Carolyn
Wonderland: Saintly sinner
by
El Dormido
Friday, August 2nd, we conduct an anthropological expedition into the phenomenon of the Friday night long party at the Grand Emporium, starting of with the Rush Hour Rendezvous and continuing through the evening's entertainment with Carolyn Wonderland opening for Buckwheat Zydeco. Estimated time for this enterprise is equivalent to a full workday. However there is the additional requirement of consuming intoxicants throughout the night which can be a performance enhancement or degradent, however it works out, for whatever biopharmacological combination engaged in, specifically, alcoholic beverages as a primary indulgence.
Our primary target is the phenomenon of Carolyn Wonderland and the grip she has on her audiences. We also want to check in on Buckwheat and the usual attendant alumni from the Ultimate Rhythm and Blues Cruise who show up at every chance to relive the wonderful seagoing experiences at which Buckwheat is a presiding presence.
But first off we get a chance to see Bobby Carson tear it up in the aforementioned Rush Hour spot.
We last caught Bobby shaking his head after witnessing an incredible performance by Johnny A and company. Apparently it lit a fire under Bobby, who said he'd been wood shedding ever since. Consequently Bobby's performance was incendiary, tight guitar figures circling around themselves, spiraling off into long lines of improvisation that brought huzzahs from the early evening crowd. It was great to see Bobby dominate this way, getting out of cramped spaces and opening himself up full tilt.
It was a great way to start the evening, settling in with some of Amazing Grace's fried chicken and luscious pork chops floating by on paper plates, greasing up the fingers and satisfying the appetite.
Bobby puts us through several hours of hot stuff, the crowd slowly gathers, my partner VG, ensconced on her barstool, deals enjoyably with the fried chicken. This is her introduction to Carolyn and reacquaintance with Bobby, so she is happy and beaming her usual radiance vibrantly.
A slim black garbed fellow sat down next to me and, since I had seen him outside leaning against a traveling van, I introduced myself and noted that any friend of Carolyn Wonderland was a friend of mine. He introduced himself as Cole El-Saleh, Carolyn's keyboard man. I offered to buy him a drink and he accepted a bottle of cold water. I asked him about that and about the title of Carolyn's latest CD, Alcohol and Salvation, and he just laughed. "No," he said, "it was just the title they came up with and not any statement about one thing or another."
He also introduced me to Gauloise loose leaf tobacco, a significant improvement over the manufactured product which I remember smoking in my misspent youth, emulating those French antiheroes like Belmondo in "Breathless" even though the smoke was something akin to burning old, dirty socks.
Cole said he'd been with Carolyn several years, and the band's name changes from day to day, place to place. The Imperial Monkeys, Blues Band, Wonderland, whatever comes up wherever, doesn't seem to matter since it's the music they make together that is the bottom line.
Carolyn comes through the door and walks down the length of the bar, warmly greeting everyone who comes up to say 'hi', remembering faces even though the names may be hazy.
Carolyn,
frankly, is a favorite of mine but this is the first time in
a while I've been able to take a long drink of her
intoxicating brew. To me she so naturally embodies an
essence of American music, that mix of blues, country,
gospel, rock 'n' roll, and roots music that is a special
flavor musicians from Texas just seem to exhale by nature.
Carolyn's band has been with her pretty much consistently over the years, and it is a seamless unit, Carolyn out front but not ahead. It doesn't hurt that Carolyn herself is an adept guitar slinger, finger picking, slashing, shaking it all around. She'll also blow a trumpet solo to great affect. And then, of course, there is the voice.
Scott Daniels is the second guitar. The two of them seem like an extension of each other, the guitar licks trading off in a natural blend, the solos swapped back and forth all of the same conversation, he said she said, in total agreement. Carolyn and Scott also write together, which affirms the unanimity of mind.
Cole on keyboards takes his spots effortlessly and with distinction. He frames the sound, providing the context which holds the big picture together.
Bob Perkins on bass and Eldridge Goins on drums lay the unerring foundation for the band, by turns propelling it forward, or settling it into a tune, whatever is necessary.
Carolyn has a big and wonderful voice, a powerful instrument for the music that just rises up in her. The passion dictates what comes forth, whether palintive and sorrowful, or stuttering intensity, or whimsical frivolity.
