Posts by A.j. Crandall

Everyone has some sort of numeric equivalent that occasionally happen into their lives. It’s how we reasonably explain coincidences. Relate them to a common occurrence and they become less rare. The less rare something is, the more it is accepted as fact. Therefore, in an effort to explain our universe to ourselves, mankind has come up with some numerical correlations that see them through the day. Celebrities die in groups of three, right? Bad news, in general, comes in threes. In bowling, three strikes are known as a Turkey. In hockey, three goals by one individual is called a Hat Trick.

Three on a match is bad luck. Three’s company. Three’s a crowd. Third time’s a charm. I’m certain there are at least dozens more, but I do try to keep it readable, after all.

I am a firm believer in the vaguely scientific phenomenon known as “The Law Of Twos”. Similar in concept to the above cited rules of three, this one requires much less verification. Take for example what happened a couple of Fridays ago. In conversation over lunch, I mentioned to the wife that I hadn’t gotten a drunken, “I love you” phone call in a long time. You know the ones, from an ex or a long lost college buddy, where in a tequila haze they find your number and call you to remind you that they were there first, they loved you before and they still love you or they still can’t forget that pass you caught in a pickup football game in 1976.

READ ON for more from AJ on The Bridge at the Goodfoot Pub…

The Crystal Ballroom in downtown Portland is a wonderful place to spend an evening getting lost in good music. All the history the building holds aside (Little Richard firing Jimi Hendrix on stage in the ’60s for example) this is simply a great hall in which to see a show. There’s the balcony way upstairs. With comfortable seating and its own bar, high above the often moshing crowd, it allows for a more civilized concert experience.

Downstairs has the infamous “Floating Dance Floor”. Through some antique architectural procedure that is nothing short of amazing, dare I say challenging at times, the entire floor rocks under the gyrating weight of the hundreds of concert goers. But, for me, the place to be on the floating floor is the front row. Just high enough so that you don’t have to crane your neck to see the band and just low enough that the main speakers for you are the stage monitors. If you play your cards right, there’ll be a spot to stash your coat, bottle of water or whatever. Another added benefit to the front row, you meet the nicest people there.

Tonight’s front row soiree was a two barreled jam band attack of rock, soul, jazz and blues from the Bill Kreutzmann Trio and the Greyboy Allstars. Yes, tonight’s show was part of the two week long Portland Jazz Festival, and no, Joe Lovano didn’t come out and jam with either of the bands.

READ ON for AJ’s thoughts on GBA and the Kreutzmann band in Portland…

Music lovers are inherently prone to making lists. We do it all the time. Our mental instincts tell us to compare frequently. Learn which is better, rank whatever is on your mind in comparison to the last time you had a similar experience. Be the judge, it’s your opinion, after all, so it cannot be incorrect. Sports fans are of a similar ilk, albeit more obvious and statistic driven. List makers, the lot of them.

Ask a music lover to name three guitar players with real talent and you will get back as many answers as you think you will. Depending on the genre that happens to be their favorite, you may hear answers as diverse as Jimi Hendrix or Carlos Santana to B.B. King or Chuck Berry. Satriani, Clapton, Page. Trey, Muddy, Warren. First name, last name, it makes no difference. Everybody has their favorite player in each genre. So let’s narrow the playing field, shall we?

Ask the same music lover to name three jazz guitarists with the most talent still making music and you’re fishing in a much shallower pool. Pat Metheney belongs on the list, that’s a given. A very strong case could be made for Bill Frisell to be sure. Al Dimeola, Robben Ford, Les Paul, where do you start?

I’ll tell you where you start: John Scofield. Note for note, Scofield has been atop that list for decades. An imaginative composer and innovative improviser, his legacy has continued to build with each new release; 33 of them since 1977. And that’s just as the main artist. He has collaborated on more cuts than I care to count and made every one of them a better song in the process.

