On New Year’s Eve, Railroad Earth swung into a rendition of Warhead Boogie that, when all was said and done, left me in a state of almost comical ecstasy. During the crescendo and climax, I was twirling and spinning and swirling and grinning, and, then, when even kinetic rhythm couldn’t contain my body, I jumped as high I could, over and over, like a gobsmacked pogo stick.

Did The Ogden have a roof? I don’t remember, because the firmament never seemed so close.

Most of you have experienced a similar feeling of musical transcendence, wherein the level of your happiness reaches such momentous heights, you shed all somatic consciousness, allowing the rays of sonic sunshine to take the reins. It’s like Apollo and Helios chauffeuring you to your own musical Elysium. Ten years hence, I will probably wake up from a hypnopompic dream about this song, my jaw locked into place from smiling too wide, just like tonight.

As with any NYE show of import, the excitement and energy was palpable as soon as the doors swung open. I staked out a spot in the front row, almost directly underneath lead singer and guitarist Todd Sheaffer’s right monitor. The back of the stage was adorned with a modern interpretation on Mayan imagery. Pyramids were constructed of silver textile, dotted at their apex with a disco ball as an homage to Times Square. A prominent Mayan calendar, about ten feet in diameter and forged from glittery silver fabric, hung behind drummer Carey Harmon. Again, the imagery seemed appropriated for a contemporary NYE celebration. The calendar looked more like a circular UFO with another disco ball dotting the (command) center. The set pieces themselves were kitschy and playful, but also seemed like a commentary about the fractured and unbalanced state of the world. While the Mayan calendar predicts end-times in late 2012, we all hope it is not a metaphorical harbinger of worse things to come. The Mayan tie-in becomes perfectly evident during the third set and encore.

The band chose to play a truncated 40-minute first set. Happy Song would augur the pedal-to-the-metal, uproarious tenor that became woven into the latter night tapestry, but overall, this five-song set was relatively patient and mellow. Maybe the band wanted to settle everyone in before the inevitable onslaught of uptempo jamming.

In the second set, John Skehan and Tim Carbone, the respective mandolin player and fiddler for Railroad Earth, girded the beautiful Birds of America with delicate interplay, while bassist Andrew Altman anchored their conversation with a funky, pronounced groove. A few minutes later, a raucous rendition of Neal Casal’s Dandelion Wine, punctuated by Carbone’s lascivious fills, signaled the point of no return. After this piece, I observed some of my neighbors moving their feet rhythmically during dead air in between songs. At any show, that’s a tell-tale sign for: “It…Is…On!”

Keith Moseley, String Cheese Incident’s stalwart bassist, sat in with the band for the second set’s penultimate song, laying down the rhythm this time on an electric guitar, while singing a tune he wrote with Sheaffer – Sometimes a River. Moseley switched to lead during a melodic jam, when the constellation of instruments on stage was arranged in perfect harmony. The entire show had all the aural and visual pleasures one would anticipate, but this song even induced the haptic thrill of feeling The Ogden’s floorboards rhythmically expand and contract under the weight of collective satisfaction.

And in that same sense, tension and release was the overarching theme for the third set. During the countdown, female dancers adorned in white, fanned out across the balcony. Two more women danced on stage. The first donned five-foot stilts hidden under a what looked like a Burning Man wedding dress while she spread her diaphanous angelic wings, beautifully illuminated by the stage lights. The other wore a dress that would be equally welcome at Burning Man – a tight ensemble that paired well with a rhythmic style that hybridized belly-dancing and Deadhead willow-swaying.

The band, all decked out in pseudo-Mayan headdresses, started the third set at about 11:50 p.m. with a downright nasty jam. Andy Goessling, the band’s multi-instrumentalist, drove to funktown on his saxophone while the aforementioned dancers intensified the mood. At a couple of minutes to midnight, a crotchety looking man with a gnarled visage and white beard came on stage. He was the embodiment of Kukulkan, the Mayan snake deity. He wore a farrago of feathers and gripped a walking stick around which a (stuffed toy) snake was wrapped. Just like the headdresses and set pieces, this was all kitschy fun.

“From all ends there are beginnings,” he announced. “2012 is almost here. Let the new cycle begin.” The countdown ensued and as the clock struck midnight, the band brought their initial jam to a conclusion while hugs and kisses were exchanged.

A minute and a half later, they dove into a cover of Frank Zappa’s Son of Mr. Green Genes and the third set took off. Tension built throughout the first half of this, the longest, set, with an eerie, textured version of Spring-Heeled Jack. The extreme dissonance created in the jam was never truly resolved until about half an hour, and a few songs, later, during Warhead Boogie. This brings me back to the beginning of the review. As I already said, the release provided by this song left me with nothing to do but jump toward the heavens. To say the crowd on the floor “boogied” would be a vast understatement. We welcomed in the New Year as seraphim, fluttering about as fast as we could, happy to be in a musical cathedral and sonically in tune with our higher power.

The show ended with a triptych of encore songs that really embodied, and yet fought against, the Mayan notion of the earth’s destruction in 2012. Hard Livin’ is where we are, but, as George Harrison would tell us, All Things Must Pass. Eventually, we all hope to “sing with the heavens in harmony”, wishing for Peace on Earth. Every time I see Railroad Earth, they outdo themselves and NYE 2011 was no exception. Visually, musically, and thematically, this superlative band planted a memory that, if I am lucky, will still be available not only ten years hence, but a long ways down the line.

In the build up to their five-night run at The Boulder Theater, Yonder Mountain String Band announced that a guest musician would be sitting in with them each evening. Dobro player and Infamous Stringduster Andy Hall, cellist Rushad Eggleston, and Flecktones drummer Futureman led the charge for the first three nights. But on December 30, the phrase “guest musician” was, in fact, a bit of a misnomer.

Instead, it was sui generis fiddler, Darol Anger, who took the stage.

Anger has performed with YMSB many dozens of times which, to some of the devoted, makes him less a guest star than another member. Shawna Sprowls, one of KGNU’s Saturday morning bluegrass hosts, expressed it in this light: “Daryl is really like the fifth Beatle. They’re totally getting back to their roots tonight.” Sprowls made that astute observation only a few songs into the first set. I didn’t realize until later that the band actually intimated this notion at the incipience of the show.

The YMSB members were announced, and took the stage, like the starting lineup of a basketball team. This had Jeff Austin’s Chicago roots written all over it. A voiceover, dramatically inflecting in the same vein as Ray Clay, the old announcer for the ‘90s Chicago Bulls, declared, “From the MAN-DOE-LIN, Number Ten, Jeffrey WIL-liam AU-stin…On BAYss, Number Seventy-Seven, JAY-BEE-Kaufmann.” Those famous Bulls teams were most remembered for Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen, but all five starters made indispensible contributions to the six championships they won. Likewise, it took five incredible starting musicians, each with a unique skill set, to light up The Boulder Theater.

