|
Bimbo's 365 Club is at the sharp curve in a long comma of a street called Columbus Avenue in the North Beach district of San Francisco. It’s the kind of place generations of goodfellas probably made their clubhouse, all dark wood and red cloth on the walls with an immense bar tended by nattily dressed men. These days it showcases medium sized shows by a startling range of artists. Everything from drum ‘n’ bass to country music make it onto the stage. The neighborhood it resides in is a peculiar mix of Catholic churches, strip clubs, SF’s legendary Chinatown with its own Buddhist temples, restaurant after restaurant and homey family filled side streets. It is a profound bouillabaisse of the secular and the sacred, and a combination of elements that was reflected perfectly in the pairing of the Dirty Dozen and Robert Randolph and his stunning Family Band.
Seconds before the opening slot from the Dirty Dozen Brass Band the dance floor was empty save for one diligent taper finding the sweet spot for his mic stand. As the burly septet made their way out, people moved in instinctively. When this band enters a room they give off a party pheromone that just pulls folks in. A couple that clearly knew what they were in for started to stretch and limber up. Drummer Terrence Higgens and guitarist James McLean work into a wah wah laden soul vein as the rest of their crew settles in. Then with a "BOOM," that horn line hits you. Right from the first thick, sharp note the power of this band is apparent and before the song has stopped the dance floor is packed shoulder to shoulder.
Trombonist Sammie Williams knocks me out all night. His head rockin’ like some soul metronome, he rides the rhythm seamlessly every time he steps up for another Fred Wesley caliber solo that makes the bubbling mass of funkateers dance that much harder. Keeping pace with him is killer six-string slinger McLean. For much of the show he lays in the cut, tossing out subtle rhythm accents. It’s a kind of humility a lot of guitarist lack, a willingness to minimize showboating. Yet when a space opened up for a solo he was in there with a beautifully distorted assault that reminded me of the late great Chicago guitarist Terry Kath. The urgency and intensity of his solos made a groovy contrast to the warmth of the horns.
Celebrating 25 years as a band, they focused on tunes from their latest release, Medicated Magic, a salute to New Orleans music. That bayou vibe came through clearest on their saucy take of Dr. John’s “Junko Partner” where trumpeter/singer Gregory Davis really punched the ‘best marijuana’ line for the SF heads, most of whom had already exhaled their own smokey contribution to the light show and made the air heavy and sweetly pungent. The Dirty explored the endless appeal of James Brown’s “Night Train” introducing it as a journey down the tracks from Eureka to Arcata over to San Francisco. As people enter the main room from the lobby they swing their arms and put a lil’ strut into their walk. Cecil “P-Nut” Daniels pops in for a visit and pours out some vibe like tones from his synth horn that make the other horn players bounce with approval. Over and over I’m struck by what an unbelievably tight band they are yet how loose they keep everything. One second they’re working a Neville Brothers tune, the next they’ve moved onto a snippet from an Outkast hit and then they’re back around to an original tune where they exhort us “Put your hands up, put your hands up, put your hands up in the air.” They pick and choose from a world of jazz, blues, pop and funk sounds and Dirty them up a bit. Their sound is permeated with tradition and after a quarter century of honing it has become a tradition of its own. Intoxicating.
As they say their farewell at the end of the 1-hour set, they seem sad to go but the crowd needs a rest and stumble towards a flat surface to crash on before Randolph comes on. With the lights up another of the sharp contrasts of the area comes into focus. The audience is split between well-dressed yuppies hugging the back of the club away from the stage and a ramshackle assortment of hippies, blue collar music lovers and other middle income revelers. Bimbo’s brings in a steady mixture of those helplessly devoted to the music being played and those with enough disposable income to throw away on curiosity and a chance to people watch. Actually the voyeur factor is strong on all sides and I can see people pointing and whispering all around me. Bimbo’s remains a hot spot to be seen yet the whole spectacle makes me a little tired. I come for the music and the connected feeling I get from sharing an experience with fellow fans. Most times the casual listeners don’t bother me. Tonight they’re getting on my nerves. I try to tune out the drone of small talk and listen to the James Taylor Quartet’s rendition of the “Starsky & Hutch” theme bumping on the PA. As the lights dim I push my negativity aside. After the corporeal earthiness of the Dirty Dozen I’m ready for some spiritual uplift with sacred steel of Robert Randolph.
There’s heaviness to the opening instrumental. Something dark & serious with a slowly pounding beat cushioning Randolph’s reverb enhanced note attack. A strong Hendrix vibe emerges early in the show that sticks around throughout. It feels like I’m watching a new incarnation of the Band of Gypsys. The band floats in this space for a few minutes, echoes drifting over the crowd. Keyboardist John Ginty leaves Robert Randolph out there to solo freely while he mirrors the beat coming out of drummer Marcus Randolph and bassist Danyel Morgan. This is a different band than the one I last saw a few weeks ago on a stage in Tennessee. That was good time Sunday morning music. This sound is full of the dark night of the soul. It is a work song for the long journey to enlightenment. I dig both bands and marvel at how they are one and the same.