READ ON for AJ’s review of John Scofield at the Portland Jazz Fest…

There are few music venues in Portland as intimate as the KINK.FM Live Performance Lounge. Nestled in the center of a suburban looking office building, less than 200 yards from the I-405 and in the heart of downtown, it’s a dimly lit conference room turned music cave where wonderful things occur on a practically daily basis. The first half of February is no different. M. Ward, Fiction Family, Tyrone Wells, Lisa Hannigan, Ben Taylor and Todd Snider will spend the lunch hour with about 50 or 60 lucky listeners and staff members; playing a few songs, telling a few stories, signing autographs.

To long time listeners, and you know who you are, it is the ‘Golden Ticket’, a chance to share in the magic. You are THIS close to the performer, making a real connection and hearing a one of a kind performance. Acoustic, mostly, and delivered without the din of background noises that will no doubt compete for your aural attention later that night at whatever venue you’ll wind up going to see them at. Plus, the nice Performance Lounge sponsors throw in an energy drink to enjoy, which comes in handy to stave off the stomach rumblings of 50 to 60 people who have delayed lunch to see the show.

Two days ago, the Golden Ticket arrived via e-mail. “You’ve made the cut” it began. I was in. Tyrone Wells, who was appearing Thursday night at the Aladdin Theater, would be the special guest. I caught him the last time he came to town and remember being taken by his rapport with the audience. He interacted with the fans, told engaging stories, both as a set up to as well as the main thrust of his songs. I was really looking forward to it.

READ ON for more about A.J.’s experience at KINK-FM…

Every now and then, you get surprised. It doesn’t happen every day, getting really surprised, I mean. I raised two children (and their friends) through their teenage years so there have been times in my life I was surprised to find there was any cereal left in the cupboard in the morning. But finding a twenty dollar bill in the pocket of a two dollar shirt from the local thrift store kind of surprised isn’t as common as one might think.

Surprise is a totally perception based premise. Let’s face it. If you knock on the door and a naked, middle aged man or woman answered, your reaction would most likely be one of surprise, shock, perhaps even outrage. But if you were raised in a nudist colony (Naturalist preserve to be politically correct), your reaction to the birthday suit welcoming committee would be more along the lines of “Morning, Mom, Dad” as you brush past them to the cupboard to get more cereal. Everything’s relative.

So I had tickets to see James Morrison open for Adele Tuesday night at the Wonder Ballroom. Here was my perception of these artists prior to walking up the stairs and through the double doors into the hall. Musically, I was familiar with what I heard on the radio; Morrison’s soulful Nothing Ever Hurt Like You and Adele’s Chasing Pavements, Right As Rain and Cold Shoulder which she performed on Saturday Night Live (I had tuned in to see the Sarah Palin vs. Tina Fey stare down).

READ ON for more of A.J.’s review of Adele and James Morrison…

When you hear the word “acoustic” associated with a concert, it conjures up visions of acoustic guitars and bar stools on stage. The drummer becomes a percussionist; everyone sits on the stools and plays their music without all the decibels and hot dogging. It’s more about the music than the show.

MTV made sure we were all familiar with the concept with their “Unplugged” series. Everyone from Sting to Nirvana to 10,000 Maniacs has played that venue. When your favorite band adds and acoustic set to their show, the tunes are approached differently by the musicians. Sometimes the results are wonderful, ala Springsteen’s Born To Run on the Chimes Of Freedom EP. Other times, not so much, like Motley Crue trying to pull off Girls, Girls, Girls with Tommy Lee on congas. Just can’t get behind that one. Truth in advertising laws aside, inserting the word Semi- between the first two words appearing on the ticket would be closer to what we were treated to at the Aladdin Theater on Friday night.

Los Lobos put a slightly different spin on the acoustic label tonight. They started on time, all five members fanning out at the front of the stage with, true to their word, acoustic instruments. Like a mariachi on steroids, they strummed and harmonized their way through a first set that consisted of mostly Spanish vocals and joyous interplay. When Louie Perez stepped to the mike to sing Saint Behind The Glass four songs in, they were already sweating. From the front row, they looked like they were having the time of their lives. Even Cesar Rosas, the epitome of cool behind his ever present dark shades, was grinning ear to ear.

