A slow bluesy solo played on a slide guitar started the night, and if you squinted your eyes up as the lights hit the stage just so, casting long dark shadows across the band, and you listened with just the right ear, you could almost see it. The guitar player in the long-sleeved tie-dye, with the scraggly Fu-Manchu beard, long straight blonde hair splattered across his forehead with sweat. As that same bluesy solo evolved into into the opening song of the night, “You Don’t Love Me,” you might feel as if it was 1971 and you were at the Fillmore East, close enough to the stage to feel the sweat drip from a tie-dyed Duane Allman as he played another soul piercing solo. But it is not 1971, it is 2005 and the guitarist was not the godlike Duane Allman (when God himself, Eric Clapton, asks you to play a solo on his song – see “Layla” – you are godlike), and as you un-squinted your eyes you could see the guitarist’s long blonde pony tail pulled back tight, and could make out that he was clean shaven. You realized that it wasn’t Duane Allman, but guitar wonder-child (is he still a wonder-child at this point or just a wonder to behold?) Derek Trucks. Trucks, who has the stage presence of a speaker cabinet, worships at the altar that Duane Allman built and clearly has learned his lessons well, as he at times channels the spirit of Saint Duane, while still bringing his own personality to the mix. Trucks lack of stage moves was just fine on this evening as the Allmans seemed intent on channeling the ghosts of jams past, and a band with the Allmans history has more than their share of ghosts.
The second song of the night seemed a direct invocation of Duane, as it was a cover of the Dr. John classic “I walk on gilded Splinters,” which Duane had added so much soul to on his cover of it, that was released on the Duane Allman: An Anthology Volume 2. Guitarist Warren Haynes seemed to channel original bassist Berry Oakley with his gritty version of “Hoochie Coochie Man,” which was always sung by Oakley before he died. Later in the evening Haynes again reached into the songbook of legends long lost as he broke out a cover of Otis Redding’s “Dreams to Remember.” Even bassist Oteil Burbridge who for so long was so obviously supremely talented, but so unused, got involved as he sang a cover of everybody’s friend Jerry Garcia’s “Franklin’s Tower.” The final tune of the set evoked the most recent ghost in the Allman Brother’s cannon, the fired, departed, left for personal reasons – you chose the reason – guitarist Dickey Betts, as they took an extended trip through his “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed.” Despite the traffic jam like beginning of the song that saw the band all piled up as they tried to find their own sonic territory, they eventually were able to unwind themselves and find a nice groove that gave everyone a chance to stretch their legs. A nice dueling solo with Trucks and Burbridge was a highlight.
With all the changes this band as been through, it begs to ask the question, “What makes a band a band?” Is this current incarnation of the Allman Brothers, still the Allman Brothers? They have been playing and sounding better than they have since arguably the 1970’s. After the dark period of the 1990’s which saw the band stagger along on cruise control, playing pretty much the same show night after night, they have over the last three years, been a revived, relevant sounding band, that is journeying into musical realms they had previously never visited. The bands set at this year’s Bonnaroo has been called their best in over a decade. With less than half of its current members being original, many people argue that no matter what they sound like they are not the Allman Brothers Band. To me a band is about the style and presentation they put on as a group, and the current group of the Allmans has got that style just right.
Much of the strength of the rebirth must go to guitarists Haynes and Trucks. The already discussed Trucks ability to channel Duane Allman goes miles in giving substance and believability to the new Allman’s style. Haynes is a different beast. While some deride his fairly straight ahead “rock-style,” that is precisely what makes him such a force. Haynes can play any simple riff and make it sound soulful, as if it sprang from the fingers of some guitarist in the Mississippi Delta, playing in some juke joint, on some back road. My friend once said to me, “I could watch Haynes play a kite string attached to a telephone pole, because he could make it interesting.” This and the fact that Haynes apparently knows more songs than any other person on the planet, as he is always adding a cover of some song that I seemed to love listening to as a child on my parent’s record player. Together Haynes and Trucks have infected the band with a brand new enthusiasm.
Haynes has also helped Gregg Allman greatly by taking on a good chunk of the singing duties, which has freed up Allman to be able to save his already gravely voice. Allman still sings the majority of songs, but he does not have to carry the band as much vocally as he had to do in the past. He still has one of the all-time best road weary voices ever, and as he sang “I don’t know why they call it Stormy Monday, ’cause Tuesdays just as bad” you could see heads nod in agreement, as Allman sounded like a man who might have had a couple of bad Monday’s in his day and we could all stand to learn something from him.
This evening the Allmans were a band, not the same band they were thirty years ago, but a new combination of players who refused to let the spirit of the Allmans go. The set list these days, still harkens back to the past with classics tunes gracing the stage, on this evening “Dreams,” “Midnight Rider,” “Statesboro Blues,” and “One Way Out” all showed their faces. But now sets are shaken up, there is less repetition of songs, newer songs recently written find their way into the rotation, Haynes mix of covers have found a spot in the set list, and Haynes and Trucks influence have helped to revive the Allmans from a decade long slumber.
As I left the arena after the show and the cool New England air slapped my face, I heard a motorcycle in the distant, I couldn’t quite make out who was riding it, but as I looked closely I swear that I could make out a man with a scraggly beard and long stringy blonde hair in a tie-dye, riding off into the distance and I could have sworn he was smiling.
Photos by George Weiss
