Be Gentle

The heartbroken have no business at a Don Williams show. He is going to say everything you have been thinking about life and love and the complexity of it all, but in a way that will cut deeper than your inferior brain could have imagined- all in a buttery baritone that sends a generation or four back to their childhood and young love and new love and growing up and breaking up. A man of few words, Williams played and played at the Florida Theatre last Thursday night, with very few breaks or banter in between songs. When he did pause, the crowd erupted. It was a love-fest between us and him. We showered him with affection and he showered us with his gorgeous lyrics, perfect voice, and aw shucks sensibility.

The crowd was incredible, and crowds really do make 1/3 of the show. Sometimes a group is too drunk, or not loose enough, but this one was on point- like a three beer buzz on the beach in 80 degree weather. Even the shouted out comments from the back of the room were clever and interesting- a rare feat.

The other third of a good show – besides of course the act themselves – is the venue. And the Florida Theatre is probably the best live music venue in North Florida- rivaled statewide by only Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater. The acoustics are outstanding, local beer is always on tap, the people are nice, and the place is flat gorgeous.

The 73 year old Williams played for a good hour and a half or more, seemingly building steam with every tune. The atmosphere was almost electric. It was the kind of show that you would be presumptuous to hope for- every song resonated with the crowd, which left the theater sated for the moment but ready for more. Who knows how long the Gentle Giant will continue to play? He retired in 2006 before returning to touring and recording four years later. I hope he plays until his days are done. The old man still has it, and those of us who witnessed that last Thursday are fortunate to have done so.

An Alright Guy: Todd Snider at The Standard

Watching the movie Lincoln gave me anxiety about my place in the world. This guy emancipated an enormous group of people. What the hell am I doing with my life? There was a moment during Todd Snider‘s recent stop at The Standard in St. Augustine where I felt something very similar, but for a very different reason. Todd Snider is a songwriter whose lyrics are at once simple and deep as the wound from a broken heart. His albums are funny, biting, and smart- and his live show mirrors that approach. Snider took the stage at around 9:30 on a Saturday night and pledged to entertain for the next ninety minutes. And entertain he did. It was an outstanding show where the crowd was enraptured and the performer seemed truly happy to be there. His songs were interrupted by hilarious stories about their inspiration- a spoken tale melding into one that is sung, creating a meandering river of narrative that kept us grinning from ear to ear the entire time.

The show was at The Standard on Anastasia Boulevard in St. Augustine. It’s a club and live music venue with an open space in front of the stage where rows of chairs were situated if you paid the extra $7 for reserved seating, a long L-shaped bar along the back wall, and couches opposite the bar. There was never a line for the bathroom or a locally brewed beer, and the acoustics are outstanding. It was an ideal experience- good crowd, right venue, great artist.

So, why the anxiety if everything went so well? Todd Snider has lived the kind of life that “professionals” dream about- no office, no desk, no team meetings. He travels the country meeting interesting people and creating memories along the way. And then he writes outstanding songs about the whole deal. There is a longing in most men to do just that. Would I love the road if it was my reality? Probably not, but in the meantime I’ll go see Todd Snider whenever he comes near, and use that time for self reflection on how I am living and what I can do to make that experience even more enjoyable.

Asheville, Smashville

I spent part of the holidays in Asheville, NC with a truly great woman and some really close friends. We all but danced with elk in Smoky Mountain National Park, ate sumptuous tapas, digested fantastic live singer-songwriters at the inimitable Jack of the Wood, and marveled at the majesty of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was my third trip to the southern queen of cool towns, and it was spectacular. Which made me consider what living there would feel like, and, I couldn’t help comparing Asheville with my own adopted hometown- Riverside/Avondale Jacksonville. Don’t misunderstand- Riverside does not offer the same quality or quantity of live music, and we do not boast the same mountain setting, but I was struck upon returning home by the similarities between the two. Riverside/Avondale deserves much more national and local credit for its delicious food, outstanding locally brewed beer, and wonderful people.

