on the dance floor, and on the net. It also reminded us of the many facets of the Zero family, emphasizing the sense that this was a cool little group of enthusiasts, though we only coalesced into a community while the music played, only when it went into Zero space and took us along with it. Not an audience in the way that Deadhead enthusiasm seemed to automatically connote, or could. Among that scene there had been this irrepressible sense that Deadheads were right, that we could absorb anyone, once they became interested in the music. If an initiate grocked that, then they'd usually see the light, and by next summer they would have long hair, 300 concert tapes and get you stoned on some excellent weed.
Zero fans didn't seem to want to share. They wanted their music respected, but it didn't need to play bigger halls. The Maritime, the Fillmore-that would do fine, thanks. And the smaller the better-Great American, even the Elbo Room. It was part of a sense of competitiveness I found around the scene that was difficult to explain, or understand. A sort of possessiveness that didn't make a whole lot of sense. The more good listeners, the better the shows; but crowd mathematics don't really seem to work that way until you hit the top of your game. I saw crowds at Jerry Garcia Band shows drop to whisper quiet routinely; there was something about the devotees he attracted-or could attract. (I also saw JGB shows where the noise from drunken scenesters was so bad it almost ruined the quiet parts.) But when a band is building an audience, I guess there's a formula that means you attract one serious fan, one devoted music fiend, for every two scenesters, folks who think this is a cool way to spend time and like to tap their toes, but basically they don't really get it and when it comes time to economize in the budget after college, live concerts will be head-swimming history, banished long before cable or video rentals.
* * * * * A hard night to keep track of the time, for some reason. A hard night to pin down altogether: the flow returned, the Zero ether that surrounds and permeates a concert and wraps up each set and the whole thing in this glow of community and communion and communication that makes it all resonate, all click together, all sing in the most fantastic multi-part, orchestrally-arranged score that turns songs into movements and stretches notes into symphonies, the Zero universe, laid out like a chart.
Things got off to a pronounced good start with "Forever Is Nowhere," the sweet slow classic instrumental showcased by the recent live CD. From where we were standing, a couple of feet away from the rail, we had a straight view of Chip with the band arrayed on our right. Without Judge (since this was an instrumental) and Martín on stage-a notable absence; what was up?-Chip was marooned, a definite hike to the nearest band member, who was Greg, all the way at the back of the stage, Bobby and Steve something of a boy's club right in front of us. To a remarkable degree, it was easy to read their stage positions and body language as approximations of the tensions and conflicts and alliances between this fractious Bay Area musical family.
A beautiful rendition, though, and it was clear that they were trying hard; we have our Zero back, I thought. Then Martín walked out, precipitating a long round of applause, and even though "La Fiesta" came off well, as nicely, purely played as "Forever," a sneaking sense of disappointment began to creep through me-this was a safe Zero, as if they were almost cowed by their misbehavior last night and were walking on eggshells tonight. Everything was good, even very good; but there was no edge, especially in Kimock's playing. At one point, Bobby seemed to be playing directly to Steve, trying to pull it out of him, dancing deliberately and thwacking the bass, "Come on, we do this, and this and this," slap slap slap, but Steve just smiled and responded pleasantly; something was missing, still hadn't clicked yet. The music was fine, but there was nothing inspired about the filled-in spaces that make Zero songs into these unbelievably rich, vibrant, dense tapestries.
"Catalina" can sound cloying or hackneyed if they just put it through its paces, or maybe I've just gotten to know it too well, and here it unfolded with what was becoming this set's characteristic, I began to think: safety, if all the authority of certainty and confidence. The solos sounded better, though, and Judge was really sounding good; and then someone triggered that final jam. "Steve's tribute to Chip," I wrote, and it did seem like such a deliberate statement, Steve walking to the front edge of the stage, facing Chip completely, Bobby pounding away at the side, band roaring like an avalanche, and at one point I looked up in sheer disbelief, almost unable to process the sheer delirious intensity of it all, and Chip had this huge, boyish, ear-to-ear grin on his face, and he gave a couple of long, old-fashioned Southern yells. A perfect moment, and it made me think of an anecdote about some of the musicians who slaved away for Toscanini, tolerating his authoritarianism, his egotism, his abuses and tyrannies and even cruelties-because to play for such a genius, to make that kind of music, was the pay-off; that was why they were in an orchestra; that was the grail. And I could see what this band meant to Chip, in that expression of pure unalloyed delight: his was never really the frontman position; he was a keyboardist, he liked that role. And providing support, building a context for this kind of virtuosity-complementing such craftsmanship, being a part of it, helping to shape this quicksilver-that was his goal. Steve was his Toscanini.