YMSB flew out of the gate with a blazing rendition of the J.J. Cale classic, and fan-favorite, If You’re Ever In Oklahoma. I am a frenzied (if only semi-rhythmic) dancer and jig enthusiast at newgrass blowouts, but even I had a hard time keeping up with the furious pace of the opening number. This is not to say it was either frenetic or miscalculated. Quite the opposite. All five members were disturbingly in sync for their first jam of the evening despite the blistering tempo.

While Oklahoma generated initial high expectations, it was actually No Expectations that furnished the first set with a sybaritic centerpiece in which even the most demanding of newgrass fans could luxuriate. Just like the original Rolling Stones version, they entered into it slowly, Anger coloring the opening with a mellifluous descant over Austin’s melody. Momentum continued to build under the guidance of banjo player Dave Johnston’s steady rolls. Finally, each member took a rollicking solo, contiguously feeding off his predecessor and providing new inspiration for his successor. When listening to the felicity in Darol Anger’s solo, I was convinced he had some sort of Happy Dryad living in the head of his bow. Upon completion of this song, I thought to myself, “How could he not be a member of the band?” As you will see a little later, Austin would have an easy answer for that.

YMSB capped off a spirited set with a Death Trip > On The Run couplet. Adam Aijala’s lightning quick and precise guitar picking and Anger’s evocative hoedown fills in the final song left everyone pining for more as the band hit set break.

Once breaths were caught and liquids replenished, the irreverent Blue Collar Blues provided the meat for the second set opening sandwich featuring Freeborn Man. YMSB played the first part of this set with energy, but something was missing. The song selection was a bit desultory. Additionally, momentum was generated in bits and pieces, but never fully realized.

Interestingly enough, YMSB regained direction after Austin, in a typical piece of onstage badinage, dedicated the song that followed Illinois Rain: “During the set break, there was this little trip down memory road of us and I would like to dedicate this song very sincerely to all the twelve police officers that were on our bus in Licking County, Ohio [audience boos]…No (no need to boo). We won. We won our case.” With that little excerpt about YMSB’s brush with the law in 2006, the band dove into a short, but inspired Town.

The music continued to percolate in This Train Is Bound For Glory and Redbird, reaching a full-on roar with the opening notes of Steep Grade, Sharp Curves. With its catchy and winsome refrain, the entire crowd sang along with Austin. But at the end of the piece, the sweet and amiable gave way to the deep and introspective.

We buckled in for a song that would acutely alter the course of this set.

The segue from Steep Grade into Morning Dew was soft and airy, but these initial textures quickly morphed into something far weightier. And with that transformation, we were graced with an absolute monster rendition of the The Grateful Dead (by way of Bonnie Dobson) powerhouse. Over the span of twelve minutes, it took on variegated personalities, but was consistently locked into intensive jamming, each member listening especially hard for the responses of his band mates. Ben Kaufmann’s bass spoke with the most profundity and sense of purpose during this song, but everybody performed with the celestial sonority requisite to execute a piece of this magnitude. Anybody who has ever heard a rapturous Jerry Garcia Morning Dew solo, such as Cornell ’77 or New Year’s Eve ’76, understands that a song like this deserves nothing but the most sincere and visceral treatment.

Raleigh and Spencer, one of my favorite YMSB songs, closed out the set. Throughout the show, I would often peer up at Anger when hearing the dulcet tones of his violin and find myself observing his cherubic face more than his fingers. His smile was omnipresent and, when it comes down to it, he augmented this show in ways that are difficult to even describe. Watching someone take so much joy in his craft is a treat in itself. As a teacher, I am especially taken with Anger’s willingness to impart his knowledge onto others. Austin acknowledged as much during the show, telling the crowd, in jest, that Anger’s Berklee class is titled: “Teaching Kids to Be Kick-Ass 101”.

After Anger lit the flame that ignited Raleigh and Spencer, I asked myself, “What does Yonder Mountain sound like without Darol?” Even though I’ve been to a flock of YMSB shows, I had a hard time actually remembering what the quartet, alone, sounded like.

Just prior to the encore, Austin confirmed what, by then, was a secret to nobody – especially those who attended this show. “Please do give it up for our friend,” he exclaimed, “The official fifth member of Yonder Mountain String Band, Mr. Darol Anger!” And right then it became official – Darol Anger wasn’t a guest after all.

If you are a Deadhead living in SFO, PDX, PHL, BWI, or NYC, I need to talk to you about time and energy. But not in the “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” tradition of “Practice, Practice, Practice”. Instead, I need to talk to you about the temporal evolution and aggregate electrical output that are quickly molding The Motet’s funkified adaptations of the Grateful Dead songbook into an instant must-see classic.

Time: On a Friday in late January, The Motet strolled onto the Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom stage a confident bunch. And with good reason. They were reprising their prodigious Halloween run, dubbed Funk is Dead, in front of yet another sold-out crowd. The original four-date costume in late October was met with such universal and resounding acclaim, they decided to take it on the road. In February, they will travel to the nexus of Grateful Dead history, San Francisco, and then, in April, after a stop in Portland, bring their ebullient show to Philly, Baltimore, and New York City. Upon their final bow at the Highline Ballroom, they will have likely accrued enough electricity to power a small city…

Energy: Dave Watts, The Motet’s founder and drummer, said that the band’s adaptations of the Grateful Dead oeuvre sparked a saliently higher level of enthusiasm from the audience than in years past. While other Motet Halloween costumes such as Sly and The Family Stone, Talking Heads, and Earth, Wind, and Fire, were very well-received, Watts posited that the power of the Funk is Dead performances materialized because “so many people love this music and are so familiar with every lyric, melody, and arrangement. We find that when the audience is excited about a song, that energy flows directly into the band and back out the music again, creating a positive feedback loop.”

I harbor the exact same feelings as Watts, and have typically thought about this “positive feedback loop” in terms of an electrical circuit. The band provides the initial current, in the form of amps (no, not those amps), the crowd furnishes the pressure, or voltage, and in this closed circuit, the two entities multiplied together create electricity, measured in – all patronymic plays on words aside – watts. On Friday at Cervantes, The Motet and its revved-up audience generated enough wattage to induce electrical overload.

Three-quarters of the band took the stage at 11 p.m. to catalyze the crowd with an appropriately rhythm-heavy, vein-throbbing rendition of the Lesh/Kreutzmann/Hart instrumental, King Solomon’s Marbles. After 900 fans were properly primed, the three vocalists took their perch at the lip of center stage and rolled into another Blues for Allah selection, the ever-enduring Help on the Way > Slipknot > Franklin’s Tower triptych.

For those intimately familiar with The Motet, you did not read those numbers incorrectly. As on Halloween, they transformed from a septet into a duodectet for this show.

Asked why the band decided to add so many guests to the line-up, Watts invoked the power of three: “I feel that a trio is the most powerful combination of players in music. Whether they make up a group or a section within a group, the synergy created by a trio (from a musical and energetic standpoint) is much greater than the sum of its parts.” The four sections of three to which Watts alluded were vocal, horn, guitars and keyboard, and the “groove” section. Those five additional guest musicians made a prompt and puissant impact.

