One Year Later

Hey, something(s) new will be coming here soon. Don't give up on us, baby...

Mark My Words...

This is an article I wrote a few years back that was published (with hip graphics, albeit in an expurgated form) at the Perfect Sound Forever website. Since then I have found that it has been reproduced and republished (sometimes without credit) at several sites around the world, so just remember for posterity's sake-- You heard it from me first! Everything repeats every 20 years. Everything repeats every 20 years. Everythi... Uh Oh...

Cyclorama: The 20 Year Rule
By Gregg Juke

There is a time-worn adage that says “everything old is new again.” How true it is.
Especially when applied to the subject of popular culture, and specifically, popular music.

In a recent Perfect Sound Forever article, author Richie Unterberger decries the resurgence of 1970s AOR music. While side-stepping the minefield of Unterberger’s implied thesis (“everything from the 70s sucked”), it is possible to see where he, as so many who have gone before him, has missed the bigger picture; the causality behind the 70s redux that would have allowed us to predict its coming ahead of time.

As everyone who has been at least tangentially involved in the “culture business,” and specifically, the music industry (even the astute outside observer) is aware, many aspects of the music business are cyclical. Certain business and aesthetic areas of popular music experience this death and rebirth phenomenon on a regular basis reminiscent of the timeless struggle between Vishnu and Shiva in some lost Hindu epic (characterized in the Led Zeppelin classic “The Battle of Evermore,” doubtless one of Mr. Unterberger’s favorites). General cultural phenomena (hipsterism, fat ties, skinny ties, Star Trek) and specific musical styles and artists (“Classic Rock,” Country, Blues, Jazz, and the perennial Beatles) enjoy recurring popularity. Let’s look at a few of these recurring cycles, before examining exactly why the 70s/Retro craze should have been so predictable.

Cyclical phenomena in the music business include several varieties. The “Indie Company/Major Consolidation” cycle in the recording and publishing businesses (whereby market and cultural factors entice entrepreneurs to start independent record labels catering to a new or under-represented style of music, which leads to commercial success, which leads to major labels and corporations purchasing the independent companies and the cycle starting all over again) is a well established paradigm that was probably documented first by Charlie Gillet in his book “The Sound of the City: The Rise of Rock and Roll.” The cycle that drives the Indie-Major machine is often perceived as no cycle at all, but actually could be called the “New Decade/Next Big Thing” cycle— somewhere, in some small town in the U.S. or abroad, something is brewing that none of us are expecting, but nonetheless will emerge to become the next wave in the pop music continuum (think of the 20s as the “Jazz Age,” 30s and 40s as the “Swing Era,” 50s as the birth of Rock & Roll, the 60s as the era of the emergence of Motown, Soul, the Beatles, and “Hard Rock,” the 70s as the incubator for Disco and Punk, the 80s as the New Wave, Heavy Metal, and later the Hip-Hop era, the early 90s as Grunge, etc., etc., and you will begin to understand this cycle). There is what one could call the “Anomaly Cycle;” the recurring (but unpredictable) popularity of Swing, Ska/Reggae, Country, Blues, and the Beatles. There is also a “Cover Song Cycle,” in which various “standards” and popular songs of bygone days are “rediscovered” and performed and recorded as new versions, often to great acclaim.

All of these recurring phenomena are well known and documented through disparate sources; but is there a predictable cadence? What, if any, could be counted as a unifying or over-arching factor? Is there a cycle that drives or impacts the others?

Perhaps the most cyclical, the most predictable, and maybe the most influential (yet somehow most overlooked) of all the cultural/musical cycles is something that we could call the “20 Year Rule.” In simple terms, the 20 Year Rule expresses the concept that something that is popular now (a style of music or particular artist, a fashion or a “look”) will be popular again 20 years from now, give or take a few years either way (a possible range of 15 to 25 years, the mean cycle averaging almost exactly 20). There are always two main waves of popular music moving through the mainstream at any given time—the “new”/currently popular, and the “retro” (generally music that was initially popular 20 years, or two decades, earlier). This also seems true, perhaps to a somewhat lesser extent, for non-musical but related cultural trends.

“What is he talking about?” you may well be asking yourself… perhaps a few examples will help to clarify the idea more than volumes of verbiage.

In the 70s, we saw the initial rise of the “Oldies” radio format, seemingly creating an unstoppable groundswell of interest in everything “50s”—music (of course), leather jackets, poodle skirts, diners, and motorcycles. The 70s were the 50s: “Happy Days,” “American Graffitti” (ostensibly a movie about the 60s, but featuring “greasers” and 50s music), “The Buddy Holly Story,” “Grease,” and an incredible explosion of 50s cover bands on the local and national scenes (led by television darlings “Sha-Na-Na”), along with attendant use of 50s style music in radio and TV commercials.

In the 1980s, along with the then popular New Wave (and later “Hair Metal”) bands, we experienced a major 60s rehash, spurred on by films like “The Wanderers,” “Eddie and the Cruisers,” and “The Big Chill,” which helped to re-popularize Motown and Soul music, along with a related explosion in the marketability of bands like the Doors, and more cover band activity and advertising use of 60s music.

By the time the 90s rolled around, along with the high profile and huge record sales attained by R&B, Hip-Hop, Grunge, and Alternative artists, we also saw a major trend towards retro-70s music and culture—“Classic Rock” radio formats, the second “Disco explosion” (with movies “Studio 54” and “Boogie Nights,” and the traveling party “The World’s Largest Disco”), the proliferation of networks such as VH1, with their then “Behind the Music”/70s-centric focus. The 90s also saw the “jam band” phenomenon (which could plausibly be argued is a rehash of 60s and 70s psychedelia), the return of Punk and the “D.I.Y.” movement, and such culturally barometric movies and TV shows as “The Brady Bunch” and “That 70s Show.” In the ultimate double-whammy 20 year redux example, the film “Grease” enjoyed a renaissance in the late 90s, 20 years after its initial release, creating a unique 40 year effect (1959-1979, 1979-1999).

