Sheryl Crow Rocks

The breakout star of last night’s Rascal Flatts show at Burgettstown turns out to be someone who’s already had, in her own words, “a long career.” While the Flatts put on their usual slickly produced modern country / aw shucks revival spectacle, it was Ms. Crow’s opening hour-long set which made the price of admission seem cheap. By the time she came onstage, the sun’s last glow had all but dropped from the sky, and the massive crowd was in place, tailgating having wrapped up early due to the drizzle. If Crow thought “this is a perfect opportunity to blow the lid off this joint,” she was right. And she did.

It is no secret that Sheryl Crow has given up the pretense of being anything other than a country singer in recent years. Perhaps this is because country music has expanded to include her kind of sound in its ever-widening definition of the genre. Listening to her deliver classics from deep in her catalogue last night made The Inky Jukebox hear them in a new light, where they sounded fresh and relevant — the sing of a good song if ever there was one. In particular was an exquisite version of “Redemption Day,” which likely only those as old as Crow in the audience will recall from her early work, but which was recorded by Johnny Cash late in his life and only recently released. His vocal made an appearance for a verse, and it didn’t seem at all forced or sentimental. It was during this song that Crow also demonstrated one of what would be many subtle examples of her experience and professionalism as a performer, when she gentled the song down to whisper-level, the crowd completely rapt, before ramping it up with emotion once again.

It was this display of utter confidence as an entertainer that impressed and surprised The Inky Jukebox the most. Crow treads the stage with aplomb, and lets her astounding range and vocal acuity free to improvise the way good singers know they can, the band completely behind her. She plays a mean guitar, but a meaner harmonica. Oh Lordy, can she wield that thing like a blues master — at one point breaking “Best of Times" down into one long rollicking harmonica-driven train ride hurtling the song and the crowd down tracks to who knows where; no-one cared; it was great.

Crow appeared to really be having fun up there, and the crowd was on its feet dancing and applauding loudly after each song. She looked in fine form physically and stylistically too; many a younger female singer could take a page from her book. When she re-appeared later on to perform two songs with Rascal Flatts, she added a bit of much-needed sexy spark to what always feels a bit over-rehearsed when it comes to their “ad-lib” sections.

If you have the chance to go see her, do. She’s better in person that on record, which is saying something.

Jason Aldean’s Night Train Thunders Through Pittsburgh

Aldean and Owen Will Rock Your Face Off: 

First Niagara Pavilion, August 16^th, 2013

Jason Aldean

When the night train rolls through Homestead PA, it makes a long, mournful sound as it snakes around the river, which can be heard from The Inky Jukebox’s bedroom. It is a distinctly American sound, and one which has inspired musicians for generations with its preponderance for metaphor.

Jason Aldean’s Night Train Tour, named after his latest album and single, also rolled through the Pittsburgh area last night, but it made quite a different sound. It rocked your face off.

Actually, it made The Inky Jukebox’s ears feel like they were going to explode because the engineers had turned the amps up so loud it was painful to be anywhere near the front of the lawn at the First Niagara Pavilion. The Inky Jukebox has been to a great many concerts, but this was by far the loudest — perhaps to reach the largest number of people possible, as the sell-out crowd was packed past capacity, with areas normally off-limits opened to concertgoers. So The Inky Jukebox did something she’s never, ever done before: moved further back.

View from mid-hill

That being said, Jason Aldean’s show was the best live music experience so far this year, which is saying something, given the stellar line-up. It wasn’t the most flashy; it didn’t involve the most stage banter; it wasn’t the biggest spectacle — but he delivered pitch-perfect hit after hit non-stop all night, in an unabashed rockfest designed to rattle your teeth and leave you chanting “USA! USA!” along with the punch-drunk crowd. (You know a show has been a winner when 23,000 people break into spontaneous patriotic chanting.)

The Inky Jukebox was actually just pleased to get into the venue, something that wasn’t possible last year, when she missed the show due to a traffic jam approaching the amphitheater exit which must also have prevented thousands from seeing Aldean and his tour mate, Luke Bryan. The year before that, there were so many cars that The Inky Jukebox was forced into overflow parking in somebody’s field a mile from the venue and missed the opening act (Chris Young). One can safely say that Aldean has been very popular in these parts for a long time.