The groove section, comprised of Watts, bassist Garrett Sayers, and current guest, but also founding percussionist, Scott Messersmith, was the initial trio to demonstrate its potency in the first set. The three musicians made their presence known immediately with King Solomon’s Marbles, but raised the ante during Samson and Delilah. Even with two percussionists, they were surprisingly agile. Sayers, in particular, displayed an awe-inspiring dexterity and paid homage to Lesh by using the entire neck to create melodies and fills in addition to the foundational grooves. Chris O’Loughlin, bassist for the Boulder funk band Lo Down on the Mothership, paid Sayers one of the ultimate compliments: “His speed, neck-work, and style reminded me a lot of Jaco.” As in Jaco Pastorius, the incomparable jazz-fusion bassist who, along with Lesh, redefined the instrument. Sayers may have been doubly emboldened tonight due to the brand new acoustic paneling in the ballroom that controlled the reverb and made his bass sound even tighter than usual.

In addition to the groove section, Kim Dawson and Paul Creighton joined Motet singer Jans Ingber to form a vocal trio that was both an aural center and visual cynosure throughout the show. They spawned a refreshing variety of arrangements because each singer took turns at lead and harmonies. Dawson sung resplendently on Dancing in the Street, a Motown classic that Jerry Garcia and his Mu-Tron discoized in the mid-‘70s. And just like The Dead, they used Dancing as a jamming vehicle, with the horn section cultivating an appropriate measure of raunch comparable to the famous ’77 renditions.

And speaking of Dancing, the vocal trio ornamented their sonorous harmonies with very tight dancing chops. Scarlet Begonias, the first set closer, exemplified these dynamics. Creighton took lead while Dawson and Ingber gracefully rollicked about the stage. Sometimes they would even hunch down, knees fully bent, and just bob their heads to the rhythm. They also backed him up with laconic, yet resonant harmonies and, after the last line of the bridge – “in the strangest of places if you look at it right” – Dawson and Creighton traded turns ascending the scale on “right” until Dawson belted out and sustained a thundering high note that brought the house down. It was one of those moments in time that will imbue the music lover with involuntary chills.

You would never know it by listening to the show, but this is how much history Dawson has with the music: “As far as singing Grateful Dead tunes, I hadn't really ever listened to the Dead, and had never sung any Dead tunes until we were preparing for the Halloween run. Before those shows, I wouldn't have been able to name you a single Dead tune!” Her background in jazz, gospel, and choral music added a dimension in which any baby boomer Deadhead would have reveled had she played in the heart of the ‘70s gold band.

The first set ended with Scarlet seguing into a very small Dark Star tease, but leaving me with a large hunger that only a second set of equal measure could satiate. And there’s no doubt – I came away full by the end of the evening.

The horn section quickly raised the amperage back up to singeing levels, festooning the second set opener, The Other One, with delicate, yet powerful, filigrees. Gabe Mervine and Matt Pitts, the respective trumpeter and tenor saxophonist, were joined this evening by guest baritone saxophonist, Pete Wall. They were the unsung heroes of the entire night, but stepped to the fore in St. Stephen. I don’t know how many 10+ minute St. Stephen’s The Dead ever produced, but there couldn’t be but a handful, if that. The Motet carried this song to places I never thought possible, with keyboardist Joey Porter rocking the talk box and Mervine punctuating the jam with a breathtaking (literally) solo, instantly sparking a voltage increase on the ballroom floor.

After a playful Loose Lucy, it was the final trio of Porter, guitarist Ryan Jalbert, and guest guitarist Dan Schwindt that played an integral role in bringing the wattage back up to maximum capacity with a full-throttle Fire on the Mountain. The horn section made this song feel almost like a big band jazz event with their rising fills, but it was the funk melodies and Jalbert’s blues-rock solo, reminiscent of Rory Gallagher letting loose in a Dublin bar, that made it impossible not to dance. During this song, I espied a nearly catatonic guy who, on the verge of passing out, still couldn’t help but bob his head to the rhythm.

The Shakedown Street encore closed out a night that generated enough power to sustain The Motet until they hit Yoshi’s next month in San Francisco.

With this 12-piece set-up, nobody, either individually, or as a trio, stepped on each other’s toes. The arrangements could have been viscous with so many moving parts, but they were architecturally fluid while maintaining the big, tidal wave sound one would expect out of an amplified duodectet. Each trio asserted itself while making room for the others to shine. Watts maintained, “When all the parts are balanced and in sync, the power of all these combined trios is undeniable.” Seconded.

If you are a Deadhead in any of the aforementioned cities, let me reiterate something very important: buy your ticket now. Every one of The Motet’s five Funk is Dead shows in Colorado was sold out and they all took place within 60 miles of each other! The electricity generated by this band is something that will remind you of the good old days. You get only one chance to hear an extraordinary group of musicians adapt its incomparable funk and Afrobeat aesthetic to your favorite songbook. Take it.