And in the 2000s? Someone who has been predicting for several years that “In 2002, 1982 will be the next best thing since sliced bread” would not be disappointed by early indicators of the tried and true transformative power of the 20 Year Rule. Examples include, in no particular order, the unmitigated sampling, covering, and general mania in the Hip-Hop community for anything “Old School,” the return of Break-Dancing, the re-release of films such as “E.T.” and new, made-for-TV movies like “The Gilda Radner Story;” television exhibiting an 80s focus with “SCTV” and “Hill St. Blues” reruns, and VH1 becoming 80s-centric… the resurgence of popular 80s bands such as Blondie and the Go-Gos, comeback attempts by artists like Vanilla Ice, radio and TV commercials with a decidedly “80s feel;” an obvious 80s influence espoused by currently popular bands like Korn (their latest single “Falling Through Time”), jazz cover versions of 80s hits like Roxy Music’s “More Than This,” a renewed interest in touring by 80s New Wave and Hair Metal bands alike; “That 70s Show” morphing into “That 80s Show,” and the leading indicator that any musical era is experiencing a marketable resurgence, the ubiquitous Time-Life “80s Package” (“Where else could you find so many great songs from the 80s in just one collection?!?”).

The Time-Life collection is a strong (and curious) indicator for a few reasons. Of course, each preceding decade of the Rock/Pop era had its Time-Life retrospective treatment—the 50s, 60s, and 70s. But what is more interesting is the packaging itself; music and cultural innovations do not necessarily occur in neat, decade-long epochs. The popular music of 1962 has a lot more to do with the music of 1955 than say, that of 1967 or ‘69. The R&B of the early 90s is much closer in style to that of the late 80s than it is the late 90s. Innovation in music occurs at much less regular intervals than marketing and promotion people would have us believe, usually across artificially imposed chronological boundaries like “decade packaging.” What decade packaging of pop music does do, however, is make it easier for our aging minds and memories to grasp some element of time-based recognition, for nostalgia to have its simple way—“Ah, I remember how great the 80s were…”

Which leads us to some clues as to why the 20 Year Rule works. Every 20 years or so, a new generation collectively comes to terms with adulthood, reassesses itself, its culture and achievements, and pines for the “good old days”—high school fun without the responsibility of family and career. At the same time, a younger generation “discovers” the music and trends of 20 years past; popular music from 10 years prior, even 5, is “old” and “corny,” while vintage 20-year old music is “retro” and “cool.”

Still unconvinced? Ian Whitcomb, in his monumental pop music tome “After The Ball,” documents (without comment, and perhaps unknowingly) the effects of the 20 Year Rule reaching back into the 19th century, the dawn of what we now call “popular music.” Through this and other sources (Ben Sidran’s “Black Talk,” for instance) you will find all the precedent you need—the resurgence of various early pop music forms (Barbershop Quartet/“Gay 90s,” Ragtime, so-called “Dixieland” Jazz, and more) almost to the date 20 years after their greatest initial cultural impact (not necessarily the period of their creation or innovation).

So what of the future? If I were you, I’d lose a little weight and see if those spandex pants still fit, and looking ahead slightly, I’d say keep those M.C. Hammer and Nirvana discs in good shape—the original pressings will be fetching a pretty penny somewhere between 2010 and 2020…

(c) Gregg Juke/Nocturnal Productions; All Rights Reserved

Pride and Prejudice: Perceptions and Pre-Conceived Notions in the "Real Blues" Debate

I recently performed with a group on a short road-trip to Charlotte, North Carolina. I’m glad I got the opportunity to play with this particular band; they have a couple of CD’s out, are developing a following across the local region and the Eastern Seaboard, and are a real nice group of guys. This was not a Blues gig, but it was a lot of fun. The festival we played was scheduled on a Saturday, and we weren’t flying down; since the band is based in the Buffalo/Niagara Falls area of New York State, we had long days of driving (approximately 12 hours straight) on both Friday and Sunday— plenty of time to listen to a lot of music and discuss personal preferences and musical concepts.

On the way down to Charlotte, on or about the sixth or seventh hour of being cramped into the small amount of van space left after the equipment was packed, I popped my copy of “Driftin’ Blues: The Best of Charles Brown” into the CD-player. Voices fell silent. A furrowed look appeared on a few of the bandmembers’ brows. The deafening silence continued for a song or two, at which point we pulled off of the Interstate for some much needed fuel and a little leg-stretch. The bandleader, a relatively accomplished keyboardist who has been performing and recording for many years, mentioned something about “One of the grandfathers of scumbag music.” Hmmm. Scumbag Music. “What could that mean?” I wondered aloud. “Well, you know… Blues… scumbag music. What with the ripped jeans and dirty shirts, and the three chords and all. Scumbag music, y’know?” I replied in the negative. “No, I don’t know what you mean.” “It’s entry-level, man. Bogus, three chord stuff. Not even scumbag music, but ‘entry-level’ scumbag music.” When I listen to Charles Brown, I think of a vocalist that had supreme technical ability, fluidity, soul and emotional depth, with a tone that was smooth as silk. A jazz-influenced Blues and R&B pianist with an evocative style and a flair for unique chord changes, voicings, and substitutions that were very different from those of his contemporaries. A major influence on such pop-crossover artists as Nat Cole and Ray Charles. An impeccable dresser with a wardrobe to match his slick musical style. Elegance. Sophistication. But when I listen to Charles Brown, I never, ever, think of “scumbag music,” “entry-level” simplicity, or “ripped jeans.” Were we listening to the same CD????