Of course, Aldean has many more hit songs from which to draw this time around, and the crowd around The Inky Jukebox wanted in particular to hear “Night Train,” which was duly delivered at the end of the evening. Further up on the hill, every word was sung with gusto by happily drunken fans, clinging on to one another in sloppy groups or couples, dancing.

One of the highlights of the show was when Kelly Clarkson appeared as if in the flesh (and a red dress) via hologram to sing the duet “Don’t You Wanna Stay.” When a guest star comes out to sing a duet, you want it to knock your socks off, to be even better than the record, and this was. There is nothing remotely like hearing Clarkson’s real-life vocal power, hitting notes mere mortals could never reach. That she wasn't actually physically present was something you couldn't detect from the hill, which was astonishing. 

Aldean’s stage presence has matured too. Whereas two years ago he shuffled nervously on stage from one side to another with nary a word to recognize the crowd, this time around he prowled confidently, delivering an extended ad-lib introduction to “1994,” and pausing to raise a toast to the Pittsburgh Pirates, who as of this writing are at #1. Calling out a town’s sports teams is a good way to connect with them, and this was location-specific in a way that didn’t feel Hello Cleveland! (In a related note, When Aldean mentioned Justin Bieber as part of an anecdote, you never heard such a thunderous boo. “Y’all hatin’ on the Beebs!” he remarked.)

Jake Owen

Pairing Aldean with perennial opening act Jake Owen was a great match, as both have the same audience and general delivery. Owen too has matured as a performer in recent years, getting accustomed to playing larger gigs with an ever-increasing set-list of his own hits. He always provides an energetic set, bouncing around the stage barefoot, with a solid band. He kicked it off with “I’ll Go Anywhere,” the up-tempo leading track form his last album, and ended, surprisingly, with a brand new song — something The Inky Jukebox has never seen an artist do before. It’s always something of a risk to play unheard songs, and Owen dropped this one on the crowd at the peak of his set. The Inky Jukebox and the rest of the packed crowd were not let down: “Days of Gold” proved to be a pumped-up anthem that is sure to be a huge hit.

Jake Owen levitates!

During set change-overs, the crowd was entertained by DJ Silver, who spun popular tracks, which is a nice touch at a show. However, the way he fiddled with the tempo of the songs and broke in with his own comments during key lyrics left the crowd unable to sing along the way they wanted.

And finally, The Inky Jukebox has been itching all season long to write a post about badly dressed concert-goers, but has shied away. This guy, however, is a hero and his cause needs to be aired. Sir: the ladies hear you loud and clear. 

Awesome Aviators!

The Worst of the Best

Rolling Stone Produces Another Completely Irrelevant List

It’s been a while since The Inky Jukebox had a Rolling Stone rant, so it made perfect sense for the latest issue to really yank our chain. It’s a theme issue, purportedly to showcase “The Best Live Acts Now (The Greats And What Makes Them Great).”

There’s no point, really, in getting upset about their list of “The 50 Greatest Live Acts Right Now” because it’s so predictably and outrageously silly. Sure — there are some undeniably good live acts on the list (#1 is Springsteen, duh, and Jann Wenner would have bust an artery is the Stones had been placed any lower than #3), and we understand that this list is going to be a mix of mega-money makers and smaller acts, but when whole genres of music are shut out the list is meaningless. Who is Tame Impala? Who is Janelle Monáe? Who is The National? Who are the Sleigh Bells?

Where is Kenny Chesney? Where are Jason Aldean, Brad Paisley, Carrie Underwood, Luke Bryan? Where is Eric Church, for Gawdsake? (He’s #40!) Taylor Swift comes in at #49, just ahead of that “Stadium Slayer” Fiona Apple. I’m calling her that because a few pages later, that’s what Rolling Stone calls Swift. Seriously? Fiona Apple?

