Flutes are anathema, drummers use sticks
by Frank De Blase I’ve
been serving wine and cheese to the Broadway types seeing Aida at the Auditorium all week. I need some rock ’n’ roll or
anything loud, stat. But first, a brief, albeit sanctified, pit stop in
Fairport.
It was on a hot Saturday afternoon
that I saw my niece Angel receive her first communion. And despite my mother’s
warnings, I did not immediately burst
into flames upon entering the church. I was pleasantly surprised when the old
man next to me gave me a basket full of money (these Catholics are all right!).
But it was a rather long-winded ceremony for kids who know Tony Hawk better than
Jesus Christ. And the music was deadly dull. Uplifting? They needed the
Reverend Cleophus, bad.
The legendary Dickie Betts (Allman
Brothers) put on a Tuesday night stationary Southern-rock parade for
Rochester’s rurally rooted rock aesthetes. It was the forever-Stetsoned Betts
and Co., complete with two --- count ’em --- two huge drum sets and a percussionist. Betts pulled off a
comfy version of Dylan’s “Tangled Up In Blue,” but I split when the band broke
out the flute and chimes. It was off to the Dinosaur where flutes are anathema
and drummers use sticks. Period.
Steve Grills, in his standard
low-key manner, out-kinged all the Kings (Freddy, Albert, BB, Billie Jean,
etc.) and rocked the joint with a set that included a stellar rendition of some
rarely performed Miles Davis. Riding Grills’ shotgun side was my old guitar
professor, Phil Marshall of Colorblind James fame --- the man who taught me
everything I’ve forgotten. Phil has always burned the poker-faced blues, and as
a new daddy, is reevaluating the world through newborn eyes, despite his going
through “the tantrum stage” --- the kid, that is.
You don’t necessarily have to be
baked to dig stoner rock, though it might soften the deafening blow. The two
gals and a guy in San Francisco’s Lost Goat pounded out hook-rich power
rock with head-bowing grooves tossed in at the Bug Jar. Their onstage thrust
was menacing and cool. Seattle’s Fireballs of Freedom exploded in a set that
rocked hard but was --- I can’t believe I’m saying this --- too freakin’ loud.
When I started to taste blood, I knew it was time to resume the all-night David
Lynch film fest at my pad.
The other morning an individual told
me “it doesn’t matter, it’s only Rochester,” in referring to promoting and
playing live shows here. Well, it’s Rochester and it DOES matter. Apparently
somebody needs a hug. Back to the movers and rafter shakers.
Thursday night was Lowton night at
the Bug Jar, with the bass thundering mightily, riding the stage like a cross
between Washington crossing the Delaware and Lemmy in Rio. Man, I never get
tired of this stuff.
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