AUSTIN CITY LIMITS MUSIC FESTIVAL@Zilker Park, Austin, TX
September 28-29, 2002
AUSTIN CITY LIMITS MUSIC FESTIVAL
@Zilker Park, Austin, TX
September 28-29, 2002
Sunday 9/29:
I opted to sleep in a bit later this morning and go out for breakfast with the wife, and thus missed the opening acts of the second day of the festival. (I also slathered suntan lotion all over myself so I wouldn't be flash-fried any worse.) But I did get there in time for longtime Austin favorite James McMurtry on the Heritage Stage. I'd never seen McMurtry play before, and hadn't bought one of his records in quite some time, but after this show, I felt like running out to buy all of them at once. I'd forgotten just how compelling his dusty small-town narratives can be, especially when enhanced by the lean, tough rock he assayed with his two sidemen. He played mostly tunes from his latest album Saint Mary of the Woods, including "Valley Road," "Lobo Town" and the title track, but he also broke out a coolly reminiscent "Fuller Brush Man" and turned his golden oldie "Too Long in the Wasteland" into a grunged-out epic. His detailed descriptive language, casually skillful guitar playing (mostly in open tunings) and deadpan delivery were positively inspiring, like a dream mix of Lou Reed, Neil Young and Ray Davies. Considering the sizable crowd he drew, all of them far more knowledgeable than I was of his oeuvre, I'm not the only who walked away from McMurtry's show with a silly grin on his face.
Then it was off to the Feature Stage for something completely different: Karl Denson's Tiny Universe. I'd seen Denson before when he toured with Afrobeat god Femi Kuti, and was keen to once again bathe myself in his pulsating jazz/funk. It's a simple formula—jazz improvisation over stanky funk rhythms—but when it's done right, it's mesmerizing, and Denson's crew definitely does it right. The show started out with one of his usual instrumental vamps, allowing everyone in the band to stretch his muscles, but, surprisingly, the set took a slightly different turn after that. Where previously Denson kept vocals to a minimum, this time nearly every song (mostly taken from his new album The Bridge) had lyrics which Denson enthusiastically delivered. I was skeptical about this at first, but was quickly won over. Denson is no Solomon Burke, but he's a decent enough singer, and the overall theme running through songs like "Satisfied" and "Because of Her Beauty"—fidelity is good, women are great, a tight relationship is the best thing ever—were a nice change to the usual sex-me-up R&B librettos on the radio. (Though "Groove On" dabbled in that.) At its best, which was most of the time, Denson's new music recalled nothing so much as prime Earth, Wind & Fire—definitely a good thing. The booty-shaking crackers in the crowd—as with Soulive, most of the audience consisted of neo-hippie kids—apparently agreed.
After being totally funked up by Karl Denson, I made my way back to the Heritage Stage for the Gourds. If there were a license issued to live in Austin, mine would have to be revoked, as I've let literally years go by since I last saw the quirky five-piece ply its trade; in fact, this was the first time I'd seen them with multi-instrumentalist Max Johnston in the lineup. Like most of the bands here, the Gourds were supporting a new album, entitled Cow Fish Fowl or Pig, and a goodly chunk of the set came from it, including the resonant "My Name is Jorge," catchy "Best of Me" and grin-inducing "Hellhounds." Johnston's father Dollar Bill Johnston joined the combo for a number, giving me a feeling of déjà vu, as I'd last seen Dollar Bill in 1989 when he joined Max's sister Michelle Shocked on stage for a tune. The band rollicked through some old favorites as well, like "Maria" and "All the Labor," and closed its driving set with the audience's most consistent request: its infamous cover of Snoop Doggy Dogg's "Gin and Juice." (I'd have rather heard another original myself, but since the crowd went apeshit, what do I know?) It's astonishing to me that this group has yet to suffer a dip in quality in its nearly decade-long career—the Gourds' musical consistency is indeed amazing. As with Los Lobos and James McMurtry, I've had a tendency to take the Gourds for granted over the years; this show served notice that I need to cut that crap out. As the band itself asked from the stage, why haven't the Gourds had their own episode of Austin City Limits yet?