What on earth could be the reason behind this grotesque absence of country acts? (And don’t tell me that Rolling Stone is all about rock music which is why they can ignore country — have you seen how much hip-hip it covers?) The answer can be found when you see the line-up of “experts” they polled. Out of 24 people, the breakdown is as follows: Music Industry Execs = 8; Rolling Stone and other journalists = 4; musicians = 12. But let’s take a closer look at the alleged musicians, shall we? There’s extremely relevant Perry Farrell, Pete Wentz, Trey Ansatasio, someone from Fall Out Boy, someone from a long-named band I don’t have the patience to type out, BOTH Tegan and Sara, and always fair-minded Lars Ulrich. It’s a hipster convention. Shockingly, the lead singer of Alabama Shakes was a voter and her band made it to #16.

On page 48, there is a mini-article called “Because Country Is Where Arena Rock Lives” and it has the underhanded slap of an insult. Every single positive thing mentioned is credited to an old rock act, as if country acts have nothing of their own to offer but mimicry. Rolling Stone assures readers that these acts play plenty of rock covers (by the Rolling Stones!), employ stage designers from rock acts, and imply that even Eric Church, whom they evidently admire, borrows heavily from Metallica (thanks Lars!). As long as mainstream media fail to account for the inherent strength of country acts and treat them like pale imitations of the dinosaurs of old, they will never get a fair break.

No BS: Blake Shelton at Pittsburgh, Aug 2, 2013

Red-Red-Red-Red-Redneck

Blake Shelton has a pensive moment

The Inky Jukebox does not know whether Blake Shelton, experienced entertainer that he is, should be taken at his word when he appeared taken aback at how populous and exuberant the Pittsburgh crowd was on August 2. It had been years since he’d played in the area, and his star has risen in recent years by dint of his role as a coach on The Voice. From what The Inky Jukebox heard, a number of concert-goers were there to see what he was all about for the first time. We’d like to believe he really meant it, that he wasn’t just delivering schlock when he expressed his appreciation. Why? Because Blake Shelton appeared to give his all and delivered a rollicking good show.

 

He may have said he was nervous, but he sure didn't seem it. 

What makes a good show, you ask? Well, playing hit after hit after hit helps. Playing them well doesn’t hurt. 

An acoustic set out in the audience

The banter with the crowd in between songs was not only detail-oriented (referring to actual people in the actual crowd), but funny as hell. It doesn’t matter if the old hidden-mullet-in-the-hat trick was a tad predictable; the way he pulled it off made us all laugh out loud. We did not LOL; we laughed our asses off. 

Some beach, somewhere. 

Mr. Shelton can also really play and really sing, and he makes being on stage look effortless.

Here’s Shelton singing his hit “Home” after getting the crowd to twinkle their cell phones. It was purdy.

Footage courtesy of The Inky Jukebox

The crowd at the First Niagara Pavilion was thick and in the mood to party, and sang along to every word. 

The hill already packed for the opening acts

They were even out in force for the opening act, country music nice boy Easton Corbin, who gave a solid set of the old-school country style, liberally sprinkled with fiddle leads and lap steel. He delighted all by pulling out two bang-on covers: Brooks and Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” and Alabama’s “If You’re Gonna Play In Texas.”

Easton Corbin

Corbin was preceded by actress-turned-country cutie-pie Jana Kramer, who flitted about the stage in an outfit designed to please (the boys): tank top, leather hot pants and Louboutin heels. 

Well hello, Jana Kramer. 

With her long dark hair and legs for miles, Kramer is one of those ladies who is clearly always the hottest girl in the room (or amphitheater). It’s no wonder Brantley Gilbert said “I’ll have her, thanks.” She can sing just like she does on her records, needing no celebrity partner to carry her weight. The line to meet her after the show was LONG.

The more he drinks, the more he drinks, the more he drinks. 

Go see Blake Shelton. The man is a born entertainer and gives you your money's worth and then some. He's no BS; he's the real deal.  

Chesney / Church: How Forever Feels

Saved two months

Bought a little diamond

Tonight’s the night

Feels like perfect timing

“She said yes! She said yes!”

The boys of summer

After seven consecutive years playing Heinz Field, Kenny Chesney is right when he says that attending his shows has become a summer tradition. The 58,000 fans who sang along to every last word all appeared to have made that tradition theirs.