READ ON for more of A.J.’s review of Los Lobos @ The Aladdin…

Sunday is the end of the weekend no matter how you cut it. You work nine to five for five days running and between the commute and the assholes at work, by Friday you have had a butt full. So, Friday night you either get the party started, exposing the pent up angst from the work week to your personal party mantra, or you retreat to your home, relaxing in preparation for some time to yourself. The next 48 hours belong to you, not the job.

The weekend is made for chores, sports, family, socializing etc. Some weekends are busy enough you actually look forward to getting back to work so you can slow the pace. On those weekends, Sunday night is the cooling down period. An early dinner, check out 60 Minutes (“Rooney, trim those damn eyebrows”) and decompress. Center yourself and prepare for the next five days of nose to the grindstone. That is unless the “Here Comes The Law” tour has hit your town on Sunday night. If that’s the case, you may as well leave your boss a voicemail saying you won’t be able to make it Monday morning and then go to the show. There’s a better than 50% chance you won’t be crashing early enough to get to work anyway.

The Here Comes The Law tour features three energetic artists from Law Records: Georgia’s Passafire, the Supervillains from Orlando and the Big Island’s Pepper. To categorize these three bands, folks use words like reggae, ska, punk, and funk. Descriptive pigeon holes. These bands all rocked. READ ON for more of AJ’s Here Comes The Law tour review…

It is sometime in January, 2009. January is the season of lists. The best, worst, sexiest, scariest, highest grossing, lowest common denominator, fill in the blank type of lists that are generated, ad nauseum, between Thanksgiving and whenever the February issues of magazines first hit news stands. Who had a baby, affair, divorce, face lift, pilot picked up, sitcom cancelled or got left at the altar. There are a million of them out there. I really admire the spin most periodicals put on their “In memory of . . .” lists. They come in handy when the ‘Ghoul Pool” finals are tabulated.

[All photos via LedZeppelin.com]

On a grand scale, the lists are just to remind the public of what occurred over the last 12 months before the awards season starts. I mean, really, does the content of any given list matter to anyone other than those on the actual list? Other than the smug self satisfaction and validation one may feel by having a common thread in any of these lists, (“Marion and I saw six of Leonard Maltin’s top ten films this year, aren’t you thrilled?”) they merely serve as fodder for water cooler discussions. These discussions, more often than not, dissolve into pissing matches of one-upmanship, noteworthy only for the imaginative ways the debaters make their point (Gus Van Sant is on that list. He’s from Portland, you know!”)

In any case, this being January, I should be assembling some sort of itemized listing of things that may or may not be important enough to rank in order, from ten up to one, one being the best of these items, in my humble opinion. The most obvious column to select from would be concerts I have attended during 2008. Live music is my muse, if you will. Its power over me has been lifelong and vital and, from it, I derive much more than simple happiness. It could be two guys with guitars in a coffee house or yet another Kiss reunion tour, I would still do my best to get up close and enjoy the show. And I usually do enjoy the show. It is rare for me to pan a performer who, despite how high (or low) on the talent scale his chalk mark reaches, is still baring his or her soul on stage for others to hear. It takes guts and ought to at least be respected for what it is.

READ ON for AJ’s memories of catching Led Zeppelin at MSG in 1971…

For three nights, at the end of 2008, a six piece band from Stillwater, New Jersey held court at Portland’s Aladdin Theater. The imaginative music machine that is Railroad Earth descended on the Rose City for a sold out three night stand, bringing along hundreds of fans from around the country to dance and sing along, reconnecting with other, like minded RRE fans (they refer to themselves as ‘Hobos’) in a deadhead-like, brotherly manner.

For starters, I met up with John and his new camera, from Tacoma. The camera was a Christmas present (Duh, it’s December thirtieth). Anyway, while we chat away, up comes Howie, from Brooklyn. He exchanges hugs while changing his shirt. It may be cold and rainy outside, but Howie is going to get tank top warm in the front row tonight. There was Marv and L.T. from Ventura, California, Sam from Nevada City, Nevada, Kurt from Nampa, Idaho. Frank was from outside Denver, Arvada I think he said. Jack and her boyfriend Will came all the way from Butte, Montana.

