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Jerry Joseph and the Jackmormons :: 09.21.05 :: The Independent :: San Francisco, CA
Words by Dennis Cook :: Images by: Susan J. Weiand
Jerry Joseph :: 09.21 :: San Francisco |
Jerry Joseph's guitar is mean. Real mean. It's a thing of razor wire and regrets - a rotgut shot of truth, and he leaves the bottle out for more. And this is just the music! Without opening his mouth, Joseph summons the hellhounds that rode man into the blues. It's the cold wail of Buddy Guy and the feverish sprint of Lenny Kaye (Patti Smith Group). There's some of surf's wave balancing, Richard Thompson's Arabic scales, and not a little of that thing in James Burton that made Elvis shake so. Eyes shut tight, head moving like a broken metronome, I took his "Climb to Safety" and wondered quietly why the whole damn world isn't talking about this holy firebrand.
Prior to this year's High Sierra Festival, I'd never seen Joseph live. Oh, I'd sunk quicksand-style into his stunning 2003 concert set Mouthful of Copper, emerging wiser but with fresh scars for my newfound knowledge. The timid needn't engage with Joseph. He's the living embodiment of John Lennon's "Gimme Some Truth." When he actually stands before you - shaved clean like one of Fight Club's space monkeys, a body of coiled muscle - you pay attention. Personally, I find myself frozen in my tracks. It's happened all three times I've seen him perform. He's just so real, so present, that I don't want to miss a thing. The nuances count with this guy.
McFadden, Ingram, Joseph :: 09.21 :: San Francisco |
And the same goes for his band, The Jackmormons. Interweaving with Jerry Joseph's guitar and vocals are Junior Ruppel (bass, vocals) and Brad Rosen (drums, vocals). Together, they burn like a punkier version of Robin Trower's trio circa Bridge of Sighs - epic AND hookier than hell. In San Francisco, they were augmented by percussionist Steve Drizos (Dexter Grove) and a predictably excellent sit-in by Stockholm Syndrome mates Wally Ingram (percussion) and weirdly gifted ace guitarist Eric McFadden, who'd also opened the show in their Alektorophobia guise. One enters Joseph's spectrum and adjusts their colors to blend with his. There's too great a will to power in his stuff for it to be otherwise.
Jerry's intensity may be part of why the mainstream world seems largely unaware of a talent like this. In a culture full of stimulus junkies in search of quick fixes and quicker distractions, Joseph is an icy splash of gasoline. He reminds you that you're just one match away from burning. No one likes to be reminded of that. Unless, of course, they're as into reality as he is. It does take a real truthsayer to even ask, "Tell me, why must prophets die such painful deaths?" Standing up in the crowd, especially in this day and age, might just get you a nasty stoning. Pharisees run the show, and they don't appreciate anyone pulling the wool from people's eyes. Yet, up he stands, and that's one of the reasons I, and many others, adore him.
Jerry Joseph :: 09.21 :: San Francisco |
His lyrics are like something on which Ezra Pound and Johnny Thunders might have collaborated. I sometimes think about creating an annotated guide to his songs, something like the massive appendix at the end of T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland." It must grow wearisome to singer-songwriters to always be measured against the yardstick of Bob Dylan, but in this instance, the work shares a similar possessed insight to Bob's mid-'70s catalog. Joseph packs more powder in a single verse than most scribes will muster over the course of an album. The opening of "Pure Life," which kicked off The Independent show, is a prime example:
Taste the whiskey on your breath
It's as much as I can drink these days
And I haven't finished yet
Just keep breathing in my face
Taste the poison on your tongue
It tastes like sacrament to me
Like a genuflecting reptile with St. Michael
I am starting to believe
Ruppel & Rosen :: 09.21 :: San Francisco |
Live, the band flexes, veins showing, approaching things in a Crazy Horse fashion, treating rock like jazz, listening and responding, bobbing and weaving, but always big balls swinging. This is most decidedly Man music. Sure, some ladies get it too, but a blood test would reveal an excess of testosterone. It's an appealing channeling of aggression into something constructive. All anger need not lead to decimation. Maybe it need only warn us of the dangers of thoughtlessly giving into our impulses in order to help slow the steady crawl into small-minded tribalism sweeping the Earth.
This music inspires these kinds of big thoughts. His constant reach, perhaps Icarus-like at times, is infectious. He makes you want to try. He makes you question halfway measures because the man is all in, all the time. That personal energy sweeps up the other players - fueling Junior's sweet voice and whomp machine bass pops, the wind at Rosen's back pushing him to pound it like Matt Abts (Gov't Mule), infusing the ceaseless melodies with an overriding rightness so even the tears fall in time to the beat.
Jerry Joseph :: 09.21 |
During "Road to Damascus," Joseph got a thousand-yard stare, watching something in the distance he'd been chasing for a lifetime. There's no doubt it's something huge, so he approaches it with the appropriate fear and trembling:
Down in the gallery
Hearts on the walls
All of the patrons can see
Your rhythm and balls
Like sinners and strippers it seems
Showing it all
Climb to the edge on your knees
It's a mighty long fall
He has the look of one who once lost a lot of his health and now holds onto what he's got with tenacity. The contradiction is the omnipresent cigarette dangling from his lips or shoved in his guitar head. Like all of us, he's a complex creature that can't always be reconciled. The look in his eyes is a survivor's stare, but he's compassionate enough to share what he's learned.
Jerry Joseph :: 09.21 :: San Francisco |
With a red horse proudly prancing on his chest, Jerry Joseph vibrated with absolute fucking integrity. It's insanely charismatic and a bit scary. Twice I've passed him in hallways and not had the courage to just reach out and shake his hand, to thank him for what he does. Maybe I'm worried I'll not measure up, and he'll know it with a touch. He's got that kind of spiritual energy to him, like he knows things the rest of us don't, like maybe he took a ride in a fiery chariot and saw some things in the heavens that unlock the nonsense of this life (but probably don't make it any easier to sleep at night...).
What San Francisco made clear is you could put Jerry Joseph and the Jackmormons up against any rockers alive, and they have a shot at taking the rumble. And they'd do it without zip guns or switchblades - truth cuts a lot deeper. It might not be easy – you can see the wear and tear of it on Jerry's face – but I've little doubt he'll stray from the path he's on.
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