“In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes.”- Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature“Go and sing to the mountainsGo and sing to the moonGo and sing to just about everythingCause everything is you.Listen to the riverOf your heart play like a drumListen to the night callSinging songs from all around.”- Elephant Revival, Sing to the MountainOn Sunday at The Boulder Theater, Elephant Revival made me a believer in “Transcendental Folk”, but, oddly enough, never spelled out what that label actually means. As initiates on the famous eTown radio broadcast, it’s not like the Lyons quintet didn’t have the opportunity. Hosts Nick and Helen Forster conducted a substantial interview with two of its members. Bassist Dango Rose fielded their request for background information and briefly touched upon the origins of the phrase; however, he could have done more to disambiguate its meaning. He mentioned the who, when, and why, but never got to the what. And maybe it’s best to leave that up to our imagination.The phrase was coined to describe Elephant Revival’s sound. This we know. But does the nomenclature allude to the fact that their music, in the Aristotelian sense, transcends all definable genres? Or that it brims with mystical or supernatural powers?The most fitting allusion – particularly in light of Elephant Revival’s debut appearance on eTown – might very well be culled from the tradition of Emerson and Thoreau. Transcendentalists believe that an organic harmony exists between man and nature and that this balance is often subverted by societal maladies such as greed, politics, and religious zealotry. To that end, Transcendentalists seek to reestablish a positive equilibrium between man and nature while marginalizing the social structures that often derogate from this relationship.Emerson and Thoreau would have loved sitting in the audience on Sunday for eTown’s taping. Elephant Revival serenaded the crowd with arabesque melodies, harmonies, and rhythms that braided and coiled into a sublime aural tapestry. Their instrumental dynamics, verse, and even the harrowing story that inspired their appellation, invoked the majesty, mystery, and sorrow of Mother Earth.The only drawback to the eTown format was its length. The entire taping lasted about two hours, but eTown allocated only 30 minutes for Elephant Revival to perform (country singer Jimmy LaFave received comparable time to perform and do his interview). This abbreviated stage time obviously stifled the breadth of their setlist and the ability to freely maneuver within each song.With time constraints militating against a motley setlist, Elephant Revival chose six pieces to highlight in this small window, every one of which contained natural imagery and metaphor. As if operating under the auspices of Transcendentalist tutelage, Bonnie Paine used Mother Earth as the primary muse for all three pieces she sang, while adroitly manipulating her washboard and djembe to reflect nature’s elements. In the opener, Remembering a Beginning, the narrator pines for the ability to see how it all began:“Alone, she cries, let me be insideThe ocean tide, Remembering a beginning.When the water climbs up the mountainsideDeep and open wide,Remembering a beginning.”Paine’s contemplative lines of verse floated above an uptempo Celtic dirge. The pulsing affectations (think Joni Mitchell) and fey timbre of her voice were otherworldly – supernal in nature, so to speak. Haunting and hypnotic.All three men in the band – Dan Rodriguez, Sage Cook, and Rose – are multi-instrumental string-musicians who demonstrated their versatility even within the truncated setlist. Rodriguez switched from acoustic guitar to electric banjo and Cook did just the opposite for their next piece, Go On. Cook incited the listener to (re)discovery – “go on, go on, find your light” – and then built directly upon the Transcendentalist tradition of self-reliance:“It’s love that keeps me high enoughThe drugs and sex they’ve lost respect and sacrednessAnd it’s sad, and trueCause most things can hurt or help, it’s up to us.I know, I know we’re here to sow some words And hope they grow, they growIn boundless fertile hearts and endless fields.”The pastoral metaphor was straightforward and it paired well with an arrangement that, while not stripped down entirely, was simple and punchy.Before Elephant Revival played the final song in its ultra-mini first set, the Forsters interviewed Rose and Paine. Rose relayed the sad origin of the band’s name. In 2005, executives at the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago decided to separate two elephants who had been together for a long time and forged a deep bond of telepathic proportions. On transport to a zoo in Salt Lake City, one of the elephants died and on the very same day, his partner also passed away at the Lincoln Park Zoo. Broken hearts. Rose emphasized that love and friendship should have trumped the goal of commerce, adding, “They both should’ve been sent to the elephant sanctuary in Tennessee.” The sanctuary, after all, is a natural habitat while the zoo is a contrived one – a network of concrete slabs, iron bars, and glass to imprison animals for human entertainment.The band regrouped for Feathers Rise, a love song that showcased the wistful and pensive vocals of Rodriguez. When music hits me hard enough, I often lose my way with words and resort to describing my visceral reaction. Rodriguez’s voice, supported by Paine’s harmonies, introduced a level of pulchritude that sent shivers down my back. I sat in the front row with my eyes closed, absorbing the pulse of Paine’s djembe and the slow, mellifluous Celtic fills from Bridget Law’s violin. The beauty of Feathers Rise was anchored in its canorous melancholy. But its potency – that came from the perfectly synchronized waves of repeated intensity undulating from trough to crest and back down again with enough alacrity to make me think that the elephants aren’t the only ones communicating telepathically. Total goose bumps.eTown then brought Jimmy LaFave on to croon his country ballads and discuss his life as a musician. The crowd was also treated to a delightful phone conversation between the Forsters and the latest recipient of the E-Chievement Award. Sharon received the distinction by devoting her life to feeding hungry Oregonians. She discussed a need to bridge the budgetary gap for parents who count on school to feed their children breakfast and lunch. She is another ordinary person performing extraordinary feats to remedy the injustice of children going hungry. She and Elephant Revival have a lot in common, as you will see.The band returned to the stage with Ring Around the Moon. It was lyrically imbued with imagery of the changing seasons and, with her bewitching voice, Paine executed it flawlessly. Law, on the eve of her 29th birthday, imparted the arrangement with its texture and meaning. I was mesmerized watching her color the spaces around the melodies forged by Rodriguez and Cook. Law’s countenance was pregnant with longing and rapture. Living in, yet abstracted by, the moment, she played with delicacy and precision, filling the air with earthy, sensual vibrato.In the next piece, Down to the Sea, I quickly became ensorcelled by the glorious drone of Rose’s bowing. It sounded exactly like an ocean liner horn, but in pitch. Law appeared even more entranced than me. Her entire torso swooped and swayed while her hips swished from one side to the other. I have seen violinists engage their bodies to augment the emotion in their playing, but Law’s somatic movements looked like they could have induced catharsis in the right setting. It’s a beautiful thing to witness a person lose herself so entirely in the music.Elephant Revival closed its appearance on eTown with Drop, a song that carved the most expansive path of the six. This was the piece that frustrated me the most with the eTown template. You see, not only was this the final song, but the arrangement percolated with a groove that was ineluctably danceable. Unfortunately, chairs lined the floor of The Boulder Theater. Mandatory chairs. I distinctly remember a videographer filming my body trying desperately to break free from its pleather confines. But alas, my logical self overruled my creative self. Well…they compromised. I felt really goofy dancing in my seat, but I would have felt even stranger not dancing at all.Back in the interview segment, Nick Forster asked Rose to relay the origins of the phrase “Transcendental Folk”. Rose said that a reporter coined the phrase and it stuck. More than likely, the reporter fashioned it as an umbrella term to encapsulate Elephant Revival’s unique olio of jug band, bluegrass, Celtic, country, and, of course, folk.But on stage, Rose peered out across the audience and genuinely exclaimed, “What does that mean?!”“Means you’ve probably taken drugs,” Nick Forster retorted, triggering deep, howling laughter and applause from the crowd.“Only natural ones,” Paine clarified.And that emphasis brought me back to the idea of Transcendentalism. This is a band that, through their music, poetry, and philanthropy, pursues a communion with, and seeks to protect, the environment. In concomitance with this pursuit, it compensates for the social maladies that have disrupted the natural unity of man and nature. Their touring bus runs on renewable biodiesel fuel to attenuate their carbon footprint. They donate their time and talent to Conscious Alliance, a food bank and hunger awareness organization that has provided over a million meals to isolated Native Americans reservations. They are also intimately involved in the Buffalo Heart Project, an initiative to bring heat and resources to the Lakota Reservations in South Dakota.In a previous interview, Rose said that the band’s mission is “to close the gap of separation between us through the eternal revelry of song and dance. We are all participants in this eternal dance, the creation of this sacred song, creators of the world in which we live.”That ethos is projected both onstage and off and was as salient as ever this past Sunday – even in the shortest performance of personal memory. Nick Forster asked Paine if the band would like to host its own festival – now that it has been a guest in so many for the past few years. She answered in the affirmative, but emphasized that the festival would have to reflect not only Elephant Revival’s musical values, but its mores of environmental and social responsibility as well.The original wave of Transcendentalist thought hit its popular peak over 150 years ago. But Transcendental Folk – a genre more multi-faceted than meets the ear – seems to be just getting started.

Specific aromas have the power to transport me back to an earlier, more youthful time: the earthy redolence of decaying leaves, mesquite smoke wafting from a neighbor’s barbeque, and even the gamy stench of a hockey locker room. I also have triggers for my ocular, haptic, gustatory, and aural senses. All of us do. And I thought sensory recall was the closest thing I would ever have to a time machine. But on Friday night, Phil and Friends changed that – not once, but twice.