I was surrounded by visitors. Tourists. Tourists with cameras and cell phones and changes of clothing. I asked myself, “When did the Aladdin become a vacation destination?”

Apparently, it becomes a destination spot when Railroad Earth put down three days worth of roots. Known for their wizard like mastery of their instruments as well as their ability to improvise and accentuate each others talents, RRE dedicated this particular run as a New Years Celebration of Land, Sea and Air. Three themed, multi-set nights of world class Americana, roots/rock/bluegrass/jazz delivered in the cozy confines and wonderful acoustics of the Aladdin Theater.

READ ON for more of A.J.’s thoughts on RRE @ the Aladdin…

Year after year, it is tough to top KINK.FM’s holiday benefit concert. Proving their station’s motto, “True To the Music”, the KINK staff outdid themselves once again. Christmas spirit, a kick ass silent auction and four headliners on the same bill, this yearly extravaganza is truly the show to see in Portland.

Start with the silent auction. Hundreds of items that run the gamut from a hand picked, 20 CD pack of KINK.FM artists to an electric guitar signed by John Mellencamp. Not your cup of tea? Spa treatments, autographed and framed concert posters, drum sticks, symphony tickets, hotel and resort stays. You get the picture. All done with great class and benefiting the Oregon Food Bank. This year’s take: over $23,000.00!!!

First up on the stage, the Bay Area’s Matt Nathanson. My first time seeing him, I was taken by his stage presence. Nathanson has an easy stage presence, relaxed and in control. Tossing one liners to the crowd while checking his tuning, he set up songs with phrases like, “This one is NOT about sex, it’s about ice cream”. He related a story about ‘Poop knocking at the Atlanta airport’ to introduce his wonderfully romantic song (up till I heard his explanation) song, Still.

READ ON for more from KINK-FM’s Holiday Benefit Concert…

Remember G.E. Smith? You remember, long blond hair, a jaw line that is kindly referred to as ‘chiseled’ and enough guitar playing talent to be the de facto band leader whenever he plays anything, even the radio. Sure you remember him. He toured for years with Hall & Oates. Led the Saturday Night Live Band for about ten years. Heck, I think he was even married to Gilda Radner about that same time. Played with Dylan, Jagger, and Bowie. He even led the house band at Live Aid back in ’85. Yeah, THAT G.E. Smith.

Well, he’s taken on a new persona in 2008. He is forever on to be known as “Hardwood Moonalice”, tireless guitarist and bass guitarist for Moonalice. Moonalice, according to legend, is a Native American tribe that dates back to the beginning of time. They were nomadic hemp farmers whose clans were called bands.

You see where this is going already, don’t you?

Moonalice, the band, played the Aladdin Theater the other night as opening act for the New Riders Of The Purple Sage. I was pumped for the headliner, but was blown away by the nomadic minstrels who came on first. The current Moonalice line up include the following, in no particular order: Jesus H Moonalice (the incredible Barry Sless) on bass, guitar and pedal steel, Sir Sinjin Moonalice (Pete Sears, from Hot Tuna, Rod Stewart Band, Jefferson Starship et al.) on bass and keys, Blue Moonalice (Ann McNamee) on vocals and percussion, Chubby Wombat Moonalice (Roger McNamee) on guitar, bass, and finally, Dawnman Moonalice (Jimmy Sanchez) on drums.

READ ON for more about the New Riders and Moonalice at the Aladdin…

Twenty years is a long time by most standards. Think about it. What were you listening to seven thousand three hundred and four days ago? Not exactly that many days back, but in general, where were you, musically? I would guess that a certain percentage weren’t born yet. Another portion was too young back then to remember anything musical beyond Fraggle Rock or Raffi. Others were caught up in the hair band vibe of the late eighties.

