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July 31, 2007Review: Eric Clapton Crossroads Guitar Festival Concertby Mark Keresman. Photos by Joshua Jones / Pitkin Studio Saturday, July 28, 2007, Chicago's Toyota Park -- the day and place for the second edition of Eric Clapton's Crossroads Guitar Festival. It was an incredible nexus of old-school electric guitar titans and younger upstarts performing for the benefit of Eric Clapton's Crossroads Centre in Antigua, a rehabilitation facility for the chemically dependent. From noon to 11 p.m., this Toyota rocked 'n' rolled more than little Herbie ever could. The weather was nearly perfect (if you don't mind a little sunburn), a cool breeze wafting through the sold-out, multi-generational multitude.
Hosted by the adorably smarmy wiseacre Bill Murray, the festivities kicked off in high gear with Louisiana guitarist Sonny Landreth. Looking every bit the slightly nerdy history professor, Landreth's gumbo was equal parts blues, rock, Cajun music, and churning New Orleans rhythms. His keen slide playing cut through you like the first chilly winds of October that catch you wearing September's clothes. Clapton joined him for one song in a set that felt too short. See Sonny as a headliner if you know what's good for you.
John McLaughlin has long been hailed as one of the greatest jazz guitarists ever and a leading light of jazz fusion. McLaughlin was there at fusion's inception, playing and recording with Miles Davis (his seminal albums Bitches Brew, In A Silent Way, and Live-Evil) and with Tony Williams' Lifetime (the incredibly caustic, criminally neglected-by-far-too-many-folks discs Emergency and Turn It Over), but how many know that his beginnings were in the UK's blues-rock scene? As if to pay a historical/Karmic debt (or he's just a good guy), McLaughlin's quartet kicked off with a chunky, blues-inflected instrumental that soon segued into the fusion jazz scales for which he's known.
Next set was like a balm after McLaughlin's blustering blitz: Alison Krauss and Union Station. Their specialty: modern bluegrass, meaning her approach is firmly rooted in the classic sounds of Bill Monroe and Ralph Stanley but eagerly accepting contemporary influences from rock, folk, and even jazz (Krauss' brother Viktor, not present this day, often plays with six-string jazz mastermind Bill Frisell). With Krauss and fiddle and earthy back-country vocals (far more country than Faith Hill will ever be, by the way), her band featured master dobro player Jerry Douglas, and their set proved beyond a doubt that electrifying music can be chiefly acoustic, performed at not-overwhelming volume and with poise and restraint. Their set was plagued with a few sound problems, but like troopers Krauss's posse persevered, closing with a genteel yet rousing take on Bad Company's "Oh, Atlanta".
Doyle Bramhall, II, is a Texan blues-drenched guitarist who is also often a member of Eric Clapton's ensemble. While blessed with incredible technique, a thorough grounding in the verities of Long Star State blues (also home state of T-Bone Walker, you know), and a hearty singing style, Bramhall's set left me a little…cold. He covered all the bases and is a superb six-stringer, but it seemed a little rote.
Introduced by the mercurial Murray as an "American success story", the Derek Trucks Band took the stage. The young Mr. Trucks is the scion of Allman Brothers Band drummer Butch Trucks, and while Derek has drunk deep from the Brotherhood's fountain of knowledge, he's also derived inspiration from jazz, world music, blues, prog-rock, and more. Stylistically, the Derek Trucks Band recalled the Allmans--soaring, impassioned guitar harmonies, roiling, rumbling rhythms--with a strong shot of Jethro Tull circa 1969-1971. The Derek Trucks Band were joined by blues guitar wizardress Susan Tedeschi (Derek's wife and a fine Bonnie Raitt-like singer) and another Lone Star ace, the legendary Johnny Winter, who tore the place up with a scorching, horny stray-cat version of Bob Dylan's "Highway 61".
