I would like to report that your concert tonight at
Pittsburgh’s First Niagara Pavilion (located near the West Virginia border, 40
miles or so away from downtown) was AWESOME. I expect it still is, because as I
write, it’s ten o’clock and Jason’s still on stage.
Sadly, I am not there. I fully intended to be. I bought a
ticket, paid the babysitter, got in my car and hit the highway a full three
hours before the show was due to begin. Two hours later I hadn’t even left downtown.
Things did not improve. Four miles from the venue, the
two-lane rural highway — the only road leading to it — was again filled, bumper
to bumper, with cars, trucks and things that were not going anywhere. I know I
was four miles out because a large sign saying Burgettstown 4 miles was where the
traffic began. I can also attest that it was moving at the strolling pace of 4
miles an hour. I know this because it took another whole hour to reach the
exit.
The traffic began way, way further down Route 22 to the right.
By this time, I had been driving for four and a half hours.
It was nine, and starting to get dark. Folks put their headlights on. Some had
pulled over. Other folks had gotten out and were leaning against their
vehicles, drinking beers and chatting. Dark storm clouds rolled in.
Being a veteran of the First Niagara Pavilion’s parking
lots, I knew that even once you reached the entrance, you could reasonably
expect to spend another hour snaking slowly around to find a parking spot. I
knew that by this time, this spot would be at the very far reaches of the muddy
fields surrounding the venue, and that with all this traffic, lining up to
actually get in would take some time too. It was starting to rain, and no
umbrellas are allowed. Last year, there were so many people that organizers had
to open overflow parking a mile away in somebody’s field. That was incredible
fun to hike back to in the pitch dark after the show.
Not having eaten since breakfast, and having exhausted the
lone snack size Peppermint Patty I found in my car for emergencies, I also
realized that the possibility of food was a long way off.
So I am afraid to say I cut my losses. I took advantage of
the Emergency Vehicles Only turnaround, and turned around. As I gained speed
going in the opposite direction, I passed another four miles of backed-up
traffic which had been behind me.
So, dear Luke Bryan and Jason Aldean: if you were puzzled by
the strangely thin audience that lined the hillside tonight despite sold-out
sales, it was because we were all still outside. You may have passed many of
them in your tour busses as you exited, their headlights making a long, long
line in the Pennsylvania night.
The Inky Jukebox
would like to open this review of the Zac Brown Band by saying that it was, by
a long shot, the loudest show we’ve been to in recent years. And by “recent” we
mean since the mid-nineties, say. What liquid gold was poured into the
engineer’s pocket to make it so? Let us tell you how loud it was: a raucous
capacity crowd of 23,000 screaming people could not be heard above the music
they were singing lustily along with. That’s damn loud. From way out on the
lawn, it was deafening. The folks under the canopy probably staggered out and
fell over afterwards.
This is not a problem, however. Why? Because the Zac Brown
Band (ZBB hereon in) are musician’s musicians: each and every member can sing
and play their hearts out, and are allowed their own moment (or two, or several
minutes) in the spotlight to demonstrate this. Indeed, it is when individuals
are allowed to shine that the crowd goes wild, and with good cause. If you’ve
been to a ZBB show before, you’d know to expect some guitar fireworks from Clay
Cook, and Holy Moly, he brings them — but you might not have been prepared for
how far along fiddle player Jimmy DeMartini has come in terms of being
comfortable in his own space on the stage. The solo he delivers during “Neon”
is nothing short of astonishing.
Be patient and watch until the end of the clip
The Inky Jukebox
has tried to find a good clip of it on the YouTube,
and this one sort of shows you, but only towards the end. This one’s a year
old; at last night’s show, his solo has been extended and made even crazier, so
that he literally tears up the stage and sets it on fire. OK, not literally.
But he might as well have: you never saw a fiddle player exert so much energy
or play so fast in your life — and if you closed your eyes, you’d swear it was
a blistering electric guitar. Dude makes a violin sound for all the world like
a Gold Top. It’s something to behold and worth the ticket price alone.