I had a couple of hours to kill between the Gourds and my next destination, so I hit the food lines (which were much shorter than they'd been the previous day) and collected my thoughts on some of the random snatches of music I'd heard throughout the day. I caught a couple of tunes from Austin salsa institution Beto y Los Fairlanes, who were fun, and overhead Jimmie Vaughan on the Texas stage playing the exact same set he's been playing for what seems like years now, complete with Lou Ann Barton in tow. While eating I was forced to endure Austin's pedestrian funk-metal act Vallejo, though I must admit I enjoyed their bludgeoning of Wall of Voodoo's "Mexican Radio." On the way back to the Feature Stage I passed Eric Johnson and Alien Love Child, the guitar hero's alleged blues band. I say "alleged" because the music I heard sounded more like something that could have come from Johnson's atmospheric debut album Tones than anything from the Delta or Chicago. He even played "Trademark," perhaps his signature tune. Soon enough, though, the trio descended into tired blues rock licks and extended solos, and I resumed my trek.
Back on the Feature Stage, local DJ Jenn Garrison and Austin City Limits co-producer Jeff Peterson introduced Ryan Adams, an act for which I had a great deal of anticipation, having seen him rock the Backyard about six months prior. He didn't disappoint this time either. While the midtempo "Nuclear" (from his latest record Demolition) was a somewhat puzzling opener, he and his band (including guitar hotshot Brad Rice, whose skill was somewhat underutilized, I thought) were in loose but rocking form, playing mostly cuts from his opus Gold and his debut Heartbreaker. Ravers "Firecracker," "To Be Young (is to be sad, is to be high)" and "Shakedown on 9th Street" fired on all cylinders, while ballads "La Cienenga Just Smiled," "Answering Bell" and an especially intense "Touch, Feel and Lose" shimmered with beauty. Adams was in a playful mood between songs, acting the part of the cocky young rock star with silly humor and an impish grin; it was a nice contrast to the reverence shown by most of the other acts. After shorting out both his amp and a cable, Adams and band performed the demi-hit "New York New York" as a slowed-down shuffle, before rip-roaring into the Rolling Stones' "Brown Sugar" (which seems like a cliché until you think about it—how many bands bother with Stones covers anymore?), to the delight of the audience, an equal mixture of triple-A fans and young'ns. But Adams saved the best for last: "Nobody Girl" built from a quiet beginning, with just Adams and his guitar, to a raging, dual guitar coda, until finally it wound down to a close, with Adams tossing his Telecaster into the drum kit. Some folks have criticized this particular performance, complaining about his "juvenile" behavior, but really, folks, this was a rock — roll show, with all the snotty energy that implies. For me Ryan Adams was one of the highlights of the festival.
For my final act (not being an Arc Angels fan), I went to catch Robert Randolph and the Family Band at the Heritage Stage. Randolph comes from the unique offshoot of gospel music called Sacred Steel, which uses lap and pedal steel guitars to spread the Word. The 24-year-old didn't specifically sing the gospel during this set, though his music retained the upbeat, positive vibe that comes from preaching the Good News. Instead Randolph played tunes designed to put his prodigious pedal steel chops through their paces. With a full complement of effects on his instrument—distortion, wah-wah, etc.—Randolph rocked his 13 strings like the heavenly spawn of Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughan. While it made for music that was pretty solo-happy, it was hard to argue with his oft jaw-dropping slide work. He even managed to make "Voodoo Chile," which seems to be sort of rite of passage for pickers of any stripe, interesting again. This was partly because he interpolated sections of Black Sabbath's "War Pigs" and "Iron Man" (probably the only time Sabbath has ever been played by a gospel musician) and partly because his heavily wah-wahed steel approximated a soulful human voice. More satisfying, however, were his originals; tunes like "The March" (which he explained was about the "universal march of love and freedom") and "I Don't Know What You Come to Do" didn't preach the gospel, but they certainly used gospel's dynamics, with call-and-response and plenty of audience participation (much to security's dismay). Randolph frequently left his seat to exhort the crowd; when he couldn't get up, he simply waved his feet in the air. He wanted the crowd to testify, and it did, loudly. (Once again, it was made up of jam band kids, giving rise the odd spectacle of folks toking up at a gospel show.) Randolph couldn't keep a big grin off his face; he was having as much fun as the audience. Robert Randolph's performance represented a fitting way to end the weekend.
While the Festival did have its logistical problems—not enough food booths, rumored busing difficulties, and why the heck weren't the stages named on their banners the same things they were designated in the guide?—overall it went remarkably smoothly, for a first-year fest. Combine professional organization with an amazingly consistent stream of great performances and it's fair to say the first Austin City Limits Music Festival was a rousing success. Can't wait 'til next year. Michael Toland