Orsay, Mojo No.4, Kickbacks, Biscotti’s, Black Sheep, The Brick, Pele’s- that should keep you busy for a week or more. Riverside/Avondale boasts outstanding eateries from barbecue to comfort food to fine dining- all within a three mile radius, and all truly unique. Kickbacks delivers nearly perfect comfort food until like four o’clock in the morning. Mojo No. 4’s barbecue deserves all the accolades you can heap on it. Orsay is my favorite fine dining experience anywhere. And, The Brick is equally good for dinner, brunch, or a drink. All of the places mentioned – and several others in the area – would stand out in nearly any town.

King Street has become a little-known craft beer Mecca- which is ridiculous considering the quality and variety of the brews contained therein. Every men’s magazine and beer connoisseur rag should be screaming about the necessity of visiting this place for beer lovers. Bold City and Intuition brew outstanding beers within a few blocks of each other, and Kickbacks, Garage, Dahlia’s, Carmine’s, and Lola’s all offer extensive – sometimes outrageously so – tap selections.

Most importantly, the people of Jacksonville are wonderful- Southern folks with a healthy balance of big and small town sensibilities. People hold doors for each other, smile or nod as they pass each other in the street, and let the person with three items to buy skip the line when the cart in front is full. All the good food and booze in the world would be worthless without truly great people, and Jacksonville has an abundance of those.

Riverside is not Asheville. We don’t have the mountains or the live music scene, but we do have great food, beer, and people- not to mention beautiful natural surroundings of our own. And we are remiss not to embrace our assets and start puffing out our chest at the things we do boast. Part of what makes Asheville so cool is that it knows it’s cool. Asheville does not suffer from self-image issues. People love and embrace its weirdness and charm. Some of that same weirdness, and a lot of charm, are present right here in Jax. But we have a chip on our shoulder about the fact that nationally folks do not see our little slice of paradise in the same light. I challenge each one of us to be almost cocky, almost dismissive about our gorgeous town. Instead of fighting back when someone incorrectly says that Jacksonville can’t support an NFL team, take pity on their ignorance and politely show them the NFL attendance numbers. When a transplanted yankee friend complains about Jacksonville’s lack of culture, take them to French Pantry, or Underbelly, or Burro Bags, or Bold Bean, or Kickback’s, or Florida-Georiga, and on and on and on. Hold your head high, Riverside. We may not be Asheville, but we are pretty damn cool.

Just Enough Grr

A 6’3″ man dressed as a blue Sesame Street character dances barefoot next to a guy donning a vest with no shirt underneath holding a ten foot tall totem with an antebellum birdcage affixed to the top. That is the Bear Creek Music and Arts Festival at Spirit of the Suwanee Music Park in Live Oak. While ostensibly Bear Creek is a funk and jazz festival, nearly anything goes out there- and the people, more so than the music, are the focal point of that organized madness.

The people are difficult to pin down. It’s not a hippie crowd, although there were plenty of hippies. It’s not a bro crowd, but there were bros. It’s not a hipster crowd, but you could not shoot a ping pong ball gun without hitting one. Bear Creek is a bunch of freaks, raging to good music, dressed like furry animals, wearing pajama pants split down the backside, doing yoga in their underwear- all bound together by their freakiness. It is like stepping onto a completely different planet for the weekend- a place where little other than normalcy surprises you by the end of the trip. And therein lies the unintended consequence of the weekend.

Coming down from Bear Creek’s beautiful freakiness and re-assimilating to the real world is a challenge that I did not anticipate. It is always tough to go back to the realities of work and life after enjoying an outstanding vacation, but this was especially difficult. Your outfit, your perspective, the way you communicate in general at the festival would make little sense on main street. It is like a crab trap- easy going in, not so much on the way out. Going from main street to freaky town is a fairly natural transition that serves as an outlet for the wild pent-up desires we all harbor in one degree or another. But going the other direction makes you feel trapped. Your spirit fights the structure and conformity that waits on the other side, making it seem like an almost futile battle. But in the end it is worth the effort. Bear Creek is a sensory explosion, that by the way featured some pretty good music. It looks like this one will be added to the annual calendar.