Clay Cook, meanwhile, runs from the front of the stage to
the organ and piano perched above, stage left, the all-wound go-to guy for
basically anything that needs doing. He clearly relishes the attention and the
camera, and being an unlikely axe man who could give ANY of the greats a run
for their money. His “America The Beautiful” intro is a highlight for
the crowd, who, patriotic as they always are, sing along with gusto. He takes
turns leading the fray with Zac Brown himself, who’s no slouch when it comes to
picking. He can play FAST.
Crowd favorite “It’s Not OK” is delivered by be-whiskered
John Driskell Hopkins, complete with a moment of utter silence in the middle of
the song when everything comes to a stop so everyone can imagine crickets
chirping. Before the encore, the percussionist, Daniel de los Reyes and drummer
Chris Fryer engage in an epic rhythm battle that leaves you breathless.
At this point, you know that they are saving “Chicken Fried”
for the encore, and you’d expect to hear “Highway 20 Ride” in there too, but it
isn’t. Perhaps they have simply shifted it to make room for “Colder Weather,”
which appears earlier in the set, to much delight from the crowd. The Inky Jukebox was surprised they didn’t
play “Sweet Annie,” which seems like an obvious candidate to be a single off
their new album Uncaged, and that
they didn’t take advantage of Sonia Leigh, who opens for them, to perform together.
Speaking of which: this was a Hillbilly Hippie bunch, oh
Lawdy. There was tie-dye, there was reefer wafting in the night air, there were
beach balls a-plenty. And before any of it, there was a group of already
drunken backwoods boys in unlaced work boots, falling apart Wranglers, torn
shirts, cammo ballcaps and grizzled beards who approached the party in front of
The Inky Jukebox who were rather more
upscale. The girl was petite and immaculately groomed; her boyfriend looked
maybe 16, and like he was about to go off to college in the morning, in 1955.
“What up, Nigger Motherfucker!” one of the grizzly boys proclaimed, leaning in
to give Mr. Varsity a bro-hug. It could have been a comic scene, except for the
deep aroma of sheer terror emanating from the clean-cut crew. It was very clear
they had never met. The preppy folks gamely entertained the Mountain Men,
standing for awkward photos, as if they were afraid they were about to slip
into a Deliverance moment. One of the sweaty, gimpy bears got nacho cheese all
over the girl’s iPhone, which the boyfriend endeavored afterwards to wipe off
studiously with his shirt.
That’s love.
(Note to Clay Cook: When in the Pittsburgh region, don’t wear
a Braves shirt. It incites the natives to belligerence.)
Let there be no mistake: Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are
a hard rock band. If you have been confused by Potter’s collaboration with
Kenny Chesney into thinking she’s a country chick, you are wrong. Not that
Country chicks can’t be long-legged, flying-V playing, high-heel wearing
firecrackers, because Lordy knows, they can. But Potter lends her invincible energy
and considerable vocal talents to music that draws from a deep well of 70’s era
rock. I’m thinking the Ram Jam Band and Heart my have been a big influence.
If you look at the kind of songs they cover, you see a
smattering of Blondie, Grace Slick and ZZ Top, no slouches when it came to tearing it up
on stage with red-hot licks. Potter is helped along by what appears to be a
heavy hand on the echo machine, but this merely serves to bring her voice up to
compete with the screaming guitars.
Their latest album, The
Lion, The Beast, The Beat, opens with the title song, in which one can find
the lyrics “someone let the beast out” — and that’s just what the track does.
The record builds steam, so that the last two tracks, “One Heart Missing” and
“The Divide” are full-on amp-up-to-eleven blasts of rock majesty. (They start out slow to get a running leap at the finale.)