Randolph introduces the 2nd tune saying, “Let the people of San Francisco say HEY!” The preacher in him stirs us up and we offer up a solid "Hey" but he wants more and asks us for another and another. The roof beams shiver.
During this tune Randolph takes a sudden leap from his stool. It will not be the last time the spirit levitates him tonight. Each time he jumps the throng in front of him jumps, too, asking him how high he wants us to go. He thanks us for coming and says, “Brings joy to my heart to see so many smiling faces.” Just like it states on the band’s official website, this music is all about friendship between the band members themselves, between the audience and the band and ultimately between this music being made and God.
I’ve noticed a tendency for people to skirt the issue of Robert Randolph’s Pentecostal zeal. He doesn’t lay it on like a street corner religion pusher, but God is there in every detail of his music. During a particularly funky piece, Randolph hops up after a sizzling vocoder inflected solo and starts chanting, “Joy, when I think about what you done for me.” His eyes turned skyward, it isn’t hard to figure out whom he’s talking about. This man’s gigantic heart and voluminous good will make his style of gospel testifying palatable to a generation pretty cynical about religious fervor of any sort. Faith doesn’t play well with carefully groomed cynicism or obsession with style over substance. Yet this thing happening on stage seems to work for anyone with a soul hungry for substance. When the band moves into “The March” he asks, “Can I get a witness in the room tonight?” Hundreds of hands shoot up and a forceful AMEN issues towards the stage.
I wonder as I dance madly if everyone around me gets what they are reacting to. Then I get that I’m overanalyzing a feeling. I let myself feel a connection with the spiritual world, with the material world around me, with the beauty pouring out of the instruments. The feeling is good and warm and not worth worrying over. I realize my eyes have been shut for while and open them slowly. From the slightly raised area I’m shuffling on I see Robert Randolph stand halfway and just put his backbone into the music. Seriously, his back rises and falls like he’s working on a ditch or building a wall. Or maybe tearing one down. I flatten myself against the wood panel behind me and feel the power of this music rattle my bones. Giggling I think how wild it would be if the building actually came down during the show. The dancers would just keep on going amidst the dust. Of this I am sure.
Things slow down after “The March” and for a bit I’m wondering if they’ve lost their way on stage. People get a little restless during a sparse instrumental section then Randolph’s pedal steel rings out clear & true as he works through a highly personal variation on “Amazing Grace.” His tone is so pure it makes me tear up. So fluid is the whole sound of the Family Band that I forget just how spectacular Randolph is on his chosen instrument. Not since the late Orville “Red” Rhodes played with Michael Nesmith’s First National Band have I been so regularly moved by a pedal steel player. Both men share a desire to stretch the normal boundaries of their instrument, to make a shining symbol of country music sing in a psychedelic or a jazzy voice.
From this delicate place we jump back to soulful terrain as the Dirty Dozen emerges to jam on Sly’s “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)”. P-Nut reemerges as well to take on most of the lead vocals. It balloons into a classic ‘70s soul jazz session with nearly every single musician stepping up for a solo. One beautiful moment came when Dirty Dozen drummer Terrence Higgens took over the drum stool from Marcus Randolph. He’d been watching at the foot of the stage and just ran up to Marcus who caught the look in his eye and smoothly handed the sticks over to Higgens.
A gorgeous piano solo from John Ginty led into another slow one, “Tears of Joy” and many of us started to realize how tired our bodies were. I almost wanted to tag out for the evening but then the gospel ballad built into Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Chile” where Randolph’s voice shouted, “I stand at the foot of the mountain, chop it down with the edge of my hand.” Bringing the walls down indeed. I couldn’t help but think about how Jimi must have viewed God and his own place in the spiritual scheme of things. My idle speculation was broken by the unmistakable riff from Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man.” To say I wasn’t expecting that would be a pretty big understatement. It was rockin’ and perfect and tied the whole night together for me. The spirit and the body brought back into union.
If the evening had ended there that’d been fine with many but the good Lord had other plans. Hanging off to one side of the stage was Phish keyboardist Page McConnell. In town for a Vida Blue show at the Fillmore the following night, he came to check out Randolph. Robert couldn’t resist bringing him out to play with them. Reluctant at first, Page took a seat at the Hammond organ while Ginty moved over to his electric piano. He navigated well through a call-and-response rendition of “The Stomp” but still seemed tentative to dig in. The brief pause between this set closing tune and the encore must have bolstered his confidence because he unleashed mighty whirlwinds of organ swell on a cover of the Temptations’ “Papa Was A Rolling Stone.” One of the great ghetto epics, “Papa” pulled us out of the clouds and back down to earth, reminding us of the hard work it takes to find hope despite what life throws at us. That’s a much easier task with men like Robert Randolph in the world.
Dennis Cook
Photos By: Dino Perrucci
JamBase | San Francisco
Go See Live Music!
| 