Three paragons of guitar virtuosity – one jazz, one blues, and one Southern rock – traded solos during New Speedway Boogie and, concomitantly, brought me back to The Fox Theatre in St. Louis. Likewise, a bassist nonpareil, a keys cornerstone of post-Dead triumph, and a drummer who has helped redefine percussion in the jamband era marshaled their sonic resources during Eyes of the World and, in so doing, set the DeLorean’s dials to November 9, 2001.

The Phil and Friends show that took place on that date in Mound City marked my first live Dead experience. During the jam that bridged China Cat Sunflower and I Know You Rider, the music became a transmitter of ecstasy so great, my legs could no longer be immured by the narrow rows of cushioned theater seats. So I skipped out to the inner foyer and spun, swirled, and floated up to the empyrean until the paradisiacal melody of Rider gave way to set break. I hardly remember the music, but I could never forget the catharsis.

In the first Phil and Friends incarnation to feature a trio of superlative guitarists (my apologies to all you Chris Robinson fans), I was transported back to that Chinarider, but not by way of any aural vehicle. Instead, the sound waves that produced the “rarefaction” of concert air led to the same eruption of weightless euphoria I experienced in St. Louis. And this time I didn’t have to worry about seats boxing my feet and knees into a small space. On the floor of the 1st Bank Center, 15 rows back from stage right, I was instead immured by a mass of Deadheads who shared in my paroxysms of joy and welcomed all swinging hips and flailing limbs.

I admit that I was one of those many naysayers that loved Furthur and wished Phil would continue on with Bobby and John K. However, after the 40+ minute opening sequence of Jam > Althea > Estimated Prophet > Eyes of the World, I realized that this lineup can take the Dead catalogue to places Furthur could never dream. The Eyes began auspiciously with Phil’s walking bass line, high in the mix, pulsing below Jeff Chimenti’s fluttering piano intro and the opening guitar riff. Given the juxtaposition of precision and raw power meted out in the preceding Estimated jam, expectations were high and they were eclipsed in spades. Is it even possible that Phil could be as good, at almost 72, as he was in ’72? I thought the heat of the moment was blinding my judgment until I went back to the tapes. I popped in the 11-17-73 and 06-18-74 Eyes and then listened to Friday night’s rendition. If there is any difference in Phil’s playing, it comes out in favor of Broomfield.

Joe Russo’s unwavering loyalty to tom-driven rhythm and Chimenti’s sweeping jazz fills were the two other reasons Eyes took me back to that sacred time and space over a decade ago. Chimenti, who, along with Russo, is a Furthur transplant, fortified the melody throughout with quick and prodigious flourishes. If you listen to this Eyes, you will know why he has been a mainstay in post-Dead culture, manning the keys for The Other Ones, The Dead, Ratdog, Furthur, and, now, Phil and Friends.

Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodleloo and Loose Lucy imparted the crowd with even more down-home dancing Dead fun and then it was treated to Jackie Greene’s Like a Ball and Chain, a rollicking piece about the pain of falling hard for the dalliances of a woman, only to be chewed up and spat out. The accelerated tempo and coruscating solos by all three guitarists belied the anguish of the lyrics.

Phil and Friends wrapped up the first set with a truly forgettable Casey Jones. Usually, the crescendo mimics the speed of a train gaining momentum by adding layers – crash symbols, organ/synth pedal tones, higher levels of guitar distortion – onto each refrain with only the slightest uptick in tempo. However, they deployed a swift accelerando to the exclusion of any texture, packing even more notes into the shorter rounds of refrain. Instead of creating a verisimilitude of propulsion, the crescendo sounded like a vinyl record being played too fast on a turntable.

After a long set break, they flew out of the blocks with a conflagrant Passenger, driven by the wailing wah-wahs of Haynes’s slide work as well as his vocal harmonies. And it was the perfect lead-in to my second jaunt back to The Fabulous Fox.

I was rendered speechless, then breathless, by a New Speedway Boogie that inflated me with irrepressible rapture. The solos were never competing or dueling, but instead built off of each other, bar by bar. There was even a physical linearity to the soloing movement, beginning at stage left with Scofield, shifting down to Greene at center stage, and ending with Haynes at right-center stage. Scofield, who has one of the greatest “O” faces I have ever seen among guitar luminaries, demonstrated an uncanny patience and ability to make every single note count. He instantiated rigorous note-by-note decision-making into his solo and coupled it with a Chicago blues feel. The torch was then passed to Greene who emblazoned the piece with raw sexual power. Say it anyway you want – raunch, stank, the ooey-gooey. It doesn’t matter what you call the sound, because all of the different names elicit the same constellation of desires. Haynes topped off the brilliant string of solos with a power blues meditation on, and Southern rock ode to, Duane Allman. By then, I was so far into the stratosphere, I could see Broomfield, St. Louis, and Macon.

Upon the completion of New Speedway Boogie, I had some time to reflect on its beauty. And I couldn’t help but think of another Friday night, over 31 years ago. In December of 1980, at The Warfield in San Francisco, guitar virtuosos Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin, and Paco de Lucia brewed a magical elixir called The Fantasia Suite. In this piece, as well as others like Spain, their classical and flamenco guitars sang with 18 strings, three bodies, and one soul. No matter who was laying down the melody, soloing, or ornamenting the spaces in between, a mystical power materialized from the existence of three as one. Last Friday, the guitars were electric and navigated a genre far different than Flamenco. But the mission of instilling the crowd with an unparalleled joie de vivre was the same – and it was emphatically brought to fruition.

Almost the entire remainder of the second set was laid out in the following manner: Low Spark of High Heeled Boys > Caution (Do Not Stop On Tracks) > Low Spark of High Heeled Boys > Unbroken Chain > Dark Star > I Am The Walrus > Dark Star. This 70-minute stretch was rife with cerebral music that bordered on the esoteric. And that’s my euphemism for complex, and sometimes profound, jamming that, nonetheless, lacks the rhythm and/or tempo requisite for dancing. Low Spark has been omnipresent since Haynes’s 2000 initiation into Phil and Friends. The Traffic cover was imbued with scintillating structural and rhythmic improvisation, even ambient in small windows, but always returned to the down tempo riff. Haynes's soulful vocals paired perfectly with a piece that pays homage to one of Steve Winwood’s masterpieces. Low Spark segued into Caution which, unfortunately, devolved into a frenetic and uninspired mess. For most of the 14-minutes, it seemed like nobody could decide where to take it. With songs that are so open-ended, like Caution, sometimes too much choice leads to a lack of direction. Not even Haynes’s ribbing of Newt Gingrich (aping a jocular Pigpen) or the machine gun trills near the end could salvage the dull repetition.