They just didn't always agree. The theme of tonight, though, was Steve gracefully doing almost all of what Chip asked; that was certainly true of "Eight Before Zero," which was next. Chip played and sang beautifully, and Steve was the graceful, tasteful, restrained sideman, deflecting the spotlight to Chip and focusing it there. He really is the perfect accompanist, though at the end, he also made it clear that he was trying, hard: the jam was breathtaking, the interplay impeccable. "They really took that to new places," Xian said afterwards. The return from the jam was remarkable, as if a messy early space shot-with all its agony of brute power straining against an almost immovable gravity-was now returning from space with that edge-of-your-seat careening terror, would they make it, could they? And at the end it was if the capsule had landed in a designated swimming pool. Or bathtub. Quintessential Zero.
"On Your Way Down" didn't spark much commentary, but next was an Aretha Franklin tune, "Baby, Baby," for which Judge's wife joined them, making a nice soulful duet with Judge; it was interesting. She was fine, but it detracted a little from the Zero Revue I had counted on tonight. Steve gave a nice, long, slow sweet intro to it, a pace that lingered for the first half, defined for me by Steve lighting a cigarette and taking a few drags while he was finishing his solo, picking with just his fretting hand. It could have been a gentle reprimand-"Hey guys, this is too easy." But he sent it places in the jam, which grew into such a beast that I thought it was separate song. It also provided one of the other central images for me that night, which was Martín looking at Chip and grinning as Chip grinned back, mashing and wailing on the Hammond, while the jam grew and grew until finally it was just Steve and Chip, an echo of the delirious interplay that characterized their work at that long-ago Fairfax Pavilion show, nearly two years ago, when they converted a gym into a communal ecstatic sauna, the floor a writhing mass of sweaty shadows in the lights and steam. And this was Steve, playing to honor Chip's last show, making Chip look good as Chip gave him a lush cushion to lean against as he pushed higher and higher. Steve is still far ahead of his fans, who can listen to this kind of virtuosity almost endlessly. This time the end was also an extended, well worked-out one, teased until they finally couldn't resist spoofing themselves, building it up to an almost farcical, pomp-rock closure.
Set break, and we were all a little dazed. Lots of thoughts about what we had just experienced, and standing in the bathroom it kind of struck me how the floor at the Maritime was such a primal ooze, dirt and rain and beer mixing with the muck anyone who walks in the men's room tracks back out. And all those dancers, which on most nights has included me, are barefooted or in socks, spinning and twirling. The scene always had its edges, too.
Intermission music was memorable, in long-standing Zero tradition-always challenging, always in keeping with their own spirit; in competition with it, even. This was live Jerry Garcia Band, not all from the CD, I think; some great jams, superb Garcia solos, especially in "Tore Up Over You."
They waited something over half an hour, second set starting at around 12:40 (I think). Still relatively uncrowded, I was surprised to see-I don't think this sold out. Full, but comfortably so; reasonable, and that was a blessing. Vega and Kimock came out early and fiddled for a while, tuning their guitars, Vega with a brightly colored new bass, a Jazzmaster with a faintly Seventies-ish feel to it, like a good artist rendering the style of the art seen on the side of surfer vans. (Okay, that was harsh, but I've never been fond of painted instruments.)