Another discussion I had with an actual Blues fan elicited some of the same questions and conundrums, i.e.—“Are we on the same planet?” One particular reader of this column (well, who knows after this…) used an article I wrote as a pretext to launch into a dissertation of great length on the virtues of “Blues Purism”— as in, only the Delta Blues artists, and only those performances strictly adhering to the 12-bar form, should be considered “Blues.” There are several problems with this thesis, but when I tried to point out that there are quite a few contemporary artists trying to carry-on the acoustic tradition in a modern context (Cephas & Wiggins, Taj Mahal, Keb Mo, etc.), she dismissed them all out of hand. To her, “Real Blues” died with Charley Patton and Robert Johnson.

In a recent review of a new album by some friends of mine, one local “writer,”
who will, begrudgingly, remain nameless (read: hack who can barely string two cogent sentences together and wouldn’t know the difference between B.B. King and King George) drew a distinction between the legitimate Blues style and what he called “Da Blooze,” which he feels is primarily “entry-level” bar band music played by white performers singing inane lyrics and filling every nook and cranny with over-played electric guitar. True enough in some cases, perhaps, but who decides which groups play “Real Blues” and which ones play “Da Blooze”? Even in the worst-case scenario, this one-dimensional view is myopic at best, and smacks of misrepresentation, lack of listening skills, and musical prejudice. The “music journalist” in question has no ears, problems with grammar and spelling, and obviously is not blessed with the requisite skill set to be the final arbiter of what is legitimate and what is not in the “Blues/Blooze” debate (one should have some familiarity with music beyond 80’s Metal bands like Warrant and Ratt before attempting to deal with such weighty and philosophical questions). Yet his sense of the central issue at hand is uncanny, and quite on target.

What all of these people are saying, or asking, in effect, is “What is Blues?” (forgive the momentary lapse of appropriate grammar, if you will, and let the depth and repercussions of that question set in). As I’ve said in the past, I don’t think any of us can answer definitively, but sometimes the question itself is more important than the answer. How do we define Blues? How far can we stretch the boundaries before they break? How narrow a focus is too narrow, and threatens to choke innovation and creativity?

To some musicians, Blues is not so much a genre or style of music as it is a form—“It’s a 12-bar blues in the key of C.” This implies certain rigid rules or restrictions regarding chord changes and where they fit in the form, the length of the form before it repeats (usually 12 measures, but there are also 8-bar, 16-bar, and 13-bar blues), the type of “turnaround” to be used (the last few measures in the 12-bar form which bring the song back to the “starting” point), and sometimes the rhythm. This is a rather narrow definition for “blues” (as opposed to “Blues”), but if you are sitting-in with a Jazz trio and say something like “Play a blues in F; swing it, with a walking bassline,” the band (if they’re worth their salt) will know what to do immediately. For singers and lyricists, strict adherence to the blues form means following a particular lyrical scheme—two vocal-lines that are similar or the same followed by one that is different (think of “Stormy Monday”). Unfortunately, this definition would exclude quite a bit of music that doesn’t necessarily follow traditional blues form, but that a significant consensus of Blues fans would defend as “Blues” nonetheless— much of John Lee Hooker’s music, for example, which is often based on only one chord, or the jazzy styles of Ray Charles and Charles Brown (who often stepped-out of the blues form by degrees in both length and harmony). We would also have to exclude a lot of Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, and Jimmy Reed (who had some tunes with 13 and a half bar verses and 12-bar solos). And of course, erase Robert Cray from the list entirely; as well as many of the “Classic Era” performances sung by artists like Mammie and Bessie Smith. At the same time, we might include quite a bit of music, by virtue of its strict adherence to blues form, that most of us would agree really isn’t Blues at all (certain Classic Rock songs, for example).

This “blues form” definition works for musicians in certain situations, but should not be thought of as the be-all and end-all of what constitutes Blues or the Blues style. As fans, historians, musicians, and musicologists, we must realize that “Blues” has a much broader, more inclusive domain. The 12-bar form was basically standardized by those, such as W.C. Handy, who wrote down the music for the first time— they needed a way to transcribe and communicate on paper what to that point had been an orally transmitted music. But as anyone who has spent some time listening to old records, and has studied a little of the roots of the Blues, Jazz, Gospel, and Rock & Roll knows, not all of the early Delta and Piedmont artists stuck to the rigid 12-bar form; in fact, most of them didn’t. Yesterday’s improvised Blues were a lot like what is called in today’s Hip-Hop lingo “freestyle rap”; the chord changes were held “at will” to the desired length by the performer for as long as it took him to think-up a rhyme for his first two lines. Ever listen to Lightnin’ Hopkins? Robert Johnson? Ever wonder why they seem to almost follow the 12-bar form, but don’t quite stick to it? There were no rigid rules when these gentlemen were creating and defining the acoustic Blues style. It’s also important to note that the Delta and Piedmont cats were professional musicians often working for tips; they played lots of requests, and not all of them blues. Many songs in the early solo artist’s repertoire were “rags” adapted for guitar, and some were popular, folk, or country tunes that people wanted to hear, but weren’t necessarily “Blues” or “blues.” Think of Josh White or Leadbelly— should we exclude them, or some of their material, from under the covering of the Blues umbrella because they didn’t stick to the “blues form”? I know one person who feels that way, but I find it hard to agree with her.