The band regained their mojo with Unbroken Chain, in which Greene joined Chimenti on keys, and Walrus. The second Beatles cover of the night has, just like Low Spark, been a go-to arrow in Haynes’s quiver since joining Phil and Friends. Walrus was sandwiched in between a recondite Dark Star marked by typical experimentation with time signatures, chord structures, and pedal distortion. Overall, it never got off the ground and was, frankly, somniferous. 

Morning Dew suffused the crowd with one last exemplar of the savage power and brilliant refinement that have quickly come to define this new Phil and Friends lineup. Not many musicians, much less entire bands, know how to nurture a symbiosis between the two entities, but this sextet has seemed to master it.

On Friday, Phil and his wife Jill celebrated the 30^th anniversary of their first date. And after the final syllables of And We Bid You Goodnight dissipated into the arena air, I celebrated a band that I myopically wished would never come to be. Here’s hoping that Phil and Friends will reconnect after Furthur’s spring tour and share its majestic sound with Deadheads across the nation.

When I was very young, my house was filled with Dvořák, Beethoven, Verdi, Mahler, and Bach. My father would sometimes remark, in an almost wistful voice, that what I was listening to paled in comparison with its live counterpart. “There’s nothing like experiencing the symphony in person,” he would say. I was skeptical because I went on many a picnic with my family to Ravinia: an outdoor amphitheater with an adjacent lawn devoid of any orchestral sightlines. For those not sitting in the covered band shell, the music seemed almost secondary to the food and company on the grass. Trumpets and oboes wafted through the air in soft, hushed tones and I just didn’t understand what my father was so enamored with.

When I was a bit older, I finally got to see what all the fuss was about. I donned a navy blazer, gray slacks, and a tie and we drove down to the city to see The Chicago Symphony Orchestra at Orchestra Hall. And…it…was…stunning! Violins called and cellos responded in a fleet and provocative conversation, flutes fluttered like busy hummingbirds, and the timpani roared like lions. My father was right – the music was an entirely different animal. I never heard instruments that loud, animated, and enveloping through our living room speakers.

As I drove home from the Boulder Theater last Saturday night, I was thinking about my dichotomous experiences at Ravinia and Orchestra Hall. After a great concert, I have the proclivity to (literally) skip out of the venue and then exacerbate my already hoarse voice with an exclamatory Solo Hoot – picture the one-man laryngitic version of Billy Nershi’s famous call to revelry. But on Saturday, I walked briskly towards the west doors and continued on in that manner until I reached my car. While I couldn’t muster a scintilla of celebration, I did harbor a soupçon of sadness. What could have been a really good, maybe even superb, concert by Béla Fleck and The Flecktones was plagued by two matters seemingly beyond the band’s control and one entirely within its purview.

The most salient issue to beleaguer this show was, unfortunately, completely remediable: volume. When the quartet appeared at 8:15, I was standing in the front row, almost dead center. They took the stage one at a time and opened with Bottle Rocket, the final track from their relatively new album Rocket Science. Victor Wooten slapped his Yin Yang bass through Nemo’s Dream and, one of my favorite BFFT tunes, Sex in a Pan. During Sex, I knew something was amiss because Victor’s normally prurient bass line cum melody imparted little by way of sonic concupiscence. The volume in the Boulder Theater was simply too low. The usual haptic thrill of the bass’s vibration and the aural fireworks of Victor’s slap and pop style were both absent. I also had to strain my ears to get a clear listen to Béla picking his five-string acoustic banjo.

When guest fiddler Casey Driessen graced the stage for Irish Medley, he was all but drowned out until, 15 minutes later, he dove into a truncated solo. However, once he had the soundboard to himself, he dazzled the crowd with a hodgepodge of unorthodox bowing. First, he took fractional strokes and muted the strings to mirror the sound of a handsaw cutting through wood and, then, he dragged the bow horizontally across the plane of the strings to a peculiar, and somewhat ineffable, effect.

I started to move about The Boulder Theater to possibly find a sweet spot for more voluminous sound and logically ventured to the soundboard. Not only did the volume fade even more dramatically, I noticed another significant problem: the crowd just wasn’t into it. Obviously, those who gravitate closest to the stage are more likely to dance and exhibit any myriad signs of enthusiasm. But once I left that tiny bubble, I was stunned at the general absence of movement, presence of talking, and overall lukewarm reception. I know that occasionally rapid changes in time signatures can confuse some who might want to dance, but I doubt it was the case in this instance.

Apart from the volume issues, I’m not going to speculate on why the crowd was generally aloof. But I will make one observation and allow you to glean whatever you’d like from it. By the time the doors swung open at seven, a line was already snaking around the corner and at least 50 feet down Spruce Street. I was about 30^th in queue and hustled to the stage directly after ticket clearance. When I arrived on the floor, I was amazed to see only four people in my vicinity. But when I turned around, I was even more flabbergasted. The balcony was filling up fast. In fact, ten minutes after the doors opened, the balcony, with its cushy theater seats, was almost full while I could still count the number of people on the floor with my fingers and toes. Take what you will from that.

Later in the show, I ventured up to the balcony during the classic Sunset Road and was truly stunned. Mind you, this is not a large venue – 1,000 max capacity. Up in the balcony, the concert sounded like it was being played next door. And I’m not embellishing this observation for effect. It really felt like I was listening to the concert through a wall. Futureman’s Drumitar was louder than the other instruments near the soundboard, but up in the seats, his synthesized drum beats were muffled.

My final bone of contention is probably a little more controversial (read: in the eye of the beholder) and it falls squarely on the band’s shoulders. The single set, 150-minute show featured songs solely from albums on which pianist and harmonica player Howard Levy was featured. An original member, he took part in the creation of their first three albums in 1990, ’91, and ’92. BFFT featured seven songs from this classic, yet relatively small period. Five of the six other pieces came from Rocket Science which was released last year and featured Levy, who rejoined the band in 2010. The final song (apart from the solos) was entitled Sketch because it was still in its embryonic stages of development.

Most people might not have an issue with the setlist because so many classic BFFT songs arose from the early years. But a host of satiating powerhouses were birthed in the Jeff Coffin era and it didn’t feel right to shelve all of them.

In an unusual twist of irony, the last time I saw BFFT was in 2003 at…Orchestra Hall in Chicago, which was rechristened the Symphony Center. My girlfriend, cousin, and, yes, my father, sat in what can only be regarded as nosebleed central. High up above the floor, the über-expensive box seats, the lower balcony, and the upper balcony, rests the gallery: we were in the penultimate row of the gallery, six stories above the stage. Not only was the show phenomenal, but the sound was crisper and louder than anywhere in the Boulder Theater this past Saturday. For once, the opposite of my father’s wisdom about live concerts will hold true. The entire show will undoubtedly sound better through a pair of Sennheisers than it did in person.

To be sure, I think this concert was a hiccup – a misstep that would never stop me from seeing one of the most prodigious and exciting live bands that tour this country. It feels strange, yet absolutely necessary, to articulate the disappointment of my live experience without delving much into the actual music. Simply put, the intrusive elements that derogated from BFFT’s “sound” made it impossible to really home in on their performance. Next time, I hope I can expand on the beauty of Béla’s banjo rolls and not harp on the roles of dampened volume, aloof fans, and a prohibitive setlist.