Vega started things with a bass intro to the Miles Davis classic, "Nefertiti." "Perfect," I wrote in my notes, "Kimock on fire; and Chip the perfect accompanist." Just compelling synchronization, everything meshed and propulsive. So much so you wonder if they just wanted to toy with that a little, moving into "Cole's Law," also given an extended, reverent reading which is left far behind as a "Gregg's Eggs" breaks out that is so fast you wonder if it's a tease for the audience, or maybe just a challenge to Boots Hughston, the Maritime Hall's owner, who was sitting in on sax. They dropped the pace after a run-through, and it cranked into a groove almost immediately, Boots gamely struggling along. His solos were fine: worried but passable. It was clear what he lacked when Martín soared, though: Martín's were eloquent-they had a series of ideas, expressions that flowed organically, harmoniously, communicating some grand vision. "You just listened to a story," those solos said, and you heard a moral to the fables, definite and indefinable as it might be, some essence of good. Boots was there, in tune and present, but his ideas were disjointed, a function of attempting to keep up, as opposed to saying something about what was going on. Damn good amateur, though. "Papa Was A Rolling Stone" pushed the groove into rock, a jazzy white-soul anthem that almost transcended the drunk fan yelling beside me, "Judge, grind it out!" This was the text to much emphatic yelling, to the mystification and irritation of many of those around him. He was big, yuppie and drunk; as the show went on, he was also a puzzle: clearly clueless about much if not all of the scene, but completely familiar with what seemed like the songs from the PopMafia eponymous album; was this-gasp-a "rock fan," in the classic sense of the word? Someone who happened to hear the music, bought the CD, and then happened to hear about these shows and materializes, to the befuddlement of those Zerofiends around him? Many tropes here tonight, not necessarily clearly marked.
"Anorexia" was its classic great, funky self, rolling and roaring with Zero's standard competence and affection for the groove. Steve soared and shredded, the density so great that when I looked up to have a little visual grounding and saw a plume of smoke wisping up from the amp, it didn't really surprise me at all; just a confirmation that even the technology couldn't handle this overload, not just my brain, standing, swaying, eyes closed and gaping in amazement at the vistas opening in front of my endlessly down and inward gazing eyes.
Only a cigarette burning, actually, in an ashtray on top of the amp, but a great image for a moment. A great vibe now running strong, time for Chip's torch song, a truly well sung version of Neil Young's "Hey Hey, My My," with its timeless line of, "It's better to burn out / Than to fade away." I wondered how many people thought he was singing for himself, or for this fan and family member who so wanted to come to these shows that Chip postponed his decision to leave the band in order to play for her. It came off well, though Steve only played very quiet fills around what was otherwise a Chip-only production, all his falsetto vocals-which were credible and unforced-and four-string guitar chords.
An appropriate, slow but definite return to energy with "Can't Keep A Good Man Down," another Chip-heavy song, and this came out well, too, Steve once again playing with classic restraint, Chip ending up being the one to egg and urge him on, and Steve played with those entreaties a little, holding off on the signature riff until late in the epic, towering jam he built, as if saying, "You get dessert, but you have to eat all of the your veggies first." Martín was a central presence here, singing "You can't keep a good band down" on the chorus and pointing to us, the audience, a couple of times during the song, making it clear that this was for all of us; can't keep any of us down. Not the band, not the fans; not the spirit that we all somehow felt Martín was saying would survive and rekindle something, sometime, eventually. This was the death of this Zero; the death of whatever spirit animated this last attempt to launch something and keep it alive in the vicissitudes posed by keeping together a group of six artists and creating music on the outskirts of the music industry in the Nineties.
Why they remained there is an enduring mystery, as "Golden Road" showed, abundantly and easily. Why why why-this was as great as any live music I could imagine. "Perfect," I wrote. "The finest band on the planet." And so it seemed then, their endless ease in retelling this narrative, loping through its sections as if navigating both a familiar but challenging Olympic course, just stretching and rolling hard into a game played by athletes in perfect sync and at the peak of their game, psyches collectively tuned to the highest frequency and charging hard, nothing too demanding, nothing illogical, everything unfolding as if they were telepathic.
