Tampa Calling

I first saw Tom Petty in the very early 1980s, and have probably attended seven or eight of his shows. The guy (and his band) have never let me down, never delivered anything short of a high-quality concert. And some of those concerts were nothing short of terrific. I can’t say that about many (any?) other of the hundreds of performers I’ve seen and reviewed over the years (decades).

Same thing happened last night at the St. Pete Times Forum. Petty and his five Heartbreakers delivered an enthusiastic two-hour set, exquisitely paced with moments that ranged from exalted energy to pensive reflection.

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Last night a Ruth Eckerd Hall, sitting at her piano on a stage decked out to look like a living room, songwriting legend Carole King came across as a pretty hip, sweetheart of a grandma. She pronounced proudly that she’s 66 years old.

When King exhorted everyone to sing along to the chorus of “Natural Woman,” she raved to the audience, “You guys are great!”

No we weren’t. (Although I did feel liberated crooning, “You make me feel like a natural woman.”)

After awhile, I was half expecting Carole to break out the chicken soup.

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A reader named Ron Michael took serious offense at my preview of this week’s Dave Matthews show (which ran in last week’s CL). He sent me an e-mail, but I figured I’d give him a more public say. I applaud his passion, although he’s considerably off base in some of his more personal attacks on me. At any rate, I invite you folks to weigh in as well.

Here’s what I wrote:
Jam at the Amp
By now, I realize it’s a waste of effort to point out that Dave Matthews is a substandard talent, especially in proportion to the adoration he receives from his hordes of fans.
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The gutter that runs beside the road of rock history is littered with artists who squandered their talent, who flamed out, washed up, went in the tank. The reasons are many, the most popular being some manner of self-destructiveness. Artists who were real good at that sort of thing — from Hendrix to Cobain — left this mortal coil with their legacies intact.

But that’s an old rock ’n’ roll saw.

For today’s discussion, I’m interested in a more subtle type of squandering, the type whose reasons are not always easy to pinpoint. Often times, it’s little more than running out of ideas but continuing to hang on. In the process, they’ve ruined their legacies, or at the very least put them in serious peril.

So who in rock annals are the biggest talent-squanderers, who have authored the biggest falls from artist grace? Let me nominate a few, and pick a winner. As always, feel free to weigh in.

Elton John — From vibrant singer/songwriter and firebrand showman to chubby old queen with a braying voice. Elton reached his artistic pinnacle in 1973 with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road — that’s 35 years ago for those who don’t feel like doing the math — and was basically done two years later with Rock of the Westies.
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As do many CDs by artists I’m not familiar with, Albert Hammond, Jr.’s Como Te Llama? languished on my ever-growing pile for at least a couple weeks, before the gentle urging of a publicist caused me to grab it and shove it in the car player. I’m glad I did.

Hammond, as I now know, is the rhythm guitar player for The Strokes, which didn’t predispose me to liking his music, but didn’t necessarily put me off either. As it turns out, I like Hammond’s wide-ranging take on indie-rock better than the more confined stylistic approach of The Strokes.

Como Te Llama?, Hammond’s second solo outing, is a grab-bag that includes garage-R&B, power-pop, reggae and any number of other iterations of modern rock. His sound lacks the polish of his band, but it’s more daring, and ultimately more satisfying. The disc is due out July 8.

By the way, Hammond’s father Albert is a soft-rock songwriter and performer. He charted a few times in the early ’70s, mostly notably with the Top 5 hit “It Never Rains in Southern California.”

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Wade just published his Top 10 favorite CDs of ’08, so far, and I figured I’d piggy-back. But I’m not going to do 10. I’ll do that in December, but for June I’ll keep it to five. Two of the five are on Wade’s list, and I have to admit that that troubles me in some vague sort of way.

In no particular order:

• Al Green, Lay it Down (Blue Note)
The Rev’s best album of the 2000s. Producer ?uestlove lays down a seductive bed of sounds, and Al really struts his vocal chops on a series of sensuous, mostly mid-tempo songs.

• Firewater, The Golden Hour (Bloodshot)
Tod A made like a Bedouin, wandering through the Mediterranean/Middle East for three years and coming back with an exotic musical travelogue — that rocks. Full review

• Was (Not Was), Boo! (Ryko)
The R&B wackadoos return for their first album in 17 years, and pick up where they left off: Witty, irreverent lyrics, passionately sung, over organic funk and soul. Full review

• My Morning Jacket, Evil Urges (ATO/Red)
I wasn’t too familiar with MMJ before hearing this one, and it took a few listens, but now I’m completely hooked. Terrific songs that brush up, but aren’t anchored to, a variety genres. There’s rarely anything overtly obvious here. An engaging mix of feels, tempos and instrumentation. Strong vocals.