Check out a few more photos from the show.

“It’s like déjà vu all over again.” – Yogi Berra

It is a fait accompli that, at some point in his or her first Motet show, a newbie will be hypnotized, mesmerized, and then proselytized by the thundering puissance of an Afrobeat and funk symphony. I became an official Motet neophyte during Scarlet Begonias on Halloween of last year. Before the concert began, a girl dressed as Snow White asked me about my favorite Motet experience. “This is my first time,” I told her. Her eyes bugged out and her jaw dropped. She clutched my hands in hers and exclaimed, “I’m so excited for you! This show will change your life!” After five more minutes of Snow White’s exuberant hype, including multiple ironic euphemisms about losing my virginity, I could only brace myself for a letdown…one that never occurred. As I said, Scarlet Begonias provided the precise impetus for my conversion. Three months later, my friend and I caught a reprise of Motet’s Funk is Dead extravaganza. As we inched our way toward the exit after the show, a short, stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair walked beside me and queried, “That was a life-changing experience, don’t you think?” Déjà vu.

Friday night’s 420 Bacchanal at Cervantes marked my mere third experience at a Motet show and first without a Grateful Dead setlist. And sure enough, a petite brunette named Laura cupped her hands around my ear during Expensive Shit and declared, “You know, a Motet show is a totally life-changing experience.” Déjà vu, all over again. I imagine a lot of Motet converts harbor this same belief. But it wasn’t until Friday that I finally ascertained, at least personally, the quintessence of this mantra.

Just minutes into an hour and a half second set, two things happened. First, Laura gifted me a pair of her kaleidoscope glasses to augment the band’s brilliant LED light display. Second, the dectet, which included three guest musicians, set Cervantes ablaze with incandescent renditions of Zombie and I've Got That Boogie Fever. And that’s when I ascended into a state of complete anoesis. The electrical current surging through the band and crowd overrode my cognitive circuit board while supercharging my vestibular, ocular, and aural modalities. Consequently, my body erupted like a volcano filled with magmatic bliss. I have been to hundreds of concerts and never achieved a state of sustained musical nirvana lasting more than 10 minutes. But at this Motet show, the magic number was 80.

For the remainder of the set, my notecards and pen sat undisturbed at the edge of center stage. In my anoetic state, productive literacy was all but a futile venture anyway. However it doesn’t take a journalistic writ to relay the power of one of the most roborant sets of music to which I have ever been witness. You didn’t read that incorrectly – I actually left Cervantes at 2:35 a.m. with more strength and vigor than I had when they opened the show at 11:00 p.m.

The original septet was joined by guest baritone saxophonist Serafin Sanchez for the opener, Funny Bone, which seamlessly segued into Kalakuta Show – one of five covers by Afrobeat pioneer Fela Kuti. While The Motet often covers Kuti’s songs, as he is an inspiration to its sound, the pieces tonight were especially significant in light of the 420 theme. He was an outspoken advocate for marijuana use in his native Nigeria. For Motet vocalist Jans Ingber, April 20^th is not only a day of celebration, but also an opportunity to advocate for change in government policies: “For me, there is no doubt that the prohibition of marijuana in this country is one of the most nonsensical and money wasting positions this government has taken. From regulation, taxation, agriculture, and industry, the U.S. government has been missing the boat on a culture that continues to thrive even with the current laws in place.” Ingber added, “Let's just say, The Motet is proud to be from Colorado.”

The first set was highlighted by another Kuti piece, Roforofo Fight. Bassist Garrett Sayers met trumpeter Gabe Mervine, step-for-step, as they both put the pedal to the metal during the electro-brass trance portion of the piece. While the heavy dose of Kuti songs may have been an indirect nod, the band exhibited its pro-legalization stance in a much more direct manner. To close the first set, they performed a “420 Medley” of covers with titles that left nothing to interpretation: Pass the Dutchie > Smoke 2 Joints > Hits from the Bong > Mary Jane > Legalize it > Pussy.

As guest vocalists Kim Dawson and Ayo Awosika pumped out the famous Brazilian Girls refrain – “Pussy, pussy, pussy, marijuana…” – plastic green cones began flying from the stage out to all different sections of the crowd. Keyboardist extraordinaire Joey Porter attributed part of the band’s success to its loyal fans: “Colorado music fans [are] more enthusiastic than anywhere else in the country – hands down!” As a possible gesture of gratitude, those loyal fans opened up their pine-colored cones to find large, perfectly rolled joints. The Motet hurled out 100 in total.

While the first set was glorious in its own right, the second set was incontrovertibly and ineffably beautiful. Thus, my attempt at description may be futile. After the opening Zombie > I've Got That Boogie Fever was met with a salvo of cheers and hollers from the crowd, they launched into Nemesis, an original piece that featured Ingber drumming up a storm on the congas while Sayers and guitarist Ryan Jalbert sent pulses of lightning rolling through the venue. Eventually, Ain’t But The One Way, a classic Sly and The Family Stone cover, emerged from Nemesis, but by that time the coterminous ending of one song and beginning of the other ceased to matter. From the nebulous borders of composition arose an extended sense of musical nirvana. At that juncture, the band members were so locked in they could have been playing the theme from Sesame Street and made it a pinnacle moment.

Porter bobbed his head in a familiarly comforting fashion while gilding Afro Disco Beat > Johnny Just Drop with glory chords from his Hammond B3 and Roland Juno-106. And of course, Dave Watts, the inimitable bandleader and drummer, fashioned a divine setlist and furnished potent, driving rhythms throughout the night. Asked about the magic that occurred in the second set, Ingber posited, “It's hard to pinpoint. We are just in a good space as a band, appreciating and enjoying each other and thankful for the tremendous support we get in our home state.” He also ventured, “This funkier, heavier, more open Motet sound has been creating an even stronger connection with our passionate fan base. We view our shows as a celebration of life and Colorado knows how to celebrate.” And if this show wasn’t a celebration, I honestly don’t know what is.

After a nearly half-hour encore, I left Cervantes feeling like I had just downed a mini-case of Red Bull. But instead of sugar and caffeine coursing through my veins, I was invigorated by the sublime amalgamation of funk, Afrobeat, jazz-fusion, and electronica. I was tempted to turn to my neighbor and tell her, “You know, that was a life-changing experience.” But I didn’t. Instead, I’m telling you.

Two and a half months ago, I was fortunate enough to get my first glimpse of Elephant Revival, the Lyons band whose sound is so unique, a reporter coined the term “Transcendental Folk” in an effort to capture it. In my review of that e-Town appearance, I tried to unpack this enigmatic neologism by exploring the naturalistic philosophies of Emerson and Thoreau. The band’s sonic essence, lyrical panegyrics to nature, and even philanthropic aims all feel like a secular benediction conferred onto Mother Earth.