The applause following showed the best of the audience: all doing well, though it would have been nicer for it to have been deafening. Not quite enough people, and it was now just after 2 a.m. anyway-we were tired, after six hours of demanding entertainment. After a set like that, it was hard not to feel a little sense of let-down at "Whiter Shade of Pale," but it was a grand reading. Judge in great shape, a fine vocal performance, and that was what it remained: no jam, just a restrained reading by a great ballad band. Not what they are, though, which is why they cranked into "Use Me Up," which blew and blasted us through until 2:20 p.m. My final image from the evening was seeing them all raggedly pull together to give group bows, as the applause went on and on. So many bows, Bobby Steve Greg Martín and Judge, and it was nice to be able to acknowledge them all in this classic show-biz way, which their oddly formal, semi-embarrassed bows also conveyed-their thanks to us. And so very sad to see Chip missing. He was already gone. His swan song, and he wasn't even there to take a final bow.
Eagle Creek Forest Defenders Benefit
Extasis in Portland, Oregon - June 10, 1999Featuring:
Casey Neill
Signified Monkey
Ashbury ParkDuring the last few weeks a very troubling phenomenon has confronted me at every turn. Birds are dying... everywhere I go it seems, I see the corpse of another lifeless descendent of the dinosaurs. The visions of death and my attempts to explain this bizarre occurrence have swirled through my mind for days. Vestiges of biblical end-times prophecies come and go, my job as an environmental geologist screams at me when I stare into a pit of gasoline contaminated water, and now even going out to hear a band throws the ills of the planet into my face. To put it simply, the birds are dying because their homes are being destroyed.
Another logging season has brought the return of the saw to the pristine old growth forests of the Eagle Creek Drainage. I am not suggesting the common pigeon inhabiting the I-beams of the Broadway Bridge is commuting from the forest to spend a busy day soiling my company truck, rather, that the dead birds I see downtown, much like we ourselves, are suffering the ill health of the entire planet. Animal life needs food, water, and oxygen to survive. By logging our forests we are depleting two of the three (air and water) at an alarming rate. The third life sustaining ingredient (food) suffers with us as our air and water are destroyed. You may think the logging is inevitable, you may be sitting in a cubicle in a glass tower in downtown Manhattan and not care, or you may think there is nothing one person alone can do to stop it. Those of you familiar with the story of Julia Butterfly know this is not the case. One strong woman, alone, fighting lumber companies equipped with as much heavy equipment as will soon be occupying Kosovo, is making a difference. The good news is Julia is not alone in her fight.
The show which was intended to be the subject of this review was a benefit for forest defenders who are members of the Cascadia Forest Alliance. In conjunction with the Oregon Natural Resources Council, the Oregon Wildlife Federation, the Portland Chapter Sierra Club and KBOO community radio, the Cascadia Forest Alliance is making a sustained effort to stop the logging of a 6,500 acre watershed holding a native forest of western hemlock, douglas fir, noble fir, western red cedar and pacific silver fir. This watershed feeds clean, cold water to the Clackamas River, a drinking water source for over 175,000 people living in Lake Oswego, West Linn, and Oregon City, Oregon. When trees are removed, not only do they stop producing oxygen for us to breathe, they no longer prevent erosion and landslides which foul our drinking water.
The logging of the Eagle Creek watershed is further complicated by incredible irony. The logging company under contract to destroy the forest has no desire to do so... they have closed their lumber mill and would walk away from the forest leaving it intact. If only the US Forest Service would let them out of their contract. You can help the Cascadia Forest Alliance forest defenders in several ways:
1. Write a letter to:
Gary Larsen, Acting Mt Hood Forest Supervisor
16400 Champion Way, Sandy, OR 97055
Demand a buy back of the remaining portion of the Eagle Creek Sales.2. E-mail Senator Ron Wyden.
3. Attend the rally Saturday June 19, 1999 at the Eagle Timber Sales area in the Mt Hood National Forest. Camping is encouraged, and unlike the forest defenders you will not be subject to arrest. For directions to the site call (503) 241-4879.
4. Help to defray the legal costs of forest defenders who have been arrested or will soon be arrested for living in the trees as their protectors with a donation to Cascade Forest Alliance PO Box 4946, Portland OR 97208.
By helping the trees you help yourself to breathe, to stay hydrated, and to eat. Don't you owe it to yourself?