Imagine U2 or Coldplay with a hot female singer
In concert, Potter noted that the closest thing to a ballad
they have, a song called “Stars” is going to be their next single, and that
they re-recorded it with Chesney. The
Inky Jukebox isn’t sure why. It’s pretty darn good all my itself.
The only dud note on this amazing record is a track in the
middle called “Loneliest Soul,” which The
Inky Jukebox confesses not to have listened to, and in fact, to have
clicked off on the iTunes because it opens with one of those jangly, off-key
piano intros you only hear as music that signals the entrance of the scary
clowns. You know of what we speak. I do not want to be startled into terror by
these sounds. Perhaps the rest of the track is lovely, but I’ll never be able
to stick around to find out.
Brothers (and Sister) of the Sun: Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw
and Grace Potter, Heinz Field June 30, 2012
Heinz Field - great place to see a show
Early in Tim McGraw’s set, the woman sitting next to me
leaned over and asked “do you think he goes tanning?”
The man in white
The Inky Jukebox
opens with this because it seems to sum up something very interesting about the
Brothers of the Sun tour — those compatriots being the aforementioned Mr.
McGraw and his longtime pal Kenny Chesney. Billed as a co-headliner, the tour
(and everyone attending it) nevertheless implicitly understands that there is
no parity here — all is not equal under this particular sun. McGraw is opening
for Chesney, and anyone who doubts that ought to come out and see for
themselves.
A tanned Tim McGraw in his Christian Grey jeans
But back to the tanning. She asked this because of the deep
chestnut color of McGraw’s skin, which was emphasized nicely by his choice of
all-white, tight-fitting clothing. Surely this is a shade not achieved in
nature? We do not think McGraw goes tanning, no. Not in the way she envisioned,
in any case. Does McGraw care about his tan, however? Hells yes. The difference
between McGraw and Chesney is that Chesney popped out of his center-stadium
podium in a sleeveless grey shirt with a small sweat stain already darkening it
— a few songs later it was soaked through. Did he change it? No.
Honey Badger don't care about being sweaty
It was odd seeing McGraw do his set in the sunlight — after
years of closing shows in the prime spotlight, it was a bit sad to see him
deliver “Live Like You Were Dying” without the dramatic assistance provided by
darkness and lighting. (And by "sunlight," we mean scorching 100 degree solar glare. Hence the aptness of their cover of "Blister In The Sun.") His set was also weighted with too many unfamiliar
tracks — ending with his new single “Truck, Yeah,” which is far too easy to
simply call “Truck, NO.”
But lo, what light from yonder spotlight breaks? Why, 'tis a brother of the sun
Add to that the fact that there were still too many
yellow seats waiting for their tailgaters and the sheer volume of the crowd
once Chesney appeared, and you got the feeling that the torch had been passed —
and not just on this tour, but perhaps years ago.
Bring your beach balls, y'all
This show marked a historic precedent, which was marked by
the presentation of an iron plaque celebrating Chesney’s sixth straight sold
out show at Heinz Field. This is notable because although Chesney is obviously
a friend of football, and has made stadiums his own stages all across the
country, it genuinely feels as if the Heinz crowd responds in a special way.
Perhaps this is also because Chesney has the gift of actually sounding genuine
when he speaks to the crowd. It goes a very long way.
Raucous, drunken crowd enjoying the show
Chesney also knows a very significant thing about his
audience: we come to have a good time, and to hear his greatest hits. This, he
delivers, one after another, the entire show.
In the morning he'll be leaving, taking himself off to Cleveland, but for now he's mine, all mine
Jack-in-the-box
It is bookended by “Beer In
Mexico” and “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” the opening violin strains of which
whip the crowd into a frenzy.
Where's Kenny?
