Robert Randolph & The Family Band

DONNIE LISTENING PARTY
30 September 2002: NoHo — New York City BLIND BOYS OF ALABAMA
3 October 2002: Bowery Ballroom — New York City

by Kandia Crazy Horse

A Love Just Like the Holy Ghost It’s not quite clear whether or not the States will suddenly see another wave of hippie Jesus Freaks akin to the early 1970s type, yet, amongst the jamband crowd, the youth seem to have discovered religion. Generations XYZ are typically described as Godless (at least by traditional standards). Still, if the jamband followers who have jumped on Robert Randolph’s train to Glory are not strictly religious, they remain animated by something like Faith at his shows. The Irving Plaza gig last month, another barn-burner, was no exception. The crowd, comprised mostly of people who hadn’t attained their 30th year, figuratively prostrated themselves before the scintillating altar of Randolph’s sacred pedal steel. Seated upon a stool which could barely contain him over the course of the show, Randolph looked much more of a cross between an around-the-way baller and a pimp than a youthful church deacon in his Randolph X-L athletic gear and feathered black derby perched cockily over a doo rag which concealed his trademark cornrows. Even his pedal steel was as purple as one of Hendrix’ famed guitars. Fronting the Family Band made up of bass, drums, second guitar and Hammond B-3, the steel phenom in his early twenties from the House of God was the Aughties embodiment of a sacred/secular dandy figure recognizable in black neighborhoods coast-to-coast since this country’s African population migrated northwards from indenture and became urbanized. Robert Randolph in concert and on the circuit is the fulfillment of a long line of shadowy men’s desires and he seemed cognizant of this fact, retracing the meteor that is his relatively brief career. He referred to his first gigs out of the church at the East Village’s Lakeside Lounge and praised the NYC Freaks for tuning into his thang. He stated that some of his handlers and others kept predicting that he could be huge but he himself was fine with the level of audience he had assembled at Irving Plaza. For my part, I sincerely wish him well in his career and find him to be a promising talent — having caught his second ever “outside” gig — but can hardly tolerate his draw. After a sanctified opening instrumental segueing into jams wherein Randolph made his steel talk like Bernie Worrell’s signature synth blips and farts and the bassist slapped that motha like Bootsy, the crowd began to get out of hand. Pogoing straight up and down into the air, these people were, for the most part, not the kind, blessed-out jammy kids but rather the kind of hardened, incipient alcoholic and nicotine-addicted social predators that invaded the Haight-Ashbury after the halcyon moment of the Summer of Love. A simple case of no home training. For one such customer, spitting on me and jabbing his cigarette in my face was not sufficient; he dared to question in a drunken leer, when he saw me taking notes: “Did you come here to write or did you come here to party?!” Suffice it to say, without further elaboration, that the infamous “angered sister look” silenced him. Nevertheless, the show went downhill from there. Even Randolph standing up to point at the crowd and shout “I got joy when I think about what you done for me!” was not enough spirit to turn the tide. Inevitably, one wonders what Randolph and his cousins see when they look out beyond the lights, pondering parishioners so different from what they’re previously accustomed to. A black, Jewish, holy roller soul singer from Lexington, Kentucky? Those who consider Lenny Kravitz both prophet and triumphant embodiment of post-deseg biracial and multicultural impulses won’t know what hit ’em. Presenting Donnie . . . A mere day and change later, in NoHo, another Young Turk refugee from (in this case) the Hebrew Pentecostal church, Atlanta’s soul sensation Donnie (single-monikered only) entertained a select gathering in a luxurious penthouse high above lower Broadway. As guests of the label Giant Step, this very different assembly of press, record biz types, assorted hipsters of renown and hangers-on had come for introduction to the ATL’s great treasure and his forthcoming debut The Colored Section (which drops on 29 October) that played throughout the evening. This season and beyond, Donnie, an extremely gifted and growing musician related to greats Marvin Gaye and Les McCann, currently on tour in Japan, will be the name to drop amongst the hip