Stepping down from my soap box I will now address the musical portion of the show.
I arrived at Extasis (a previously unkown venue here in Portland) in time to catch the end of a modern dance interpretation of the horrors of arboreal genocide. It was uncomfortably moving. I could feel the pain of the hemlock as it was converted into just another party deck surrounding a pool in Indiana.
The dancers were followed by Casey Neill. An acoustic guitarist and songwriter who typically performs as part of a trio, Casey was more than capable of filling the room with his passionate strumming and soulful voice as he sang tales of life and death in the forest. One particularly poignant song told the tale of a forest firefighter who pleaded with his comrades not to run for the ridge when the flames overtook them. Standing in waist high grass he lit it on fire. The dry grass quickly burned out a safe haven amidst the inferno. He alone survived the flames. Fighting fire with fire.
Next up was the freestyle hip hop stylings of three fifths of the Northeast Portland crew known as Signified Monkey. The trio consisted of the bands bass player, drummer, and DJ. I do not know what instruments (if any) the two missing members of Signified Monkey play, but their absence was indeed noticable. The rythym section although seeming capable of laying down a fat beat, sounded sparse with nothing layered over them. The DJ (who apparently hails all the way from Austin) made only feeble attempts to get busy on his turntables. That said, the freestyle rapping of the bass player was admirable. Improvisation is usually something I think of as an instrumental thing (Phish Vocal Jams notwithstanding) tonight my opinion was changed for the better.
Closing out the night was another stellar set from Portland's BEST JAMBAND Ashbury Park. They filled their hour long set with selections from the newly released CD entitled Down By The River. Tonight the title track was the high point of the show, featuring an extended writhing jam. Once again I was carried aloft by the soaring melodies, high up amongst the trees, flying with the birds. The birds seemed happy and so was I. Most important this night however was the presence of keyboardist Billy Burdett. Billy you see is an active member of the Cascade Forest Alliance. He has done jail time for the trees, he has enormous legal bills and fines for the trees. The love comes across in the music.
If you can't defend the trees yourself, support the Cascade Forest Alliance. Trees are our friends. Stop the arboreal genocide! Ultimately we are just killing ourselves.
The Derek Trucks Band
Wednesday, June 2nd 1999 at Whisky a Go Go
Hollywood, CABy Erik Koral
Strange place for a jam-band to play huh? Well, 20 year old slide guitar prodigy Derek Trucks made the world-famous Whisky on the Sunset Strip one of the many stops of his West Coast tour. In case you don't know, Derek is the nephew of Allman Brother's drummer Butch Trucks and will be filling the shoes of Duane Allman and Warren Haynes this summer with the Allman Brothers Band this summer. Boy, are they in for a huge surprise.
Derek's band is a solid 4-piece group that tend to favor instrumental tunes instead of vocals. Kind of like KVHW, but with a much more Southern edge to them. Great drums, great bass player, good keyboardist, and Derek was obviously the star here. Unfortunately, Hollywood is clueless to what good music is out there, and there were only about 30 people in attendance. The small crowd did nothing to distract this "kid" from playing some of the best blues I've seen since my last B.B. King show. But would this just be a jamming blues show? No way!
DTB opened with a nice jazzy rendition of John Coltrane's "Naima," followed by a few originals. Next up was a super funky "Cissy Strut," made popular by New Orleans originators, the Meters. Possibly the biggest surprise of the night was an instrumental cover of Bob Marley's "Rastaman Chant," which even had the guy in a black spiked jacket dancing a little bit. I was not familiar with the Allmans Cover they did for an encore(It might have been "Les Bres"), but another heir to the Allmans reign, Barry Oakley Jr, joined them on bass for an all-out jam fest. The crowd dug it, and so did I.
I got a chance to talk with Derek after the show and he was super laid-back and was very apreciative of the positive comments coming from Allman's fans and even Hollywood freaks. He seemed kind of shy on stage, but was really having fun after the show. I'm looking forward to seeing what this "guitar-god in the making" can do later this summer. Dickey Betts, watch out! And by all means, go see this band!
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