It’s just as well that they sang along, because it didn’t seem as though Chesney’s mic was working all that well — it picked up the upper register of the choruses well enough, but the verses suffered intermittent loss all night. The Inky Jukebox has attended three Chesney shows, and this time, the sound balance favored the guitars so much that every performer’s vocal suffered.

This technical difficulty didn’t stop the love, however. The last time The Inky Jukebox saw the Eli Young Band play, we had our hands on the stage. They have since had enough hits to bring the pre-show audience alive. 

Eric Church tore it up, delivering a blistering set that translated admirably to such a vast venue. He seemed genuinely taken aback by the roar of voices singing along.

Chesney did what he does best: drop a solid two-hour set crammed to the gills with hit after sing-a-long hit. Behind him, a supermoon rose from the Pittsburgh skyline in an arc to center stage, providing an enormous celestial spotlight.

These boots / Have counted off many a band...

Halfway through his set, a young man seated two rows down from The Inky Jukebox proposed to his pink-hatted girlfriend, and she said yes. Much high-fiving with everyone around him ensued, he wearing a giant smile and declaring how happy he is. The good spirits defined the crowd, many of whom had been partying for days in advance of the show, in boats parked 13-deep outside the stadium at the head of the Ohio.

Sitting outside in the heat at midnight, having stopped for a soft-serve on the way home, an old man saw The Inky Jukebox’s hat and asked if we’d been to the Kenny Chesney show. The Inky Jukebox said yes. “Lucky dogs,” he replied.

He was right.

Brad Paisley: Total Pro

His Southern WV / PA Comfort Zone

Brad Paisley gets up close and personal

The Inky Jukebox has been to many, many live shows over the years. Memories of them tend to be a vague blur. But I can recall in sharp detail the very first one I ever attended: it was Kris Kristofferson at the Royal Albert Hall, and I was ten years old. Perhaps it was so memorable because it was a grown-up outing, or because the venue was so impressive. But mostly, I think it was because of the physical sensation of feeling the music resonate in my whole body, rather than just hearing it with my head. And the volume: live music is LOUD.

Thus it was that I wanted my own children to experience that world-changing sensation at a similar age. This weekend, I took my son to see Brad Paisley for his ninth birthday. He’s a music fan, and he’s learning to play guitar – a ¾ size Fender. And he loves Brad Paisley.

If you’re going to bring a child to a show, then Paisley is a good bet: he puts on an entertainment extravaganza, and it’s all family-friendly. His use of the video screen as an interactive tool is better than anyone in the business, and makes other acts’ generic imagery seem like it belongs to a bygone age. My son’s mind was blown again and again by the visual humor and trickery that accompanied and enhanced the songs. When, at the end of the set, Paisley lets his guitar drop into what looks like a water tank, he gasped; moments later Paisley himself leaped in, appearing to splash. It’s a neat bit of showmanship that doesn’t grow tired even if you’ve seen him do it before.

Three Brads

Paisley knows how to keep a crowd engaged, and at this venue – the amphitheater of his youth – he understands that moving out into the crowd to be closer to those on the lawn is important. Sure enough, when he moved to a small stage just 20 yards from where we stood, it gave his acoustic set added resonance. My son was thrilled that he could actually SEE him up close. Unlike some big name performers, he doesn’t seem afraid of the crowd. He also peppers his show with localisms that raise huge cheers; there’s no “Hello Cleveland” moments here.

If there’s one performer that my son loves more than Paisley, it’s Carrie Underwood, his awards-show hosting partner. Expecting to see her appear on the big screen for her part on the duet “Remind Me,” we were delighted that she actually appeared onstage in the flesh, and boy, did she sing her guts out.

If that wasn’t enough, Paisley had a genuinely astonishing special guest liven up part of the show: six year-old Avery Molek, the drumming prodigy, came onstage to deliver a blistering rendition of “Hot For Teacher” on the concert kit with the full band. The Inky Jukebox got it on tape. Want to impress a nine year-old wanna-be rock star? That’s the way to ignite ambition right there. 

Lady Antebellum: Hello World?

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.

The damp and shivery Inky Jukebox X