• Shelby Lynne, Just a Little Lovin’ (Lost Highway)
The fetching songstress delivers a subdued and sexy set of tunes by one of her heroes, the late Dusty Springfield. Full review

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During the 27 years that I’ve been writing about music, I’ve certainly hogged my share of hookups and swag. But last weekend took the prize. Ben Eason, CL’s CEO, asked if I would come down to a swank resort in Key Largo to help out during a retreat he takes with his business society, the Florida chapter of the Young Presidents Organization.

Come on down, stay a couple nights. My task: Lead a panel Q&A with The Bangles on Saturday morning and introduce them from the stage before their concert that night.

Um, I thought (for a millisecond), I could do that.

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Don’t know about you, but I’m amped that Pearl Jam’s coming in tomorrow night. This info hit my inbox today about Pearl Jam’s expanded program for concert bootlegs. I was mailed several of the first batch a few years ago, and the quality was terrific. Looks like it’ll be even better now:

Pearl Jam will expand their bootleg program for the upcoming 2008 tour to include three different options for fans seeking to obtain bootleg recordings of the band’s live shows. High-quality digital downloads and burn-to-order CDs of the entire show will be available following each show date exclusively via Pearl Jam’s fan club, Ten Club, at www.pearljam.com. In addition, mobile bootlegs of three live tracks per show will be released following the show on V CAST Music phones and at www.pearljamconcerts.com through Verizon Wireless.
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In the late ’70s, when I was a struggling loser just out of college and my brother Kurt was still in high school, we would spend considerable time in the bedroom we shared in my parent’s St. Petersburg home.

He was a budding drummer; I was a future music critic (but didn’t know it at the time). We’d while away hours listening to music, with plenty of focus on Steely Dan. When Kurt finally mastered the Steve Gadd drum solo on the middle section of “Aja,” we rejoiced together.

So it was particularly gratifying that Kurt was in town with his family from Tennessee for a few days when Steely Dan played Ruth Eckerd Hall last night. Big brother/little brother hitting the Dan together. He’d never seen ’em. Doesn’t get much better than that.

I suppose Fagen, Becker and company could’ve disappointed, but it wasn’t likely. As it turns out, it was another entirely worthy Steely Dan show, the third in the Bay area in consecutive years, and the second straight at Ruth Eckerd (to what looked like a packed house).

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One of the great joys of working in the alternative press is that we have a certain, shall we say, latitude in the way we conduct ourselves in the office. For CL, that translates to an office-wide Friday Afternoon Dance Party with music piped from our extensive playlists through computer speakers. It also means that if I wander in first thing in the morning jonesing to hear Bobby Womack’s “A Woman’s Gotta Have It,” Garcia can pump it out into the office.

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Nursing a particularly virulent hangover while driving the 25 minutes to work this morning, I was aided, mercifully, by the undulating grooves and massaging melodies of the new Al Green album, Lay it Down. This one’s produced by ?uestlove and has a lush retro-soul flavor. I’m going to review the disc in greater detail in an upcoming issue of the Loaf, but just wanted to alert y’alls — especially those of you who may be nursing virulent hangovers.

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When The Masquerade in Ybor City closed a couple of years ago, it had degenerated into a scary place: dark and tomb-like, with couches that only the bravest dared sit on. If memory serves, the men’s room had a hole where a urinal had once been. You pissed in the hole. I think it’s safe to say that most of us miss the events that Masquerade brought in, but don’t much miss the place itself.

Here’s some good news: The venue has reopened — under its original name, the Ritz Theatre.

And the place is nice. Really. $2 million renovation nice.

The building has been owned by the Capitano family for a long time, and is being run by Nicole Capitano as an event facility, not a nightclub. The Ritz’s first major concert event will be Bogus Pomp on Sat., June 7. The Bay area band plays the music of Frank Zappa with the kind of expertise and zeal that’s truly remarkable.

As for the Ritz’s interior, well, old denizens of the Masquerade will hardly recognize it. It’s been opened up and is now square-shaped. The feel is lighter and brighter. There’s a new, higher stage, an in-house lighting rig. The room can be configured to include tables and chairs or open space; there are no fixed seats. The brick walls are covered by huge velour curtains for better sound quality. The bare concrete floor has been upgraded: It’s now tiled in large black-and-white checks. The two front rooms have been spiffed up and will feature full bars.

While I wouldn’t call the refurbished Ritz opulent, it has been significantly upgraded, having kept historic Ybor City style in mind.

Frank Zaccaro has booked Bogus Pomp, and plans on doing more shows. “I’m looking at national acts,” he said. “My objective is to bring in high-end blues, jazz and pop acts, maybe some classic rock acts. When Queensryche last came to Tampa Theatre they did less than a thousand people. The show was too small for Tampa Theatre, too big for a nightclub, would’ve been perfect for us.”

Zaccaro said that the revamped Ritz will hold around a thousand for concerts.

Promoters, it’s available for rental.

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Arielle Stevenson went to Ministry at Jannus Landing on Wednesday night. She came back with this:

I got my first tattoo while Ministry’s “Lay Lady Lay” played in the background. So naturally I had to watch the masses of black-studded industrial metalheads cheer the now-50-year-old Al Jorgensen last night at Jannus. The iconic mic stand, cattle head, handle bars etc. were placed behind three chain-link fences.