Dirty Bourbon River Show at Underbelly

You know that feeling when you “discover” an incredible band that no one has ever heard of, and you want to scream their name from the mountaintop and get a tattoo of the lead singer’s face over yours? That just happened with Dirty Bourbon River Show. The website describes their music as “New Orleans Gypsy Brass Circus Rock” and their facebook page says that they are a “damn good time.” A truer description has never been written. If you see Dirty Bourbon River Show live and don’t have a good time, it’s you, not the music. Two lead singers share the spotlight duties masterfully, complimenting each other and each bringing something unique to the table-  the part-time trombone player has a voice for swing and old-timey sounds, while the keyboardist/trumpet player brings it on bluesier, rootsy numbers.

Their sound is hard to peg, but at one point my buddy and I looked at each other and agreed that they could easily be the house entertainment at one of Nucky Thompson’s parties. Yet, that description leaves out a ton. They are alternately a 1950s swing band and one reminiscent of Warren Zevon. Dirty Bourbon River Show is the quintessential example of a band that defies being pigeon-holed. They played two sets in Underbelly’s perfect downtown space – with its dim lighting and exposed brick that creates a clean yet edgy feel – and brought it from start to finish. The crowd was sparse on a Sunday night, but those who caught wind of the performance were treated to the kind of show where you can’t stop moving and you don’t want the evening to end.

Amanda Shires and Rod Picott at European Street Cafe

I was almost nervous when I spoke to Amanda Shires after her enchanting set at European Street Cafe in San Marco.  Which is silly considering I am a grown man and she is not Barry Larkin, Michael Jordan, or the ghost of Waylon Jennings– the only people a man my age has a right to get tongue tied around.  Such is the hold she had on the tiny room in Jacksonville on Thursday, May 24, 2012.  The “Listening Room” at European Street is simply one of the dining rooms that gets converted for concerts on Thursday nights.  You call to make a reservation, pay your money (a very reasonable $12 on this night) at the door, and enjoy your very own table just steps away from the entertainment.  It is an intimate and comfortable setting and the ideal venue for an evening with Amanda Shires and Rod Picott.

Amanda and Rod were drinking wine before and during the show, a selection that may not be very rock n’ roll, but which made a ton of sense in that venue and for those two folks.  The contrast between Amanda’s murder and suicide ballads and heartbreak songs, and her gorgeous voice and elegant choice of beverage expedited our tumbling in love with her.  Her set was mostly original stuff with a smattering of outstanding covers.  Amanda mentioned Leonard Cohen as her favorite songwriter of all time and then launched into a superior version of his classic “I’m Your Man”.  She took it head on, and we followed.  That was one of at least three songs written by men in the first person that she tackled with aplomb.  Her own outstanding songs are mostly about love gone bad and the characters who go off the rails a bit when it does.  In other words, my kind of tunes.

Juxtaposed with Amanda, Rod Picott was overshadowed- a fact that I mention not as a slight to him but as an illustration of her presence and ability.  Rod Picott is one hell of a singer, songwriter, and storyteller; and those talents were on full display.  But a live ten foot alligator on a chain ridden by a bikini-clad Laetitia Casta circa 1999 would have struggled for attention next to Amanda on this night.  This is where I mention her striking looks even though I promised myself I would not because I do not want the reader to think that my characterization of her singing and songwriting is influenced by her beauty.  But, damn is she gorgeous- somehow simultaneously stunning and adorable.  She has the kind of beauty that takes your breath away yet invites you to smile at her.  And if she smiles back, as she did when I stumbled through an invitation to show her and Rod around Jacksonville, it will cripple a mortal man’s charm, as it did mine.

Amanda and Rod played for about an hour and a half, mostly alternating turns and including a two song encore.  It was a nearly perfect night.  Go see either of them if they are in your neighborhood, and get down on Amanda’s new album, “Carrying Lightning”, then thank me in the comments.