While lots of folks got reved-up by Robert Randolph's Family band, I confess I felt a tiny bit let down. Randolph plays a fantastic pedal steel guitar--you read right; there's a Southern gospel tradition known as Sacred Steel--and his music was laced with aspects of gospel music, but some of it was too slick, cheery, and predictable, like a jam-band version of Allman Brothers Lite. Perhaps I'm unfairly comparing him to the Campbell Brothers, a Sacred Steel combo that's capable of putting the Holy Spirit into even a cynical agnostic like me, but there it is.
Next came the heavyweights, including a couple o' cats that Eric, Sonny, and Doyle got it from: Robert Cray, one of the few performers to take the blues out of the hands of the stogy purists and mix it up with some classic soul/R&B for a style that makes him a successor to the late Magic Sam (what, you don't have Sam's West Side Soul disc?);
Jimmie Vaughan, brother of the late Stevie Ray and the original axe-man for the Fabulous Thunderbirds, who knows a thing or three about injecting some rock 'n' soul into the blues;
Hubert Sumlin, a god of the Windy City, the six-string demon who stoked the fires of his former boss and Chicago blues legend (and the one man who could make Muddy Waters sound like Anthony Hopkins) Howlin' Wolf;
and the King himself, who was living the blues when Eric, Robert, and Jimmie were but lusty notions in the minds of their parents: B.B. King.
These hepcats could stand there and tune their guitars and it'd be better than 85% of the music in Billboard, but they did more than that. Sumlin can still sting after all these years; Cray has more soul in his pinky than R. Kelly will ever have in his whole thumb; Vaughan, a Texan gentleman (that I wish would rock a little more 'cause he so good at it), and King is Mellow Class personified, an Elder Statesman of the blues. King played some loose, relaxed versions of his hits--"The Thrill Is Gone," etc.--and if he was coasting a bit (and he was, a bit), it's still an honest thrill to hear him-- and the crowd agreed. In one of the day's two short intermissions, the winner of Guitar Center's King of the Blues Contest, Aaron Loesch, and band, treated the crowd to a brief performance. Crowned June 16 at the Fonda Theater in Hollywood, California, by a panel including such luminaries as Pete Anderson, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, and Hubert Sumlin, Loesch proved himself worthy with a short set of roots-charged rock that highlighted his nimble, bright, creative approach.
Next up, John Mayer. While he may look like the fluffy pretty-boy pop-idol, the lad can really play and sing well. Vocally, Mayer evokes a very young (but post-Them) Van Morrison, and he holds his own as a guitarist (didn't hurt that he had Derek Trucks playing with him--Trucks could make Wink Martindale sound funky-cool). If Mayer seemed a little out of his element here consider the heavy company he was keeping. Look at who's next.
If the day comes when his time on the country charts is over (cripes, just look at the "country" charts these days), Vince Gill could reinvent himself as a roots-rock guitar hero. Armed with a large group including a horn section, a female percussionist/backup singer, a sharp guitar style more than a little influenced by Clapton and a genial voice and stage presence, Gill held the crowd in the palm of his hand. Stylistically, it was closer to the R&B-laced juke-joint-jump (with country undertones/flavoring) of Commander Cody's Lost Planet Airmen (and Jerry Lee Lewis in his rowdier moments).
Albert Lee came out and dazzled a bit with some quasi-rockabilly, then Sheryl Crow joined Gill for a couple of songs. Clapton took the stage and sang with Crow on a loose but full-of-gusto version of Don Williams' hit "Tulsa Time". Then, country music's counterpart to B.B. King, Willie Nelson, joined Gill for a stripped-down, jazz-ish medley of his hits: "Funny How Time Slips Away", "Crazy", and "Night Life". True, some of Nelson's portion was a tad rough, but so what? What it lacked in precision it more than made up in joie de vive--all these people genuinely seemed to enjoy themselves, and that's real.
Proven time and time again, Los Lobos are one of America's very best rock 'n' roll bands. Combining the assortment of sounds that are part of their Chicano roots with blues, rock, Mexican folk, R&B, and more, they are Santana minus the Che Guevara T-shirts and they rock a lot harder.