But the awesome spectacle of a Kenny Chesney concert was not
necessarily the highlight of the evening — it was Grace Potter and the
Nocturnals. Because they haven’t had a hit single, and folks only really know
of Potter through her duet “You and Tequila” with Chesney, it seemed odd that
she would go on after Jake Owen, who has had numerous hits. But as soon as
Potter strutted out on stage dressed in what looked like a low-cut black
bathing suit and flimsy wrap, her ridiculously long legs amped up on heels,
singing by herself, unaccompanied — the half-full stadium immediately sat up
and paid attention. Her entrance was astonishing — as was the entire set, where
she played keyboards, a sweet Flying V, and drums, all the while delivering a
husky-voiced blistering serving of blues rock. By the time she shook her stuff
to ZZ Top’s “Tush,” The Inky Jukebox
was sold. What was this girl like in high school? Wow.
First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA June 2, 2012
I get it with the security pat-downs at concert venues, I
really do. Those places are full
of drunken people who’d probably shoot you if they could. But when it takes an hour of standing
in a long line just to get from the parking lot to the turnstiles, all you do
is make a crowd angry for losing their tailgate buzz — especially when they’re
standing in the pouring rain listening to the muffled strains of the opening
act from outside the venue.
This is what we missed: Thompson Square
Why the lines? Because female fans have to get patted down
by female security guards — and it takes longer to do this because women tend
to have handbags that also require a search. One would think that it would make
sense to employ twice as many female security personnel to speed things along,
but no: at Pittsburgh’s First Niagara Pavilion Amphitheater, male and female
guards are alternated, the men generally standing there doing nothing except a
perfunctory pat-your-pockets to the odd male concertgoer who happens to want to
get in. It is worth noting that the men at country concerts tend to be wearing
nothing but shorts and a pair of boots — and maybe a hat — which a quick (or
lingering) glimpse will make obvious they are weapons-free.
The result of this — particularly at a show that tends to
attract a large female crowd, as it did for Lady Antebellum last night in
Pittsburgh — is that the venue quickly fills up with men waiting for their lady
friends. And what do they do to pass the time? They drink. Perhaps this whole
security detail thing is a devious ploy to increase concessions sales. In any
case, by the time the womenfolk show up, they (the ladies) are pissed, and
several drinks behind.
One of the many reasons they are pissed (in addition to
having missed the opening acts and the chance to use the bathroom before the
show starts in earnest, and any shot at a choice spot on the lawn), is that
they have stood for an hour only to get past security with the proviso they
surrender their umbrella. New rule: no umbrellas allowed. All 23,000 people
here tonight have umbrellas. They are also confiscating lawn chairs. Needless
to say, with pouring rain all day, the lawn is a tad wet.
It is with this in mind that I offer this gentle suggestion
to the bands: while it is nice that you thank us (as you invariably do) for
spending our hard-earned money to buy a ticket to come see you, you might also
pay attention to the weather conditions outside the tour bus and thank us I an
heartfelt way, for having endured several hours of standing in line in the
pouring rain. That would go a long way towards making your visit to our neck of
the woods seem less like an anonymous stop on your massive tour. (Am I the only
one who cringes when a band member begins “Hello…,” hoping they get the
location right?)
Sometimes, an attempt at appealing to local pride falls
flat. This is usually because some sporting reference is lost on a particular
crowd. Last night, Darius Rucker told a lovely anecdote about meeting his hero
Dan Marino, which was met with utter silence from the sodden masses, probably
to his puzzlement. This is because the crowd consisted of teenage girls whose
only notion of the legendary quarterback is that he’s one of those guys in a
suit on TV commenting on the game. They never knew that Pittsburgh was his
proving ground. They are also too young to appreciate the Hootie and the
Blowfish song that mentions crying when the Dolphins lose.
They are also too young to recognize Rucker’s magnificently
decadent version of Prince’s “Purple Rain,” which has become his go-to closer.
I think the girls standing near me thought it was a taste of his next single
and weren’t too keen.