and sonic cognoscenti. Illuminated from within as ever, recently gifted with vintage “Colored Entrance” and similar signs by a friend in the audience, Donnie sang selections from the album accompanied solely by Justin Ellington on piano that were enough to make one weep. I wept, thoroughly enjoying songs I’d first heard live and in demo form over five years ago, prior to Donnie’s “discovery” by Giant Step’s label head; a lot of other folks snapped and clapped in unison. Bulbs flashed. Necks swiveled. Brothers cried out. Sisters beamed. And the collective if inaudible sigh that permeated the room seemed to suggest that the true pretender to the soul throne, like the irrepressibly optimistic and dreamy Black Eagle of yore, was in full ascent. What our bright-eyed blackbird sang included: “People Person”, “Heaven Sent” and “Our New National Anthem”. All impeccably written and arranged songs primed to conquer the world. The concept album is a late modern masterpiece about the true black power of freeing oneself from mental and physical slavery — partially through the healing power of love, framed by the reprised “Welcome To The Colored Section”. Other than my avowed favorite “Heaven Sent”, The Colored Section‘s key songs include: “Cloud 9”, “Big Black Buck” and “You Got A Friend”. Let us hope that Donnie’s combined message of clear-eyed thinking about America’s racial divide and human-centered uplift proves as irresistible to the mass as Robert Randolph’s sacred steel. Like Clara Ward, Aretha Franklin, Edwin Hawkins and his idol Donny Hathaway before him, Donnie is at the vanguard of successfully taking sacred tradition into the secular sphere to create music of timeless value. As for me, the very first time I overheard Donnie rehearsing his band through the muffled wall in their rehearsal space at Atlanta’s Moonshine Backline — they were doing “You’ve Got A Friend” — I exhaled. Some other musicians who no doubt believe in the Second Coming are the famed Blind Boys of Alabama, in town that same week to do a series of shows including the annual Jammys awards ceremony. Surprisingly, I managed to catch Robert Randolph & the Family Band a second time last Thursday at the Bowery Ballroom as they subbed for the Blind Boys’ band for the first half of the latter’s concert. Performing the bulk of their new CD, the white-suited trio of Blind Boys led by Clarence Fountain stunned and dazzled a far more mature if equally turned-on crowd eager for respite from the torrential deluge sweeping through the City. In their (admittedly customary) shades and blinding white, the vocal Blind Boys were a trip and a half, beaming at the opportunity to be in the Apple once again while simultaneously mischievous about their aim to preview the new CD, Higher Ground (Real World). Mr. Fountain said: “When I preview it, I want you to get it and review it.” Guffaws ensued. Yet the Boys needn’t have bothered with any kind of sell; they were essentially preaching to the converted. Anyone in the house who had never seen them in action certainly left that show infused with the Holy Ghost. Some long time observers of the “jambands” or groove music scene find that Robert Randolph is not a good listener and tends to showboat during his sets. However, his accompaniment of the Blind Boys found him very subtle, restrained and respectful of their artistry, leaving plenty of room for the primacy of the voice. (Perhaps the distinction arises in settings where Randolph is required to hark to his upbringing in the church rather than merely entertain an audience who demands much yet essentially nothing of him but technical razzle-dazzle). Meanwhile, the septuagenarian Elder Fountain is saying, “My voice is shot . . . and I’m shot too.” The little pun bombs kept a-coming but nothing could restrain the juggernaut of the trio’s amazing array of harmonies. Their long set skillfully blended “Negro” spirituals such as “Wade In The Water” and “Amazing Grace” (sung surprisingly to the melody of “House Of The Rising Sun”) to Aretha’s “Spirit In The Dark” revised as Chicago blues echoing B.B. King to young ‘un Ben Harper’s “We Shall Not Walk Alone” and (a bit of shock) Funkadelic’s “You And Your Folks, Me And My Folks” (!). So well did the Boys mimic the screams of Billy “Bass” Nelson and get them “yeah, yeah, yeahs” down, I expect them to cover “Free Your Mind And Your Ass Will Follow” on the next record with Michael Hampton guesting on guitar. Prior to the Family Band’s departure, the ensemble delivered the high point of the evening, an electrifying cover of Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground” which closed with Randolph’s Hendrixian coda. Despite more recent retakes by the likes of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the song seemed to go over most of the attendees heads (maybe if Phish does it . . . ? Hey, they’ve done “Boogie On Reggae Woman”.) Nonetheless, the Boys’ “Higher Ground” had all the vim and vigor of the original minus the punk histrionics of Anthony Kiedis’ version. The sole (and humorous) change they made was an alteration to the fourth verse about “lovers keep on lovin'” (smile). Now the blind drummer is led out by a third guitarist — the rotund bass player who with diamond-studded earlobes, a row of gold teeth, silky cummerbund, and slicked back hair looks like the slightly less heavy baby brother of BET Comic View’s host Bruce Bruce. “Bruce Bruce II” joins his brothas on rhythm (Afro) and lead/falsetto (Baby Dreads) and locks straight into the groove (the accent was thicker than peach cobbler during the band introductions). The Blind Boys promise to take us back to Alabama where they come from. And so they do with the doo-wop of “Run Along For A Long Time” then giving way to Curtis Mayfield’s enduring standard “People Get Ready” reflecting the earlier “Freedom Road”: Ain’t gon’ let nobody turn me ’round . . .” Then: All you need is Faith to hear the diesels humming . . . You don’t need no ticket, Just thank the Lord ”Baby Dreads” really outdid himself here, coming off like some stray oddity from Willie Mitchell’s house band, falsetto keening on the second verse and his leads seeming to splice the picking styles of Curtis and his disciple Vernon Reid. And the Boys were trying to spread equal light to the audience amidst all the rude chatter, saying, “Where we come from, we like to praise the Lawd . . . let folks know there’s a reality in serving God.” The further Word was: “We didn’t come to New York lookin’ for Jesus. We brought him along with us right? . . . [He’s] a heart fixer and mind regulator who’ll stay by your side . . . Let your holy spirit fill the house . . . ” And so the band launched into “Send It On Down” and white-haired Mr. George Scott was shortly lifted off the stage and went out into the crowd followed by “Afro” to minister to the wayward Gothamites for almost a half-hour (or so it seemed). Spinning, screaming, falling out, spreading It around, Elder Scott’s mighty powers infused by the Holy Ghost arrested Time Itself inside the Ballroom and refuted any reality other than the present one bound by his voice, the elastic band and the ecstatic call-and-response and laying on of hands from the audience. Virtually speaking in tongues, he and “Afro” circumnavigated the main floor several times, reenacting the ritual James Brown and his MC/valet are famed for: “Afro” trying to return the Elder to the stage and the latter breaking free to spin again and shout out to his flock. Then, we in the Tradition joined in singing I’m a soldier in the army of the Lord!!! (recently covered to great effect by Lyle Lovett for the soundtrack of The Apostle and were teased by Randolph’s nod to Hendrix’ “Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)” when the band members stepped out by turns. What I would have given for a tambourine. So inspiring were the Blind Boys of Alabama that I resolved on the spot to return to Georgia, apprentice under my preacher Aunt Sweetie Mae, and take over my late grandfather’s Baptist church with a newfangled music ministry approach in the vein of Bay Area’s Church Of Saint John Coltrane. Minus the gold teeth, cigar and Cadillac, I was suddenly my grandfather’s child again during the moments that the Elder Scott toured the Ballroom and felt on the verge of redemption. Then I awoke scant hours later to a groggy and grey Friday morning realizing that my maternal Great Aunt’s stay in hospital for cancer was certainly trying what ever vestiges of faith I possess — while reinvigorating hers — and I would remain, as ever, an pagan infidel and a godless child. For fleeting moments though, I could feel what the (new) Bar-Kays once sang: Your love is like the Holy Ghost. . . . Robert Randolph had cried “I don’t know what you come to do!” back at Irving Plaza and the command boomeranged to the Bowery and, like Butterfly McQueen, I dood it. By the time the Blind Boys actually said, “We fittin’ [sic] to leave you now” to cries of dismay, Elder Scott’s parting message was: “If you never see the Blind Boys again, remember Jimmy Carter told you: “Someone watches over me”. Can I get a witness? Can I get a witness . . . ?”