But, in the great Pacific Northwest, there had been rumblings for several years of something different from the norm. Music that eschewed the high production values of more mainstream music ala Bon Jovi and Poison, while keeping the high energy rock aesthetic of punk. Traveling up and down the I-5 corridor from Seattle, through Portland, Eugene and points south, were bands that had embraced hard core, loud, fuzz infused guitar and vocals of what would soon be referred to as Grunge. Ducky Boys, Mr. Epp, Deranged Diction. These bands filled bars nightly up and down the left coast. Disenfranchised youth had a voice again.

Premier among these bands was Green River. Named for a then still at large serial killer, G.R. formed from the dust of several of the aforementioned I-5 denizens. Signed to the newly formed Sub Pop records, they lit up the scene with ferocious live shows, screaming, angst filled vocals and a thrasher style of music that struck a nerve and made you take notice.

READ ON for more from AJ about Green River’s return to Portland…

Living in Portland for the last thirty or so years has been such a blessing for me. It’s a clean, modern city with a rich history and diverse population. It is the fiftieth largest media market in the United States. Still a big city, but small enough to make anyone feel welcome in the City of Roses.

Hell, I’ve fished for salmon in a river downtown on my lunch hour. And the river isn’t crowded during lunch hour. Put a forty pound, edible fish in the East River and hundreds of folks would be dangling lines from the Williamsburg Bridge, elbowing each other out of the way while hot dog carts sold ‘bait dogs’ for twice what you’d normally pay for a dog with all the fixings. Having grown up in New York, I am familiar with the crowds at shows. Lines snake around the block to get in, tickets selling out in minutes, parking more expensive than the cover charge. I don’t miss any of that crap. There are definite advantages to living in the fiftieth largest media market.

So, when touring musicians make the Northwest swing between San Francisco and Seattle, they will usually spend a night in Portland and play one of the many small to mid range halls here. The Wonder Ballroom is just such a theater. Built in 1914 and historically restored, it holds about 700 when packed. Good acoustics but small restrooms.

The Nightwatchman happens to be one of those touring musicians stopping in Portland between metropolises. That he stopped in the Wonder Ballroom was a bonus. He brought along an engaging opening act, a new album full of heartfelt songs and referred to himself in the third person all night (as in “The Nightwatchman may have had one too many Jameson Irish Whiskeys before the show.”)

READ ON for more of A.J.’s Tom Morello: The Nightwatchman review…

My, oh my, is anyone else as sick of the political bullshit as I am? It isn’t bad enough that gas is hovering around $3 a gallon (I can’t believe I am actually celebrating the fact that I can fill up for less than $50) or that the economy is in the toilet, or that pretty much every business in the world is losing money faster than a rookie poker player trying to impress a new girlfriend.

By the sheer luck of the calendar, Americans are inundated by dumbed-down, personal attacks and dirty trick political ads as the date we choose the next leader of the free world draws near. Ballot measures with questionable wording and suspicious origins generate divisive diatribes between the pros and the cons, tossing around words like boondoggle and accusing the other side of various nefarious goings on. What the hell IS a boondoggle anyway? (For the record, I know what a boondoggle really is, but I use the phrase for effect. Don’t obsess on the details)

So it’s Friday and the day job has been really busy, and the radio and television won’t shut up about whom I ought to vote for and who approves this ad or that and I checked my 401K and found out that I’ll probably have to work an extra twenty years before I retire and the furnace only blows cold air and probably needs a few hundred dollars to make it hot again and all I can think of is I need to get away NOW. I need to escape, hide, hole up, hunker down in my own little Camp David and regroup. I know. There’s a great show at the Aladdin tonight. I’ll saunter in to the sold out former porn theater and lose myself in the musical atmosphere emitted by Ryan Montbleau and Martin Sexton.

READ ON for more of A.J.’s review of Montbleau and Sexton in Portland…

Do you remember that fad/game in the eighties, ‘Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon’? It was based on the supposition that anyone in the world could be connected to any other human (presumably the queen of England) being by six steps or degrees. The game was to connect any other entertainer to Kevin Bacon in six steps. Mark Mothersbough, from Devo, was in a Neil Young movie called Lost Highway. Kevin Bacon and his brother performed as the Bacon Brothers at a benefit concert with Neil Young. See, it’s easy.