Speaking of not being too keen, the female person whose
delightful company I enjoyed suffered for the hour of waiting to enter the venue, had
much to say on the matter of Mr. Rucker and his ilk. And by ilk, I mean black
people. I am still unsure whether this person was even aware she was attending
a concert at which a “nigger” (her word) was going to be tolerated actually
performing (she certainly wasn’t shy about letting everyone around her know of
her distain for the darker-skinned security guards). She was also on a tear
about the hoards of “bitches” from the other queues whom she perceived as a
threat to her place in line. She was a thin-featured, weather-beaten women who
was wearing earrings made out of Budweiser bottle caps, which she proudly
assured us she made herself. (“Y’all can find me in row H if you want me to
make you a pair.”) Poor row H: I wonder how their evening went?
For those still wondering why on earth Hootie has become a country act, consider this: if Hootie (and his Blowfish) were around today, they would be a country act; they're about as country as Lady Antebellum is.
More songs the young crowd don't know.
The earliest shows in a concert season are subject to their
own universe of woes. In late May / early June, chances are that by the time
the sun goes down it is pretty cold. If you are also soaking wet, you’re going
to be uncomfortable. Folks want to get their groove on and wear summer concert
attire, but ladies: shorts, tanks and flip-flops are not ideal when it’s only
54 degrees out. On the other hand, the men are all covered up (boo), mostly in camouflage.
They’re hard to spot. The number of darkly tanned girls at such an early date
is curious. The spray-on crowd are usually the ones sporting very
natural-looking two-or three-toned hair; black and white was popular last
night, as was purple and white, and a lady with red and white stripes.
If I am going to veer into the cruel world of fashion
faux-pas, I am duty-bound to mention the redneck girls who could stand to lose
50 lbs or so who have adopted the one-shoulder top. This is a garment designed
for women who are not you. It is not clear who, exactly, but most definitely
not a woman whose massive chest is being contained by an industrial-strength
bra. The whole one-shoulder thing sort of precludes a bra strap, no? While I’m
at it, if your face has not yet settled down from the acne that riddles it, invest
in a course of Proactive rather than spend your cash on facial piercings. Too
many spots.
As for Lady Antebellum: Mrs. Scott appears to have been put
on a diet, or marriage agrees with her. Mr. Heywood has a better haircut. (Y’all
know what I’m talking about.) And Mr. Kelley still looks like a really tall,
thin Muppet, but one with a voice like melted chocolate. When Hilary said they
only formed five scant years ago, it seems shocking they could be headlining a
tour, let alone one that didn’t haul out all of their hits. I thought maybe
“Hello World” might appear as an encore — but no. A song with that title for
their entrance onto the larger stage might have been a no-brainer, but hey,
what do I know.
If anything distances this season’s American Idol show from years past it might well be the sheer
industry-ready professionalism of the top contestants. There’s no doubt all of
them can sing, and most can work a stage. They all look pretty polished too.
Actually, it’s kind of neat to cast one’s mind back to the days when
contestants could dress themselves, picked songs by themselves, and didn’t get
squat in terms of vocal coaching. It was a hot mess, and we kinda liked it
because against all odds quirky no-hopers made it through on who-knows-what
vote.
But it’s been steadily improving to the point where winning
isn’t necessarily the best prize. Let’s face it: all of the top six at least
will get record deals right out of the gate, as have some very successful Idol
runner-ups in recent years. Kelli Pickler and Chris Daughtry have pretty solid
careers.
Phillip Phillips, so good they named him twice
The idea of a professional safety net has meant that
although no-one wants to go home and leave the fun (and grueling schedule)
behind, their goodbye performances are now as good as encores, delivered with
confidence rather than warbling tears. When Skylar Laine took the stage for the
last time (as an active contestant), she gave it some wellie taking on Miranda
Lambert’s “Gunpowder and Lead,” singing about going home to get her shotgun. A
lot of folks might think she’s getting extra redneck on them as a parting shot,
but Country music fans know this song inside out and recognize Skylar’s
well-chosen (but predictable) model.
This song has never been sung with such a beaming smile. Completely inappropriate.