Carolyn is not a loud singer but a forceful one, of the same caliber as Shemekia Copeland, as able to blow you away as draw you into her cry, or tickle your fancy. And the band is right there with her, as forceful as Carolyn's voice, giving that voice a fitting musical context.
Some bands with strong singers don't quite mesh. They comp behind the vocal, solos are taken, and the song ends. All the parts are there and that's what you remember, the parts. Carolyn and her band are all of the same voice, as it were, so that Carolyn doesn't dominate or overpower but, rather, serves as the lens through which the music finds its focus.
It's to everyone's credit that it works in such a unified way, a lot of road time out there, a lot of 'non-game ecstasy', ego-loss blending. That's what makes everything work so well, through all the different styles, different lyrics, different dynamics.
Carolyn goes from a 'man done her wrong' funky rocker to a gospel tune to a smoky blue jazz number, that voice stamping it's character on each tune but working each one through from where it comes by turns, no genre untouched.
There's a heavy, punchy blues figure powering a rocking shouter with a muscular second guitar lead and swelling organ fills, a seamless interplay between the 2 guitars as the tune carries on.
There's a tune with a country lilt, a Rick Derringer number, a snaky Latin song featuring that trumpet that Carolyn plays the same way she sings, and the Etta James' tune, 'Something Got a Hold of Me', which just about sums it up right there, for every body.
Don the bartender has by this time delivered several shots of amber liquid that Carolyn has knocked back without a pause. VG is definitely impressed, as much by Carolyn's country manner as by the music itself. You see, after finishing a number Carolyn just steps away from the mic and is just this 'golly, aw shucks' country girl who is apt to put her hand to her mouth in a shy gesture as she thanks everyone so much for being so kind as to listen, she practically curtsies, sometimes giggles in surprise at what just happened. That's another wonder of her performance, not a star turn at all but just folks together having a great time.
And I realize there is this marvelous dichotomy to Carolyn's performance. The songs of love, lust and loss, drinking and sinning, heartache and pain, sacred yearning, walking down the road alone looking for the next turnout, all welling up in Carolyn and spilling out all over. Yet its a performance of innocence and wonder that draws us to her. Its all natural and real, no artifice.
She'll knock back that shot, lead the band through a tune that stomps the hell out of you, then take you sweetly to a loving place by her side with that innocent grace, curtsy, hand to the mouth giggle. Then watch out: "Grab your honey or grab your beer, 'cause this is it!", she yells and launches into another hard charging song of drinking, sinning and longing.
Carolyn uses everything and makes it work. She'll put her hands together over her mouth during her vocal, a whimsical wah-wah sound like a plunger mute on a trombone. That trumpet comes out and you realize she could make her living just doing that! She'll dance and stomp amid the music, shaking the guitar around, and it all comes out naturally right.
Needless to say Bobby's audience has become Carolyn's crowd, whooping and hollering and giving back love. And it ain't just a shout out because of mere sensationalism. It's a collective exultation, because that innocence and wonder draws you in and that music transports you with the joy of it being made. By this time we are about six hours into the night, tomorrow looming around the corner, cigarette packs empty and crumpled next to the ashtray, empty bottles and glasses swept away as Don and Tom keep the bar clear, and Buckwheat Zydeco's band is assembling on the stage tuning up. There is now hardly any room to turn around. VG has faithfully kept her barstool fervently occupied, and we are full up.
It's not to put a knock on Buckwheat Zydeco at all, we hang in for several tunes, but, frankly, we are played out. It's not excess but rather like that lassitude late Sunday afternoon, after the meal and all the fellowship and good times, and it's time for us to say good-bye and go. So we head out ourselves, leaving a capacity crowd beginning to crank up to that Zydeco that makes the feet just want to dance. Buckwheat is resplendent, exhorting the crowd and leading the band through the beginning of a hard charging set that will likely go on near to 3 AM.
By this time I'm not sure about the anthropology of the thing. The audience grows through the evening, Bobby and Carolyn and Buckwheat each finding the people welcoming and responsive. It's a night when everyone gets what they came for, the performers as well as the gathered throng.
Carolyn is off to Des Moines for a Saturday night show, and then the trek to Sturgis for her annual appearance at the bike rally, a saintly sinner carrying her gospel of music through day and night. And she doesn't go alone, thankfully, cause those Imperial Whatevers are in total cahoots with that gal.
Happy trails one and all, until we meet again.