Jorgensen’s performance was studded with the signature multimedia affects, including wild video clips that targeted the Bush administration. One showed Dick Cheney hunting. A young guy, maybe 22, was carried out by security, his freshly punched face oozing blood, proving that Ministry can still bring the mayhem.

The lineup may not be entirely original Ministry men, but guitarist Tommy Victor played some incredibly face-melting solos. Also noteworthy was bassist Tony Campos.

For the first encore, the band busted out with “N.W.O.” The crowd went wild. The second encore kicked off with a cover of ZZ Top’s “Just Got Paid” off of 2008’s Cover Up. The show ended with a Ministrized version of the Rolling Stones’ “Under My Thumb,” and sent concertgoers off with a ringing in their ears.

I have to wonder though: On Ministry’s next “final” world tour, will Jorgensen’s famous mic stand be his walker?

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While 16,000 fans at the St. Pete Times Forum stood on their feet, silent, basking in Bruce Springsteen’s ballad “Racing in the Street,” I was sitting with my face in my hands, pleading for the song to end. Several times he finished that dreary chorus and I’d think “Racing” was coming to a merciful close, only for Bruce and company to creep back into another verse. “Does everything have to be an epic?” I wondered, cringing.

Just so you know: I never drank the Kool-Aid — which, I hasten to add, is not the same as being a hater. I’ve had my periods of appreciation for Springsteen, but over the years it’s more been an admiration for some of his better work than genuine fandom.

And just so you know: I’m not looking down on Brooooooce fans who commune with their hero. I have a similar relationship with a handful of other acts.

That said, the show demonstrated how redundant Springsteen’s songs are. (I’ve seen him maybe six or seven times previously, and this is the first time it hit me.) He has maybe four basic compositional conceits that he returns to again and again. (What is “Livin’ in the Future” if not “Tenth Avenue Freeze-out” 30 years on?)

So, yes, the concert got dull.

But it’s also why “The Rising” is such a great tune, Springsteen’s best in, oh, two decades. It’s a roof-raiser that sets itself apart from the others — a respite from the doldrums, if you will. The ensemble’s performance of the song Tuesday was particularly spirited.

One more complaint and I’m out: Springsteen has always favored a wall of sound, but his on-stage instrumentation of four guitarists, two keyboardists, bassist, violinist, saxophonist and drummer turned crescendos into sludge.

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By and large, the Tampa Bay Blues Festival is not a place where you witness much weirdness. Smiling baby-boomers boppin’ to music under the sun and stars is pretty much the order of the day(s). But two instances last night — one good, one kinda creepy — showed a touch of the weird.

The good: James Hunter talking animatedly to the audience in a thick cockney accent (“Toim ta introduce me band”) and singing like a cross between Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, James Brown and Ray Charles. Hunter, sweating in the sun in a long-sleeved brown shirt, pin-striped pants and boots, is from a town 50 miles west of London; he grew up on American R&B of the late ’50s and early ’60s, to the virtual exclusion of everything else.

Hunter has channeled those sounds into his act, which includes rhumbas, funk from the Brother Ray and JB schools, ballads and pop numbers. He proved a soulful, agile vocalist, be it crooning on the Ray Noble chestnut “The Very Thought of You” yelping to the 5 Royales stomper “Baby, Don’t Do it,” or interpreting his originals that sounded as if he plucked them from a time machine.

Hunter was backed by an ace organist, supple drummer, acoustic bassist and a two-man horn section (baritone and tenor sax) that lent a welcome dimension. The horn players took a lot of soulful solos, and Hunter kicked in with urgently knotty guitar forays that at times seemed at odds with the generally relaxed flow of the rhythm section.

Hunter did a few showy moves, but they were self-conscious, more like set pieces than organic responses to the music. Still, they were funny, and Hunter’s non-stop smile signaled that he wanted everyone in on the joke.

Now to the kinda creepy: I never understood why Robert Cray has such limited stage appeal. He possesses an immediately winning tenor voice, a passel of modern blues and R&B songs, and he plays guitar in a thoughtful fashion that doesn’t rely on histrionics. He’s not a natural showman, but he’s no statue, either. Yet every time I’ve seen Cray (maybe four or five times), I feel as if I’ve taken in all he has to offer in three or four songs.

About five tunes into his set last night, it hit me: Cray’s major deficiency as a stage artist is that he has no sense of humor. Contrary to the clichés, the blues isn’t all about sadness and heartbreak; much of the music’s appeal over the decades has been based on levity, laughing in the face of hard times.  

So Cray was performing a slow blues about being cuckolded by a guy hanging around his house while he was gone. A very, very typical blues theme. Only this interloper was a “12-year-old boy.” And, let me tell ya, the tune had a pronounced ickiness.

Then it occurred to me: Buddy Guy, a bluesman with a heightened sense of humor, could have turned the