Wilco, Wilco, Wilco Will Love You Baby

It is difficult to resist hyperbole when writing about one of your favorite bands.  And that temptation is doubly troubling when writing about one of your favorite bands at one of your favorite venues.  With that disclaimer out of the way, Wilco at the St. Augustine Amphitheatre on May 16, 2012 was the best show I have seen.  The acoustics were perfect, the band was on point, the set list was well selected, and the crowd showed love like I have never seen.  The physical set was understatedly beautiful.  It looked like a hoarder cousin saved the kind of white tissue paper you use to conceal a present in a decorative bag for twenty family Christmases and then strung them together with different lengths of twine and hung them from the rafters.

Things were not always amazing.  Jeff Tweedy’s first dialogue with the crowd would wait until Wilco had melted our faces for thirty uninterrupted minutes.  The crowd was on their side, the energy was building, and then…Jeff told a joke.  It was a crack about the pronunciation of St. Augustine, and how his high school said it with an “uhn”, implying that Floridians mispronounce the name.  It is hard to say whether he meant the quip condescendingly, but it fell flat in a cloud of skepticism over his meaning.  The follow up joke went over a little better, but a tired Florida-deprecating line about the number of bugs we have in our “subtropical paradise” wasn’t exactly a crowd-winning recovery.

Tweedy and company would make up for the early transgression in spades; and by the time the power went out during “Shot in the Arm” we were all so firmly on Wilco’s side that they could have walked off stage right then and we would have serenaded ourselves to the point of giddiness.  Thankfully that was unnecessary as the band kept playing without amplification and picked up right where they left off once power was restored.  The crowd completely lost its mind.  It was positive energy on an unrivaled level, resonating excitement into the rest of the show and cascading into the parking lot afterward.  Wilco played for about two hours in total, the best of which was saved for last.

After a minute or so intermission, the band triumphantly returned with “The Late Greats”, arguably my favorite Wilco song ever ,which would place it high in the running for favorite song of all time.  I take the tune as a commentary on the state of the music industry and the fact that bands like Wilco don’t even sniff the commercial success of an outfit like LMFAO.  But the beauty of the song is its hopeful tone and the suggestion that there is something nice about the fact that the best bands do not end up corrupted by money, even if only because they don’t have the chance.  “Theologians” was next followed shortly thereafter by Woody Guthrie’s gorgeous “California Stars” and four other songs.  It was a flawless encore that left the still enthusiastic crowd completely satisfied.

In my post-Wilco euphoria I binged on pretty much everything they ever recorded and discovered a handful of songs that would have been nice to hear.  But where?  Every song in the set felt like it was perfectly suited for that spot in the line-up, like a Joe Torre managed Yankees batting order.  The tunes flowed seamlessly into each other while the band fed off the energy of the crowd.  It was a near perfect night- the weather was beautiful, the company – new and old friends alike – was outstanding, and the band absolutely killed it.

Hoop Dreams: A Day at Suwannee Springfest

Editor’s Note: This is floridabout’s first work of fiction.  I attended Suwannee Springfest in March.  The musical acts I watched and my impressions of them come through in the thoughts of the protagonist.  Everything else is uniquely hers. 

 She woke up just after first light, tired and about half sick- with cotton mouth and stiffness running up the right side of her back in the crook between her spine and right shoulder blade, not quite a hangover, just a reminder of the day before.  The cool of the night had yet to give way to the Florida sun and she smiled at the thought of what an amazing time was had the previous evening.  Last night was worth a little pain in the stomach and behind the eyes.  She took a sip that soon turned into a chug of the stagnant water in her Nalgene bottle once her lips and throat adjusted to being in action again.  Last night those lips and throat took on a handful of beers but that is all, hence the discomfort, not pain that she was facing.  Drugs were rarely her thing.  There were plenty to be had around the campground, but using was not quite the cliché that music festival legend would have you believe.  She knew from experience where to go if she wanted some pot or a mushroom, and consequently knew the places to avoid if she was not feeling like having that kind of night.

This was her fourth Suwannee Springfest, twelfth music festival overall.  There was always too much to see and she planned her days well in advance so as not to make the wrong choice in the fog of morning.  The week before each festival was marked by distracted days at work, pulling up the schedule on her phone and flipping a coin between The Gourds and Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit.  But she never felt regret for choosing one act over the other.  You really could not miss at these things.  She made a decision and enjoyed it either way.  This time those choices would prove fortunate in other ways.