Clearly the two best singers (if that’s what we’re still
judging here) in the competition are Joshua Ledet and Jessica Sanchez, whose
performances drip with technical ability and showmanship, remarkable for their
tender ages. But both are flawed: Jessica is simply too young to know better
when it comes to delivering mature songs the right way, so that many of her
performances look like highly competent talent show drills. Joshua can bring it
when he’s singing, but when he’s not he’s a charisma vacuum, who looks
considerably embarrassed to be on TV, especially around other men (his
insistent avoidance of any physical contact with Phillip after their duet was
painful to watch). The Inky Jukebox
suggests this is because he is sensitive to the gay rumors that have followed
him — mostly fueled not by his touching other men, but by his wardrobe choices
and general mincing.
Did it get hot in here?
Hollie Cavanaugh, the petite blonde fireracker with a
disarmingly bizarre accent, though no stranger to the bottom three, has managed
to slip through. Whether this is because she sings just well enough, or that
people are rooting for her in the derby between Joshua and Jessica as the
plucky gee-gee who could pip them to the post is anybody’s guess. People who
recognize her parent’s accents will know that hers is a wrestling match between
Scouse and South which might never come to a decision. At least it goes away
when she sings.
Well, hello
But this post isn’t about those guys. It’s about the Dark
Horse Phillip Phillips, the guitar-playing wunderkind whose eschewal of Tommy Hilfiger’s
fashion advice has served him well. Sure, his singing is a kind of growling,
and he is lauded as a musician’s musician, but some people wonder why he’s
still in the competition. This is because they are either straight men or
tweens. The reason Phil Phillips never gets a seat in the bottom three is
because grown-ass women think he’s hot. And he is. He looks like a young Steve
McQueen. He has that charming drawl and uses it to say things like “What’s yo
number? Your Daddy let you date?” The reason people are voting for him is
because they just want to see him on their TVs another week. The Inky Jukebox does.
Don't look down. OK, look down. You know you can't resist.
The criticism TV talent shows get is that they are simply
popularity contests, not ways to measure actual talent. Since all of the
contestants have actual talent, and heaps of it, popularity is all we have left
to go on. And popularity, as everyone knows, comes down to good looks. American
Idol has been under the gun because for several years mildly gifted but
decent-looking dudes have won. Mostly, they have used their win to disappear
quietly and never be heard from again. The
Inky Jukebox hopes that this doesn’t happen to Phillip. It’s entirely
possible that Joshua and Jessica will cancel each other out leaving him holding
the bouquet.
And when they do, he can bring it with him on that date yo
Daddy doesn’t want you to go on, because you know what happens on dates like
that. They never get off the bedbackseatsofatablestairs ground.
Joss Stone has recorded an album in Nashville with Dave
Stewart, and it’s pretty fantastic. Made from scratch in just six days, this,
the first release on Stone’s own label, is loose and raw, the way you expect a
record to feel if it’s been made so quickly — but in the best possible way. It
lets you hear Stone’s voice as if the microphone — and by extension, your ear —
were right next to her mouth. Every nuance of her sound is captured and if you
didn’t appreciate the beauty of it before, you sure will now.
The Inky Jukebox suspects that a great deal of the people
one attributes the platitude “they could sing the phone book” cannot in fact,
sing the phone book. Joss Stone, however, really could. This is because her
singing style is to basically talk, but to sing the words. This sounds more
simple than it is. She can sing loudly and not scream; she can hit her bottom
notes and not growl, even though her voice has some gravel in it.
Another thing Stone’s voice has is the ability to occupy her
throat like cream, the vowels elongated so that they are made way up high near
the roof of her mouth.
When Stone sings, it appears effortless. This allows her a
measure of comfort and confidence on the stage that produces the ability to
riff where the song takes her. A good producer will let her do just that,
because it’s where her voice bends around corners that sells records.
It’s hard to believe how young Stone still is, given the
professional stature she’s attained. This album is proof of that.