Another definition people sometimes use goes like this: “Blues is just a feeling.” This is the antithesis of the strict, rigid, form-based definition, and while it seems to describe the basic idea behind the Blues (emotion, soul), it also would tend to be a little too inclusive. David Gilmour of Pink Floyd may bend a lot of notes, but he is not a Blues player, and Pink Floyd certainly is not a Blues band. I use this example because I was trying to put a band together once, and when I told one particular musician the music was going to be Blues and Blues-based (thinking he would understand my implicit expectation of performing songs by established Blues artists and cross-over Blues-Rock/R&B acts a la Stevie Ray and the Fabulous Thunderbirds), he was thinking I meant Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin. The “feeling” definition, when used all by itself, is too vague and would again give us trouble in trying to include/exclude artists and material under the Blues genre.

Some people (many non-Blues musicians, like my friends mentioned earlier) think of the Blues as basically “simple.” Even some Blues musicians fall into the trap of viewing the music this way. The Blues is simple, but only in the sense that lots of technique doesn’t necessarily equal a good performance. While the emphasis in Blues is on soul, emotion, and mood, it’s obvious that lots of things can be done to create interest, on a musical level, with the Blues style and form. This is what Bruce Katz calls “details in the music” when he’s discussing Blues arrangements, and the lack of details in some Blues music is what prompted my friends to call the Blues “entry-level.” They obviously haven’t been listening to the same music I have, and to paraphrase both Louis Armstrong and Phil Lynott of Thin Lizzy—“If you don’t know, you’re not going to… if they don’t wanna know, forget ‘em.” Some people just hear things differently, and there’s no accounting for taste (even though Blues has some of the most creative, emotion-laden music ever produced, some people can’t hear beyond their pre-conceived notions).

One famous musician said “the Blues is the simplest form of music to learn, and the hardest to master.” Musician and educator Bruce Katz has eschewed both the rigid, form-based definition and the “just a feeling” definition, shooting for something in the middle: “It's the feeling and vibe where the music is coming from. I think the line (between Blues, Jazz, and other forms of music) has to do with rhythmic groove, being that jazz kind of abandons that idea. I don't think it has to do with harmony. For instance one of the most beautiful blues tunes ever written is Charles Mingus' ‘Goodbye Porkpie Hat’- a blues melody with out-there chord changes. But the mood is blues… let's not forget that Charlie Parker described his music as ‘blues’ also.”

Whether you’re a fan of Chicago style, Delta, Jazz-Blues, Pre-War, Post-War, or Contemporary, it behooves us all to remember that the music has a long history and a broad continuum that includes a lot more than we might think with our often limited and narrow perspectives. As far as the public-at-large is concerned, we can proselytize by pointing to the wonderful virtues of Blues music and its long history and foundational position as the bedrock on which almost all other “American Music” has been built. And perhaps, every once in awhile, performing Blues musicians on the local circuit can think about putting on a suit and tie and ditching the “ripped jeans and dirty shirt” look.

Copyright 2001 Gregg Juke/Nocturnal Productions, All Rights Reserved.

Talent Does Not Equal Style

This story is not really about the Blues, and is as yet unpublished, but it is most assuredly true... Why do talented people insist on sabotaging their own careers? And why do some musicians live life like they are playing a game of Survivor or Big Brother?


Interview with the Vampire: A “Conversation” with Jaco Pastorius
By Gregg Juke

It was somewhere around 1985-1986… I’ve blotted the memory from my mind for so long, and the experience was so surreal, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly. But it was right around the time that Jaco, Kenwood Dennard, and Hiram Bullock put together their ill-fated band, and released their equally ill-fated, self-titled album, called simply P.D.B. These activities were followed, of course, by an ill-fated tour…

I was a young, idealistic musician and music journalist/broadcaster, working in public radio for my local N.P.R. affiliate-- hosting a jazz show, producing a few others, and doing interviews with as many of the touring cats as I could wrap my mic and pen around. Occasionally, I would arrange a phone conversation with someone prior to a local concert appearance, and then follow-up with a “live” post-concert interview— a great way to support and promote the music, meet famous musicians, and provide valuable content and scoops for the home team at the same time (or so one hoped).

When I received the press release announcing the P.D.B. album and tour, I was excited-- it sounded like a great band; and when I found out that Jaco and company would be performing in my hometown, I was ecstatic, and began work on setting up an interview in earnest. I was a big fan of Weather Report, Jaco’s Word of Mouth Big Band, and Hiram Bullock from the David Letterman show and his voluminous studio work. Kenwood Dennard was less familiar to me, but I had heard him with “Brand X,” and read quite a bit about him in all the drumming magazines—he was considered the up-and-coming inheritor to Billy Cobham and Narada Michael Walden. For a young fusion fan, this group seemed like it might be the second coming of the Mahavishnu Orchestra… nothing could have been further from the truth, but that revelation didn’t come until later, and I’m jumping ahead of myself ever so slightly.

As the astute reader scans down the page, he or she will eventually notice that nothing like an “interview” with Jaco appears here, and with good reason. I assure you that such an interview did take place, but that even by today’s slack journalistic standards and relaxed mores, it would be completely unprintable. What follows is the story (or my best reconstruction after almost 20 years) of my conversation with Jaco Pastorius. At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

After setting up an interview with Jaco through his management, with the requisite referral from his record company, a time was arranged for me to call him at home; sometime in the early afternoon on a weekday (probably around 3 pm; I usually worked nights, and I remember having to come in early to prepare for the “big interview”). I put the call through, the number rings, the phone is answered-- and it is indeed Jaco Pastorius himself! After catching my breath, I begin to ask questions, and he begins to answer.