The morning wasn’t all discomfort and fogginess.  Her heart fluttered at the first sight of her campground neighbor.  Her hula hoop got loose and slammed into a pair of gangly legs during Two Gentleman Band’s 11:00 A.M. opening show the day before, a fortuitous bounce for a single young woman.  He convincingly feigned anger as the hoop ricocheted off his calf and for a moment her buzz was killed.  She had just enjoyed a mimosa with some festival friends, the kind who are from some far off place and that you would never know except for the festival.  She keeps up with them on Twitter and Facebook and always makes a point to share some time with them at every show.  The combination of old friends, champagne, and the picturesque porch stage under its oak canopy put her in a perfect mood until the runaway hoop turned fate.  His stare made her insecure for a split second.  But the scowl gave way to a familiar smile, familiar because everyone seemed to have one permanently fixed at these events.  The difference with him was his smile’s frame- saucer-sized green eyes with dark eyelashes, a button nose, and a barely perceptible dimple on the left side of his face.  A charming face that begged to be examined.  But, she was cool.  She took a mental snapshot, apologized profusely, and went right back to swaying her hips in rhythm.

When he flashed that winning smile again this morning she was hooked.  She needed to brush her teeth and give her body a quick rinse, but if he invited her for breakfast or a drink or some pot she would be powerless to decline.  And so she had a bloody mary and a vegan burrito.  Bacon would have been nice, but she loved that he had principles, or maybe she loved that he was different.  Either way she loved a lot about him, this hippie guy who was a still basically a stranger. But she had learned a few things about him the day before, things that his appearance belied.

He was at the next show too.  She did not notice him at first because Florida’s own Grant Peeple’s was absolutely killing it with folk songs about war and peace and bad love.  He eventually caught her eye because he spoke to the boy, maybe thirteen years old, standing next to the stage and singing along with every song. That boy caught her attention.  On her first festival she was struck by the number of kids, usually really young kids, dancing around, playing with toys.  The sight was confusing at first, but not all that strange when you really thought about.  Parents wanted to go to the festival, kids wanted to go camping along the Suwannee, it all made sense.  But there was something about this kid, pre-teen and hanging on every word, dancing around and nodding to the music.  Her stranger had a moment with the boy.  She speculated about their conversation, but it kept coming out weird.  She jumped to a handful of conclusions about how good-hearted he is before dismissing the notions and mindlessly resuming her hooping.  This time felt like a missed opportunity. She could have used the boy as an icebreaker, but she was too focused on the music.

The burrito had black beans and guacamole with some kind of spicy aoli-like sauce that packed just enough punch.  Neither said much, eyes locking occasionally and lips parting for a second.  She wanted to ask him about the boy from yesterday, but was still too struck with him to say much of anything at all.  She imagined them traveling the country going to festivals, quitting their day jobs and picking up freelance writing or photography to make ends meet.

Their first real conversation was at the singer-songwriter showcase after Peeples’ set concluded.  The sky started to darken as Justin Townes Earle, Jim Lauderdale, and Jason Isbell took the stage.  This was the show she had been waiting for.  She was locked onto Justin’s gaunt face as he covered his microphone so as not compete with Isbell as he sang along to the excellent “Alabama Pines”.  She covered nothing while belting out the chorus and twirling her hoop.  That’s when he snuck up beside her playfully covering his legs and head in a crouched position to protect his body from errant hula hoops.  He had a beer in each hand and offered one to her.  They shared their love for Isbell and Earle and agreed that Jim Lauderdale should be way more famous than he is.  She told him about selling cell phones in the mall for a living and he surprised her by saying that he was a fire fighter EMT.  She joked that he should be at a Nickelback show.  He indulged her with a laugh but she could tell that the stereotype cut him.

The burrito was no match for her nervous energy and high blood pressure from the beers.  She quickly downed the meal and decided that it was in fact time to finally make her way to freshen up.  But he was already at work on a refill for that nearly empty bloody mary and against her better judgment she decided to stay for one more.