The challenge for me tonight was to connect Mickey Mouse with The Grateful Dead. It was a lot easier than I thought. All I had to do was get to the Aladdin Theater in time for the opening act and it was game over. Allow me to explain.

Tonight’s double bill at the Aladdin started with one Matt Morris. Morris hit the stage with a wide smile, an acoustic guitar and a great attitude. He announced that this was his first time ever in Portland and had put a lot of thought into his first song, placing a certain importance on the first note of first song he played in our fair town.

That song was Chief, a story song involving enjoying the street all day. The audience took notice right away, his voice getting our attention and his words keeping it. I have read of comparisons to Rufus Wainwright and Jeff Buckley, but I got more of a Kenny Loggins vibe from his performance. Maybe it was the beard, but he connected right away with a Portland crowd that wanted to be entertained. After the first two songs someone shouted out “Sing about pain, Brother”. With perfect timing, he shot back “You guys don’t know my music yet, (his only release to date, an ep Backstage From Bonnaroo and Other Acoustic Performances is five songs deep) so you shout out ‘themes’.” He called this the first ‘Interactive” concert he had ever done. Changing the set list to match our whims, he played about pain (Bloodline) and then greed (Money).

READ ON for more of AJ’s Joan Osborne/Matt Morris review…

We all know about Mondays, right? The most dreaded of the days is Monday. Jim Davis has sent kids to college on the royalties he’s earned from his Garfield cartoons related to the first workday of the week. I Don’t Like Mondays, the dramatic retelling of true events set to a back beat provided by The Boomtown Rats, professes to wanting to “Shoot the whole world down” instead of facing another Monday in the classroom. Let’s face it, Monday’s reputation sucks, no question. Why, when people are having a bad day in general, they are often said to be having a bad case of “the Mondays”.

But not THIS Monday. This Monday was one I had looked forward to for weeks. This Monday was when Back Door Slam was coming to town. Not only were they playing the relatively intimate confines of Berbati’s Pan (I last saw the band at Bonnaroo with approximately 10-20,000 festival goers) but I was going to get to witness a set at the legendary KINK Live Performance Lounge, capacity; about forty. This was the best case of the Mondays I ever had.

Before the band came out of the green room, I spied guitarist Davy Knowles wiping blood off his turquoise Fender Strat. Apparently, he had gotten a little carried away at the end of the previous evening’s performance in Denver and sliced a bit of finger during the encore. Clean instrument in hand, the threesome played a forty minute set of classic blues (John Hiatt’s Riding With The King) and newer songs they have been working on for the follow up to their debut album, Come Home. BDS (Knowles, Adam Jones on bass and Ross Doyle on drums) played with every bit as much passion in that intimate setting at noon as they did in Tennessee last June.

READ ON for more of A.J.’s Back Door Slam @ Berbati’s Pan review…

I was all set for a great night of music on Wednesday. Three bands that I have never heard of or seen. Well, not true, really. I had heard of Liam Finn, but never experienced his music. I had done quick Myspace and YouTube searches and came up with a thumbnail synopsis of how he does what he does. With his use of loops and drums and guitar, all in all a pretty unique sound. It made me look forward to his portion of the show.

But first, there were two other bands to open the festivities. I purposely didn’t check either of them out ahead of time. Surprise me, I thought. Give me your best shot, let’s see how you rock and roll.

The venue for tonight was the Doug Fir Lounge. Originally a diner attached to a motel, the Doug Fir underwent a major overhaul a few years ago and became one of the premier smaller halls in Portland. The diner still functions as it was originally designed, and the motel still rents rooms with a unique catch. Obviously knowing their clientèle, the managers turned Room 117 into a retail establishment where guests may purchase any of a myriad of sex toys, videos and the like.

Below the parking lot, on the street level is a tattoo parlor. Upstairs, next to the diner is the cocktail lounge and below that, the concert hall Looking like the inside of a log cabin (Made from, of all things, Douglas fir) the room has a nice feel and great acoustics. The best seats in the house are on the steps, just below the sound booth. Perfect sound and view above the bouncing heads on the floor, plus an easy shot around the corner back to the bar. Nice digs all around and SO Portland.