The problem is inherent in his answers, and there is no denying that this interview will be pantloads of fun for Jaco, and full of anguish and squirmingly ill-natured torture for me. It is apparent that Jaco is off his medication—his communicative powers vasillate between incoherence, pinpoint seconds of sarcastically-barbed lucidity, followed by more incoherence, followed by stream-of-conciousness shock value diatribes peppered with more innuendo and F-words per sentence than Howard Stern could muster on his best day. I politely remind Jaco that this interview is for radio. No discernable effect, other than to perhaps kick things up a notch, to “take ‘em to another level,” as the crazy kids say—more sordid talk, more streams of expletives, nothing relevant to my questions or the music. “Hurry up with this,” he urges me, “I’m trying to hustle some basketball in the street.” I follow this statement with a line of questioning, to make sure I fully understand him. “You’re betting on a game, or playing in it?” “Both” he says. “Now hurry up, I’ve got a c-note on this game.” Could the great Jaco be playing me for a fool? (Of course, he’d been doing that successfully for several excruciating minutes already…) Did he really need to hustle basketball in the street? One of the worlds most well-known, respected, successful musicians? Perhaps the greatest electric bassist of all time? (Later, the sad truth would be revealed—he probably was “off his medication”—if he wasn’t on any, he sure needed some; and he really did need the money.)

Somewhere along the line during our very brief exchange, which literally seemed to me like, oh, 10 hours hanging tenuously upside down over a giant buzz saw (kind of like in a Bond film, only I wasn’t cool enough, or didn’t have the pocket spy gear to extricate myself), I jokingly mentioned that I’d “sure have to do a lot of editing to this tape.” I had actually been running over each of his responses in my mind, naively thinking, “Well, this will be alright; I can use a few words from that sentence… and maybe that one from that last sentence… I’ll piece something together…” But it all blew up in my face when I played the “editing” card; Jaco was unaware that the interview was being recorded—he thought that he was holding me in this personal little hostage crisis live on the air, and when he discovered his game was only half as good as he thought it was, he went ballistic.

“What the F#@% do you think you’re doing? You little M*%#%@ F%$#&*!!!! You call me back when this F-ing interview is LIVE! Do you here me? L-I-V-E, LIVE!!!!”
Click. The whole conversation lasted, perhaps, less than seven minutes.

Frustrated beyond my ability to explain or comprehend, I almost immediately, unthinkingly took the tape off of the machine and headed for the bulk eraser. Without hesitation, in a swift and decisive move that I have often regretted, I completely erased the slice of history that I held in my hands. Totally. I bulk erased it four or five times to make sure I got it all. I didn’t want one tiny shred of iron oxide to remain in any specific order; “no one must ever hear this; it would be a crime against humanity,” I thought to myself.

That week, for some reason, I attended the P.D.B. concert anyway. After all, I had a set of comp tickets, and I earned the dad-gum seats. I had visions of confronting Jaco, a la George Constanza with some flaky ex-girlfriend that had thoughtlessly dumped chocolate sauce all over his favorite shirt; but when the opportunity presented itself, I came to my senses. Obviously, this guy was insane, perhaps criminally, and you always want to avoid pushing the buttons of the criminally insane, if you have a choice in the matter.

The show was much, much less than I expected… the closest thing to a serious performing musician on stage was Hiram Bullock, who played guitar, keyboards, and sang with as much energy and acumen as he could muster; but all his striving seemed in vain—he could not bail fast enough to keep this ship from sinking. On the contrary, his shipmates seemed intent on pumping water into the ship to help the process along. Bad notes, bad solos, bombastic aplomb (in the worst sense of the phrase), volume, volume, and more volume—Jaco and Kenwood seemed to be locked in a battle in which the victor would lay claim to “Loudest Basher” on stage. Dennard’s much vaunted “Meta-Rhythmic Orchestra” solo segment (in which he displayed the ability to play a drum rhythm with his feet and one hand, while playing a keyboard with the other and singing simultaneously) was the cruelest of jokes. Somehow, these heavy metal antics only served to please the crowd, and each successive, louder song fomented such response that
near the end the audience was in a whipped frenzy; I felt as if I was the only earthling aware of the comet that was streaking towards the planet on a direct collision course. Or perhaps, Dante viewing some subterranean level of the Inferno. Or something. Regardless, I was horrified, but the audience seemingly did not share my trepidation; the band was called back for an encore, one of the all time worst renditions of Weather Report’s “Birdland” that I have ever heard, bar none. At this point, the crowd was out of control, and so was the band. As the group concluded the piece on an emotional crescendo, using the time-honored tradition of the “crash and burn” ending, a devilish look crossed Jaco’s face; he took off his bass, lifted it high in the air using both hands on the neck (reminiscent of the manner in which one might swing an ax or giant broadsword), and tossed it with all his might over Kenwood Dennard’s drumset. The flying Fender narrowly missed sheering off Dennard’s head, and as he deftly ducked below the massive boomerang, the sound of crashing electronics filled the room (the bass landed smack-dab in the center of Dennard’s processing rack and side-fill monitor set-up). A fitting end to a concert that never should have been…

I was dumfounded; after experiencing both the “interview” and the “concert,” my estimation of these musicians had been diminished considerably and deeply, in a way that actually saddened me. “Wow, guys that great can really be that awful?…”

I was unaware at the time of the downward spiral Jaco’s music and life was trapped in.
As writer Richard S. Ginell pointed out “…Pastorius became overwhelmed by mental problems, exacerbated by drugs and alcohol in the mid-'80s, leading to several embarrassing public incidents (one was a violent crackup onstage at the Hollywood Bowl in mid-set at the 1984 Playboy Jazz Festival). Such episodes made him a pariah in the music business, and toward the end of his life, he had become a street person, reportedly sighted in drug-infested inner-city hangouts. He died in 1987 from a physical beating sustained while trying to break into the Midnight Club in Fort Lauderdale.”