Two little words stand for the consummate rock guitarist: Jeff Beck. While Clapton was pursuing the blues in his post-Yardbirds, pre-Cream years, Beck was branching out and making the big noise(s) that came to define modern rock--feedback, distortion, wails, etc. While Clapton was mellowing out circa '73, Beck was exploring his own fiery take on jazz-rock fusion. This night, shortly before sunset, Beck performed a "summation" of his career--some chunky rock, sizzling blues-influenced wailing, a soulful "Because We've Ended As Lovers", and an almost surreal "A Day in the Life" (yes, the Lennon/McBeatle tune). Unfortunately, Beck's keyboard player thought he was Jan Hammer with his twittering keys, and both bassist and drummer played…too darn much, the kind of numbing tirade that almost ruined fusion by the '80s. The bassist, Tal Wilkenfeld, was fun to watch. Though in her early 20s, she looked 14, and was loaded with infectious enthusiasm. Even Beck, who never spoke to the crowd, seemed impressed.
At last: The Man, the legend, perhaps the first true white guitar hero after Les Paul: Eric "Slowhand" Clapton and his somewhat large combo (two drummers, two keyboards, two gal singers, etc.) took to the stage around sundown. Clapton leaned towards blues standards ("Key To The Highway"), Derek & the Dominos ("Why Does Love Got To Be So Sad?"), and a touching tribute to a fallen friend, George Harrison's "Isn't It A Pity".
Clapton was in fine form--he sang with conviction and his guitar had some of the coiled-spring impassioned sting of his pre-1973 years. (It may be heresy to admit this here, but I'm not terribly fond of the mellow Clapton years [mid/late-'70s] and if I never hear "Wonderful Tonight" again, fine.)
Robbie Robertson joined Clapton for "Further On Up The Road", and for a tribute to an ailing Bo Diddley ("Who Do You Love"). Robertson proved himself to be Clapton's peer (as opposed to "merely" the exemplary songwriter he was with The Band).
Then, oceans parted and bad politicians resigned from office worldwide: Steve Winwood, formerly of the Spencer Davis Group, Traffic, and Blind Faith (the last with Eric Clapton), took to the Hammond organ, its rich tones filling Toyota Park. This was the real Stevie Winwood, not the source of lustrous yuppie pop like "Higher Love" but the musician's musician. With Clapton's band, Winwood sang Blind Faith songs "Had To Cry Today" (thunderous) and "Presence of the Lord", but the highlight, perhaps of the whole day, was "Dear Mr. Fantasy," with Winwood switching to guitar. That song reminded all those in attendance what many in The World of Music seem to have forgotten: what a fine guitarist he is. A lengthy bliss-out on "Fantasy", a song I've never been all that crazy about before tonight, wiped the place out. We went to Rock Music Heaven and came back.
The finale: Buddy Guy, whom Murray referred to as "the local authorities," provided the capper of the day. Guy is one of the last of the breed of original Chicago blues players (that pantheon including Muddy Waters, Koko Taylor, Junior Wells, and Sonny Boy Williamson), whose volatile style has had a big influence on Clapton and countless rock and blues players over the past several decades. While tedious showboating and I'm-the-king posturing can sometimes mar his live shows, Guy delivered here, giving Clapton and the other guitar heroes a run for their money with just a few songs. Then, Clapton, followed by several other of the day's six-string experts, joined him onstage for a goodnight, fare-thee-well jam on the war horses "Sweet Home Chicago" and "She's Just 19"--the cherry on top of one of the biggest guitar sundaes ever.
The moral of the day, apart from say "no" to substance abuse, was simple: Love the guitar and it will love you back.
* * *
Mark Keresman is a Chicago-based freelance writer. He contributes articles and reviews on music and film to SF Weekly, East Bay Express, Primetime, Signal To Noise, JazzReview.com, and Clevescene, among others. * * *
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