READ ON for A.J.’s thoughts on the three acts in question…

I appreciate live music for many, many reasons, not the least of which is the uniqueness of the performance. Not that the artist has not performed the material a million times in front of audiences more or less identical to each other. But on any given night, something can occur that hasn’t ever been seen before. The band could pull out a cherished song they usually don’t play live. There may be a cover tune or holiday treat that may not be appropriate elsewhere or at another time. Admit it, the first time you heard Springsteen and The E Streeters giggle their way through Santa Claus is Coming To Town, you wished you had been there that December night in Syracuse.

The audience at Edgefield Manor on Saturday night was treated to just such an event. The surprise this night was the opening act and its interaction with the headliner. John Callahan and his trio, aptly named Callahan began the show shortly after six on a simply perfect early autumn night. John Callahan is well known around Portland and the world as the irreverent underground cartoonist, whose weekly single panel strip often deals with the less than perfect side of life. A quadriplegic since a 1972 accident, the author of such black humored titles as He Won’t Get Far On Foot and Will The Real John Callahan Please Stand Up? is also a singer songwriter with one release to his credit, 2006’s The Liberator.

Callahan’s songs tend toward the darks side, much like his cartoons. Suicide and tears and memories of his Portland girl filled lyrics behind well crafted, almost bluegrass melodies. Jim James came onstage and joined in for a few songs on acoustic guitar and background vocals (the aforementioned uniqueness factor) and the pair harmonized like they were brothers. Callahan commented that one song in particular felt like having feeling in his legs. Live music magic, right there, my friends.

READ ON for A.J.’s thoughts on My Morning Jacket’s set…

“Shitty day, people. It’s been a shitty day.” So spoke Fareed Haque to open the first set from Garaj Mahal at the Fez Ballroom on Thursday. He went on to explain that a certain unnamed airline had lost his six thousand dollar jazz guitar earlier that day. What did he get in return for his six thousand dollar guitar, you might ask? “Three hundred dollars and a phone number,” he said. “That’s all I got from them, and that is what makes it a shitty day!”

Of course, that meant Haque had to play his Moog guitar, the only other guitar he had brought with him. The Moog is a beautiful instrument that doubles as one of the most versatile guitars in the world. In the hands of one of the most versatile guitarists in the land, it seemed a win-win situation. That seemed okay with the rest of the band as well. They proceeded to tear the Fez to pieces and the next few hours flew by.

Garaj Mahal hits the stage with no set list. They play a game of round robin, songs are chosen by each member of the band when it’s their turn. They will call it out or start the song and the rest join in. Everyone in the room sits back and enjoys the vibe. Well, not exactly sitting back. In fact, the dance floor was awash with an audience that truly danced like no one was watching, lost in the jamming excellence in front of them.

READ ON for more of A.J.’s review…

As luck would have it, my buddy Zoomer came up with tickets to the first of two sold out show at The Roseland featuring The Raconteurs.

I had seen them at Bonnaroo this past June. The area in front of the main (What) stage was jam packed all the way to the sound booth; I’d guess at least twenty five thousand strong. This situation was not conducive to getting up close and personal with the band. So, my brother Ed and I chose to sit in the June sunshine, make some new friends and blatantly use The Raconteurs as the soundtrack for that portion of our afternoon. It worked out well because we wound up getting into the pit up front for the next two acts on the main stage that Friday night; Chris Rock and Metallica. We were well rested and ready to rock.

But back to last night. Seeing The Raconteurs in a venue that maxes out at 1,400 was much more about the band than the Bonnaroo experience. Zoomer and I met up on Burnside Street a block from the Roseland. A homeless man from the mission around the corner seemed to be having an argument with the dinner tray he carried as he paced up and down the street. Apparently, the chocolate cake on the tray disagreed with his entree and he was trying to get them to settle down. Making sure the truck was locked, we flipped the guy a five and went into the club. As is my habit, I staked out a spot up front and waited for the show to start.

READ ON for more of AJ’s Raconteurs @ The Roseland review…