I remember seeing the story of Jaco’s death on the television news. I remember being saddened, but not necessarily surprised. But most of all, I remember wishing I had never erased that tape.

(c) Gregg Juke/Nocturnal Productions; All Rights Reserved

New Blog On The Block...

Welcome to "Blues & The Abstract Truth." A place and space for journalistic and not-so-journalistic analysis and discussion of Blues, Jazz, R&B, Rock, Pop, World, and whatever other musical (or perhaps not-so-musical) topics I dad-gum please to engage... Join in if you're feelin' it, and thanks for stopping by...

The first task at hand is to re-print some material that's been out of circulation for awhile; we'll see where we go from there.

GJ

Here's the first in a planned series of reprints...


The Boogie Man’s Comin’: An Interview with Bobby Manriquez
By Gregg Juke

Listening to an independent release is a gamble; you never know what you’ll get once you press “play.” Listening to a CD with a title that has the now stylistically vague and commercially commodified word “Blues” in it is doubly so, and finding the proverbial needle (good music) in the ten-trillion-ton haystack that is the Worldwide Web is like a game of Triple-Jeopardy that even Alex Trebec might be squimish about hosting.

The Internet has truly become, in many ways, “the great equalizer.” Hundreds and thousands of bands from around the globe now have direct access to fans and markets they once could only have dreamed of—a group can now successfully promote their music in Europe or South America, or across the United States directly to music consumers, without the meddlesome and questionable practices of major label A&R and promotion departments, or the tightly supervised money bag that usually accompanies traditional record deals, and leaves million-selling artists bankrupt and in-debt to their labels. Bands don’t even need to press CD’s anymore, at least not right away. Mp3 files have changed all of that.

This dynamic is good, but the flip-side of easy access is, well, easy access. Listen to a lot of the music out there on the Web… go ahead, go to Mp3.com, or Garageband.com, or a million other digital music sites. On a bad day (or a real long stretch of bad days), you’ll hear just how awful the digital revolution, or should we say the soundtrack for the digital revolution, can sound.

Anyone with a day job and a savings plan can now buy a great computer rig with all of the requisite bells and whistles necessary for high quality digital recording, mixing, and mastering. Unfortunately, often times songwriting and performance talent, and the actual ability to record, mix, and master seem to be optional. While there surely are some incredible bands out there, there are just as many no-accounts with a bankroll churning out banal drivel and marketing it to the world as music. The “dues paying” process has been circumvented, and this is one of the main problems with the digital revolution (or any revolution, for that matter)—sometimes the revolutionaries don’t know jack.

Ah, but on a good day, you can stumble onto someone like Bobby Manriquez. Searing guitar, soaring vocals, original songs, solid performances, high profile guest stars; great recording, production, and arrangements. And “Blues,” no less! Not your granddad’s terraplane blues but some supped-up, high octane rocket fuel Blues-Rock… but Blues nonetheless.

And wonder of wonders, guitar-slinger Manriquez is a true pro, a journeyman who has performed with some of the greats in Blues, Rock, and Soul. A survivor of the excesses of the “rock years” with a substantial musical pedigree. Have you heard of him? If you have, it’s probably because of his latest CD, “Another Shade of Blue(s)” (2000, Bobby Manriquez/b-side blues CD 626), and the critical acclaim it has garnered in the music press. If you haven’t, it’s because while Bobby has been in the music game a long time, he dropped-out for almost ten years, and “Another Shade…” has marked his debut as a solo artist, a process which has included a few false starts and stumbles, and has been nearly four decades in the making.
“Another Shade of Blue(s)” definitely falls into the category of “great indie releases deserving wider recognition.” Manriquez’ chops are menacing, soulful, and ferocious, and his vocal style is reminiscent of the Black Crows’ Chris Robinson. Fretistically speaking, he is an inheritor, but not an immitator, of the Blues-Rock school expounded by Johnny Winter, Robin Trower, and Stevie Ray Vaughn. Bobby’s songwriting acumen is dead on target—13 tracks covering musical ground as diverse as the jazz-inspired title cut, to the hip-hop blues of “Family Traditions;” from the instrumental slow jam of “Smokehouse” to the emotionally-charged lyrics of “Goin’ Up” (a song about not only finally giving in, but running with reckless abandon down the aisle to make the ultimate relationship commitment). The lead track, “Boogie Man’s Comin’,” is a jumping fright-fest of vocal bragadoccio and fast-fingered shredding; the Boogie Man can back up his smack-talk claims with musical action.

So keep surfing the Web for good music—you never know what you’re going to find. It might be a guy bending circuits with a soldering iron—bloops and bleeps as electronic opiate for the new age masses. Then again, you just might find Bobby Manriquez:



GJ: What are some of your first memories of playing the guitar? How did you get started?

BM: My uncle entered me in a talent show at his high school. They dressed me up as Elvis; used a burnt cork to make sideburns. I got a good reaction, and was given the old STELLA guitar! My dad later bought me a DeArmond pick-up and an adaptor. I was able to plug it into the rear of our RCA Victrola. I tuned it my own way; I would later face learning again in standard tuning when I was about 14. One of the most special memories was when my first band (the MadCaps) rehearsed “Green Onions” (around 1960). When the drummer entered with a short roll and crash (after the initial lick which I played on guitar), I got a chill that would carry to middle age and beyond.

GJ: What were some of your first non-Blues musical influences?

BM: I have 2 older sisters; 6 and nine years my senior. They could DANCE! I knew every riff in every oldie they drummed through my sponge-like mind. Their boyfriends would take me to the Howard Theatre in Wash., D.C. when I was a kid. I saw James Brown, "Little" Stevie Wonder, Jerry Butler, Wilson Pickett ...OH MAN! I loved SOUL Music! I would later dig on Jr. Walker, Aretha, then the Beatles and Rolling Stones.