That second beer went down a lot easier than the first as they walked over to grab some food in between shows.  Jason Isbell was walking around the food court – a carnival-like string of booths – while they waited in line at a vegan place.  Inside she was losing her mind, standing in line with her new crush and looking at her idol walk by.  She did not say a word to Jason and neither did anyone else.  Such is the way of the festival.  It is not strange to see the musicians mingling in the crowd or grabbing a bite to eat.  She jabbed her finger into her stranger’s ribs to get his attention.  He whispered that he knew and gave her an almost patronizing laugh. He had committed to meeting some friends at one of the smaller stages, so she went on to watch Justin do his thing with a full band on the Porch Stage without the stranger.

The next bloody mary went down a little slower.  The night before was trying to catch up with her and she needed to get the blood flowing.  She suggested a walk around the lake that forms the skeleton core of the campground.  He did not even have to answer.  

Justin Townes Earle stole the show.  She could hear people around her, newcomers to the royal offspring’s music, asking why they had never heard of him.  It was one of those moments that reinforced why she came to festivals.  And it only got better. Her stranger came up behind and put his hand on the small of her back.  She always liked her back and appreciated when a man recognized it.  The simple act warmed her for a second.  Neither of them said a word during the show, and that felt natural.  It wasn’t until after the show that he said his friends led him to an act he was not feeling, so he came to see JTE.  She wanted to believe that he came solely to see her.  She was mostly right.

The lake is not very big and their walk was over in what seemed like an instant.  Again, very little was said, but she was content.  She liked being around him, seeing the festival through his virgin eyes.  He told her that this was his first festival, but that he was already hooked.  By the time they got back to the campground the sweat had beaded up and she felt salty, beyond ready for a shower.  She thanked him for breakfast and told him she was heading to outstanding local folk singer Whetherman’s 11:00 show.  He smiled and said okay.

The Outlaw Willie Nelson

That Willie Nelson is a legend needs little examination.  His significance and influence stretch beyond musical genre, beyond music altogether.  He has been credited with making Austin, Texas what it is- awesomely weird. He pioneered “outlaw” country – a refusal to toe the record company line and an insistence to make the music that the artist envisions, not some test-audience approved concoction devoid of creativity or passion.  He led the charge in social causes such as the struggles of the American farmer.  Willie Nelson is larger than life.  The seventy-eight year old is still thrilling audiences across the country, including at the Circle Square Cultural Center in Ocala, Florida on February 4, 2012.  You read that right.  The Red Headed Stranger played an 830 seat conference room better suited for your yearly corporate meeting than a concert by one of the most important singer-songwriters of all time.  Circle Square is located at On Top of the World retirement community, well West on State Road 200.  While atypical as a rock n’ roll venue, Circle Square Cultural Center’s acoustics were solid, the bar line easy to manage, and there were not problems finding our seat.  The whole thing worked.  I hesitate to speculate on the average age of the crowd, but will say that it wasn’t in the 50s.  Willie was clearly aware of this fact.

The set-list was tight, organized, and heavy on hits, both his and those of his legendary friends and collaborators.  The show opened with “Whiskey River”, a normally rollicking tune that gets the foot stomping.  This version was toned down, as would be the rest of the show, a shrewd move demonstrating Willie’s understanding of the audience.  With his “Little Sister Bobby” on the piano, a bassist, a harmonica player, a drummer with nothing but a snare, and the man himself on guitar and vocals, every song took on a more intimate and subdued motif.  The tone of the show was perfect for the venue.  Whereas the same show at the Freebird in Jacksonville would result in rowdy fans spilling drinks on each other, this crowd politely took each tune, showing emotion only after the last note of each song rang.

I hesitated to even mention Willie’s age because his voice and stage presence are impressive regardless of time passed.  And his underrated guitar playing is to be celebrated in its own right.  He played a few old favorites, followed by a group of Hank Williams songs,  some Waylon Jennings, and a handful of Ray Charles.  He finished the hour and forty-five minute show with several gospel songs and a couple of newer, witty tunes that he wrote while off the road recovering from surgery a few years ago.  The newer stuff played well with the older crowd as the jokes were about not being as good as you once were.  The crowd was in his palm.  He took no chances and gave the folks who paid $100 a piece for the privilege of attending their money’s worth.  It was an hour and forty five minutes of music, an inspiring show that sated for the moment and left us wanting more in the future.