GJ: Blues influences?

BM: With Blues it was easy; I was stuck on Jimmy Reed.

GJ: You have played with some big names; what are some of your fondest memories from touring with artists like Nils Lofgren, Wilson Pickett, etc.?

BM: Man-- too many… With Ikette (featuring vocalist Kathi McDonald—“Exile on Main Street,” Joe Cocker), I'll never forget our opening act in Memphis, I think it was...yes, opening act. A wild bunch; drummer secured to rotating riser, all dressed in black, bassist spitting fire. YUP! KISS. The audience responded minimally and yelled for Kathi! My mind acknowledged the act as "soon to be giant." Capitol Records was investing quite a lump into the lady at that time; we were invited and attended several parties for artists such as Grand Funk Railroad, we played on bills with artists such as Rufus, Earth Wind and Fire, and others as openers. I was to have a big part in the plans for a second album, and was coupled up with producer David Briggs (RIP-- Alice Cooper, Neil Young, Spirit) and songwriting mates such as Al Kooper and Kim Fowley. This was a period of glimmer, limos and jets. With Nils, memories like forgetting my guitars at some giant theatre, and having to go into J. Geils dressing room (laiden with a certain Faye Dunaway lady) to try straps and guitars for my show sticks out. Sweet guy, J. Geils. We also played quite a bit with Santana, and hung out a lot with the boys; we were on the same planes and in the same hotels at times. Greg (singer-- Amigos tour) would kid me about a girl I was dating at the time who happened to greet us from the magazine stand while the whole group of us was walking through the airport. It was PENTHOUSE, and it was Connie on the front page (she didn't tell me), and I had just previously introduced her to the dudes. There was a crowd around the newsstand!

GJ: Are you saying, by any chance, that you may have been the unwitting inspiration for J. Geils "(Angel is the) Centerfold?"

BM: Nah-- totally unrelated; the crowd was the Santana/Nils Lofgren entourages (minus Carlos). It was the Aug., 1976 issue I believe. She had just been with me in New York for a show, then, like the following DAY this happened. A bit cloudy, but no J. Geils…

GJ: Were you talking about Gregg Rollie, one of my favorite keyboardists and singers?

BM: No-- it was Greg Walker (vocalist). We had a blast together. He and Tom Coster (keys extraordinaire) and I had a few wild restaraunt experiences.

Wilson Pickett was who I danced to in Jr. High, and my soul bands played his stuff. This was very flattering; Steve Cropper and me! White boys who could hang with the likes of Pickett! Wilson called me "Wheat Cracker" affectionately, and let me cut loose a lot. He's a very gifted man. We rehearsed using "Moussie" (from the James Brown Band) and played some gigantic shows with the likes of Rufus Thomas, the Meters, Percy Sledge, Martha Reeves, and more. I LOVE soul music! This move allowed for a timely jump-start for my fortunate re-emergence with the guitar. I'm a soul man.

GJ: What about the early days? What are some of the players and clubs you remember during your “dues paying” era? Which ones are still there, if any?

BM: The early days would bring to mind a bar in Georgetown, Washington, D.C., called the Apple Pie. No other sticks out as plainly extraordinary. It was, because, being situated across from the Cellar Door, a small venue which hosted national talent (Cellar Door Productions is still run by Jack Boyle), it was an exciting place, like no other, where an “elite” group of Washingtonians and national talent converged. One would see news figures, actresses, Neil Young after his Cellar Door gig… EVERYBODY wanted in on the Apple Pie. Being in two of the fortunate (but, humbly, I state) in-demand house bands, I was a part of the heart. Everyone from Roy Buchanan and Nils Lofgren to Johnny Thunder and David Johanson of the New York Dolls, to Neil Young, Danny Gatton and Iggy Pop shared the stage in great mixes. I was in "Bobby and Friends" and also shared the guitar slot in the "Dubonnettes" with Mike Stern, a very prominent jazz figure now…(we're still close friends). I was playing there when called to my first "biggy"-- an opener was needed at the Kennedy Center that evening. I packed up and drove down. Got a nice write up; my first in the “Style” section of the Washington Post. There will NEVER be another Apple Pie!

GJ: Are there any particular mentors or teachers, either on guitar or generally/musically, that you can point to that helped bring out your style?

BM: Jimi Hendrix, Jeff Beck, Eric Clapton.

GJ: Who are you listening to now? Which artists/bands in straight Blues? Blues Rock? Rock/Pop/anything else?

BM: Lucky Peterson does it for me. He's a hot man. Want to get up with him. I'd say no other is close. I dig Jonny Lang's voice. Passion and fire are guides to my soul; not many reach it. I have high regard for B.B. and Albert and Freddie; in my humble opinion, there's too much typical stuff being churned out; been there-- heard that. I like FIRE! I will forever be listening to Jimi Hendrix, Jeff Beck, old Eric Clapton (Cream- “Goodbye”...YES!) and I'm watching Lucky, and Keb Mo's good, too.

GJ: Lucky Peterson-- a monster guitarist, organist, and songwriter... a homie from Buffalo, N.Y. Anybody else from my “home station” that you can think of that's had some impact on you, blues, soul, rock, or otherwise?

BM: (Not really…) I really dug the band “Derringer.” I went up there (Buffalo) to play with Rick once; I was so strung-out I couldn't play a good note (he's into blues work now). I've always liked the same players-- Johnny Winter, Jimi, Jeff, Eric, Leslie West...Larry Graham! Then there's my love for singer-performers. Stevie Wonder, James Brown, Wilson Pickett, Aretha, Kenny Loggins, B.B. King, Rod Stewart, Prince, Paul Rodgers (Free/ Bad Co.)…

GJ: You were gaining a reputation for yourself and were on the verge of a major breakthrough in the last, excessive, bombastic days of the AOR scene, when you suddenly disappeared from the radar screen... Can you tell us a little about what happened, why you spent a decade away from music, and what brought you back?

BM: Yes-- I hit bottom with that lifestyle (60's, 70's, into 80's). Sex, dope, jail, the street. It was in a jail cell that I found peace. It was my first real prayer, I think; it had no contingency clauses in it for God. I knew everything was going to be alright from that point in 1987, and it HAS!!!! I was able to turn my life around, and worked my way into retail management, in which I did well for about 10 years. It was during that time (1994-95) that someone told me Wilson Pickett was looking for me.

GJ: If you're comfortable sharing, what has changed about you as a person? What has changed about your music? (How have personal choices affected your current sound?)... What brought you back to the Blues?

BM: God. God allowed for a change in me. It's a personal subject area of my life. I'm not inclined to bring this matter up without being directly approached about it, but you have approached. I am happy, more mature, and optimistic about love and life. It's because of God. “Another Shade of Blue(s)” and my blues guitar playing are my heart. It flows. It's MY blues. Everyone has a right to the blues; it can't be owned by anyone. It was a work… a collage of blues-based music that was intentionally diverted and adapted to a positive message, and laiden with my personal tastes. I can play 3 chord blues with a talented Rhythm section ALL DAY. I LOVE it. Just a break for lunch is all I ask.

GJ: Can you explain your album warning “This is not a traditional Blues album?” What were you trying to tell people?

BM: My album has the word “Blues” in it. That word is preceded by ANOTHER SHADE. That was to mean a DIFFERENT slant. No weepin’, moanin’, complainin’, getting left, screwin' female human beings, etc. Just positive, good stuff. A wholesome message, hopefully, in an interesting and diverse format. My music. Not me trying to sing as an African American might (God blessed THEIR vocal chords in a unique way!) or playing standard riffs all through the songs. I enjoy that riffs you hear me play may sound unorthodox. I am humbled by the frequent comments comparing me to other soul players like Stevie Ray and Jimi, and Jeff. I've been playing the way I play for a time which came before ever hearing Stevie Ray, for example. I was born before he was. I believe it's the soul that's being recognized and compared. Everyone takes from the blues bank; it’s what one does with what he takes that matters to me. Fire. Passion. I need it. It drives me.

GJ: How would you define "Blues?" Where does your music fit into the Blues continuum?

BM: Traditional Blues has been covered and recovered. It's beautiful. I'm not a traditionalist, however, so I get the urge to hook a rocket to my bicycle and see what happens. I am, however, working at present on a BLUES CD that WILL deliver BLUES in a strong way. I'll leave it to the world to name it; might as well-- gonna happen anyway. There are some silly attitudes present wherever more than a couple human beings are gathered. Sound ones, also, though. Some flatter themselves experts, and can't even strum a tune. Some say very little and can pick the heck outta that thang. It IS a subjective thing, I know. Let me say this: I guarantee that my fellow musicians will be turned on by what I'm cookin’ up. I certainly hope MANY others will love it also.

GJ: Can you tell us a little about your songwriting process? And what's next? An upcoming tour? A new album?

BM: I sit down with a very definite groove, and just do it. It all comes easy; I'm really thankful about that. I sometimes set a theme around some piece, how ever small, of music from the past, and charge it up! I speak about it to myself on a hand-recorder, and dictate musical pictures and sequences. This next CD is going to be an extra pleasure. More basic, more blues. Love those blues.

GJ: Anything you want to add or say about particular songs? Any upcoming shows or appearances to plug?

BM: “Boogie Man” is a tribute to Jeff Beck. (Nils Lofgren played the great piano). FT2 is a thematic continuation of “Family Traditions.” I'd say one of my favorite solo pieces is in “Goin' Up” (also Nils on Organ)… I like listening to my music; I'd like to have my lyrics catch more attention; many songs may jump, but on the legs of “not-so-thought-out” lyrics. I believe mine have strong legs. I'm readying a band for playin’, so look out, coming soon! Vintage Guitar Magazine is doing a piece on me; they have already done one on my old 1958 Les Paul Standard. It was originally Sam Andrew's from Janis Joplin’s Big Brother & the Holding Co., then passed to Roy Buchanan, who sold it to Nils, who presented it to me on my 21st birthday. Jeff Beck tried to buy it a couple times; I should have sold it; the remains are hanging on my wall downstairs… I contend that the Blues CD I am working on now is gonna make hair on backs of necks stand up!

GJ: How about five "Desert Island" Blues picks?

BM: “Dust My Broom”-- Elmore James, “Blues DeLuxe”-- Jeff Beck Group, “Big Boss Man”--Jimmy Reed, “You're the One For Me”-- Lucky Peterson, “Misdirected Blues”-- Robben Ford.

GJ: What is the process involved in making it as an independent Blues artist?

BM: This is a process I'm optimistically involved in. It takes WORK. Networking and more work. It takes sending and never hearing back. It takes more sending. It takes realizing if 50 CD's can be sold in a state, 300 can. It takes being blown-away at the support of your fellow musicians, and press and reviewers saying “Look Here! Look what HE says! You'll be missing something in your LIFE without having purchased and listened to...” my album “Another Shade of Blue(s)”...

That’s his story and he’s sticking to it. And you know what? It’s a true story—you will be missing something if you don’t check-out this album. Your choice, of course, but it should be an informed one. Watch out for the Boogie Man, and don’t say we didn’t warn you…

Copyright 2001 Gregg Juke/Nocturnal Productions, All Rights Reserved.