Willie signed autographs after the show. My mom was one of the fortunate.

J.J. Grey and Mofro at the Ritz Ybor

J.J. Grey and Mofro played with the Jacksonville symphony in 2004.  That was my introduction to the band-  “front porch soul” with its impassioned harmonica accompanied by oboes and harps.  The show was incredible; and I was there on a whim.  Some music loving friends were in town for the weekend so I scoured alternative weekly papers and websites for some local flavor with which to entertain my guests.  I had heard mention of Mofro (as they were then known) here and there but nothing to suggest they would become one of my favorite live bands.  At the time there wasn’t even a real website to speak of, and their following was sparse past the Florida line.  But Mofro creates unifying and infectious music that brings people from all walks of life together for some foot stompin’.  So it was not long before the band developed a regional, national, and ultimately international following.  Lead singer J.J. Grey is a story teller and a Southern boy through and through.  He spins tales about love in an orange grove, life in a “country ghetto”, and granny’s “cracklin’ ho-cakes”- tales that take you back to a simpler time and place like the good comfort food they are, comfort food for the soul.

To know Mofro is to see them live.  The December 30, 2011 show at the Ritz in Ybor City opened with J.J. playing a tambourine with a drumstick on the aforementioned “Orange Blossoms”.  The band sounded outstanding as ever.  The set-list was an honest balance of old and new, with young fans and old diehards sharing equally in the spoils.  J.J. Grey sings with the zeal of black Baptist preacher, fists clenched in ecstacy as he tirelessly brings it.  I would venture to say that this is my tenth or eleventh Mofro show.  You would think that eventually the band would have a misstep, that they would be tired or just need to go through the motions the way we all do every once in a while at work.  If they do, I’ve never seen it.  Mofro is consistently on point.

One difference at the Ritz was the makeup of the crowd.  A Mofro show always contains palpable energy.  The fans and the band are passionate about the music, and the show contains a lot of give and take.  J.J. truly makes you feel a part of the show, whether by thanking the crowd profusely or enlisting them to help sing a few bars.  And it usually feels like a community effort.  Everyone is smiling and kind to their fellow concert-goers.  You almost always meet a fellow fan with whom you bond, if briefly, over your favorite songs and shows.  But this crowd felt like that of a European subway.  The energy was still there, but something was off.  No one would make way either at the bar or on the floor.  It was as if everyone in the venue thought that they had exclusive rights to whatever piece of real estate they were occupying at the moment.  There was no respect for personal space.  Very few people said excuse me while brushing past on their way to the bathroom or to get another beer.  It was strange.  And I would have dismissed the observation if not for the fact that others felt the same way.  It could have been the venue, or the long wait between acts, or the attitude of the bartenders.  All was forgotten once J.J. got us going on Mofro’s signature song, “Lochloosa”.  It’s a tune about a place not far from Ocala where J.J. says nothing ever changes.  He finds comfort in the fact that no matter where he travels and how things change, everything is good and simple when Lochloosa is on the mind.  If I had to reduce Mofro’s considerable catalog to one song, this would be it.  There is a line in “Lochloosa” that says, “feels like 10,000 degrees in the shade, lord have mercy knows- how much I love it.”  I doubt that line makes any sense to someone who did not grow up in the South.  But if you did, you know exactly why that is one of my favorite lines in any song.  And, if you get why that line is one of my favorites, then you probably shook your head yes during this entire piece, and I hope to run into you at the next Mofro show.

Links:

Mofro Fans: http://www.mofrofans.com/home.html

Lochloosa (with good explanation of the inspiration for the song): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5arEEmr1Oo

Lochloosa (live at the Freebird with folks who have heard of or even been to Lochloosa): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujyRES9mbwY

Twitter:

@MofroFans

@artedmaiston (saxophonist)