During the interview portion, e-Town host Nick Forster asked percussionist Bonnie Paine if Elephant Revival would like to host its own festival. She replied in the affirmative, but with the caveat that the festival would have to reflect their personal ethos – not just musically, but politically and environmentally. In that same spirit, Elephant Revival’s April 27^th show at The Ogden was a celebration of music and nature infused with a healthy dose of political awareness. 

The Plenty Wolf Singers, a group of Lakota drummers, singers, and dancers, were the first of two openers. Elephant Revival met them prior to their first Buffalo Heart charity concert at a Sweat Lodge in East Boulder. Set up on stage right, (roughly) 12 men chanted while hitting a Pow wow drum almost three feet in diameter. Two other men and one woman, donning traditional Pow wow raiment with feathers, vibrant colors, and rich embroidery, danced to the rhythm of the deep, robust percussion.

Accompanied only by his acoustic guitar, Chad Stokes (Chad Urmston of Dispatch fame) took the stage after The Plenty Wolf Singers. While his set was filled with catchy riffs and familiar favorites, his mordant barbs against income inequality and the growing inutility of government drew an equal amount of applause. Like Elephant Revival, Stokes uses his platform as a musician to call attention to, and remedy, injustices anchored in poverty. His non-profit, Calling All Crows, had a booth set up in the foyer. Passersby were encouraged to write entreaties (on pre-addressed and pre-stamped postcards) to Missouri governor Jay Nixon asking him to commute Reggie Clemons’s death sentence. Usually, I do not take the time to describe opening acts, but the Plenty Wolf Singers and Chad Stokes weren’t just any ordinary openers. They were part of an overall theme of advocacy that surrounds a typical Elephant Revival concert.

Elephant Revival took the stage a little after 10 p.m. and opened with Makchi Tamboui, a tranquil and eurythmic chant led by Paine. While all five members contribute vocals, Paine has received the lion’s share of attention for her voice; in dozens of press reviews, it has been characterized as “eerie”, “otherworldly”, and/or “hypnotic”. While I agree with those assessments, guitarist Dan Rodriguez sings with an equal amount of serenity and soul. His stature (~ 6’6”) belies the gentle, folk timbre of his voice. In Quill Pen Feather, Rodriguez’s leads dovetailed perfectly with Paine’s harmonies and the snare drum rolls of her washboard.

About 20 minutes into the set, The Ogden audience was treated to a visual surprise. Aerialists Jill 'Jilly' Katz, Aaron 'Piper', Laurelight 'Maqi', and Ariana 'Airfairy' performed climbs, wraps, and breathtaking drops on aerial silks during Go On. The white silks, or tissu, were suspended from the ceiling and the aerialists used the fabric to furl and unfurl themselves in a host of positions and heights. They were also dressed, head-to-toe, in white, which tied in lyrically to the beginnings, birth, and nature invoked by the next song, Remembering a Beginning. Paine and fiddler Bridget Law met the aerialists while embarking on their own journey to learn the art of aerial performance.

Besides creation, Remembering also seizes upon the most ubiquitous imagery in Elephant Revival’s poetic repertoire – water: “Alone she cries / let me be inside / the ocean tide / remembering a beginning.” Four songs in just this show contained titular allusions to nature’s waterways. But more than that, Elephant Revival’s jamming resembles an “ocean tide”. Spinning, Down to the Sea, and Drop all displayed the band’s telepathic ability to pinpoint volume control as a single unit. The tight crescendos reminded me of a tide gathering, cresting, and then crashing to the beach. The sounds were discrete, but the volume of each instrument increased uniformly with the others. Elephant Revival’s diminuendos were equally impressive as the band displayed a monolithic ability to reduce its volume. In a similar manner, once that tide hits the beach, it retreats with universal alacrity and proportionality. The magnitude of each ebb and flow never altered the singularity of range.

As in every band, each person arrives with a unique set of influences. Bassist Dango Rose demonstrated his love of cellist Rushad Eggleston’s rhythmic bowing technique in Down to the Sea. A hint of Edgar Meyer’s Appalachian work (such as The Goat Rodeo Sessions) was woven throughout the set as well.

Law was really the unsung hero of this, and many, Elephant Revival shows. Her vocals are never featured as prominently as Paine’s, or even Rodriguez’s, but the versatility of her fiddling is unavoidably brilliant: “I grew up playing in Texas fiddle contests, learned many styles of jazz and swing in college, learned to play bluegrass in jam sessions around Colorado and went to Scotland four times. Now I quest to learn more gypsy and cajun fiddle styles as well as writing tunes and always improving my improvisation chops. My approach is to play the instrument with grace and natural fluidity”. Whether that last part was an accident or not, it’s yet another allusion to nature’s waterways.

The highlight of the night was Law’s solo and fills during Sing to the Mountain. She not only played with an overflow of expression, her body movement brimmed with emotion. At times she bent way down at the knees while keeping her torso straight. At other points, her body dipped and swooshed like a willow tree.

The one complaint I would have about this show is its format. A single set rarely works as well a traditional two-set show for a couple of reasons. First, the crowd needs a break to talk about the music and physically recover. Second, bands often benefit because they, too, need to unwind and recharge their batteries. As the song count marched into the 20s, I could sense a tangible restlessness in the crowd. The momentum from the stage also began to hit a wall.

However, the three-song encore erased that downshift. It was punctuated by a dual effort between the band and Chad Stokes to honor the legendary drummer and singer Levon Helm, who recently died of throat cancer. Stokes belted out The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, one of the most (if not the most) famous songs in The Band’s oeuvre. The Plenty Wolf Singers joined Stokes and Elephant Revival for the final song, The Garden. It was a sight to see the stage packed not only with musicians, but also activists who use their platform for the betterment of society. Music does not have to carry a cause to be powerful, but the advocacy of all three groups surely helped to intensify this potent brew.

When Wilco’s newest album, The Whole Love, came out last year, guitarist and lead singer Jeff Tweedy explained the rationale for making Art of Almost the first track. “As an opener, there’s really no other song that we could’ve put first that would’ve kicked the door wide open as much to whatever’s gonna happen next,” Tweedy said in a Studio Q interview with Jian Ghomeshi, “You want people to be compelled to come along for the ride…”

At Red Rocks last Friday, Wilco thrust Art of Almost into the third, not first, slot, but it performed the identical function that Tweedy was aiming for on The Whole Love. Friday’s rendition was masterful. It was erogenous yet lovingly empathic, visceral yet cerebral, and rife with sadness yet brimming with sanguinity. From Nels Cline’s impassioned solo work on his Fender Jazzmaster to the melodious electronic labyrinth fabricated on Pat Sansone and Mikael Jorgensen’s keyboards, Art of Almost certainly kicked the door wide open to a sensational show.

On the first gig of a two-night stand, Wilco seamlessly bounced around from vortical rock ‘n’ roll (A Shot in the Arm) to sing-along pop (Heavy Metal Drummer) to Cashian ballad (Open Mind) and back again without ever sounding forced or phony. This is why they could successfully open the show in essentially a downshift with the brooding One Sunday Morning (Song For Jane Smiley’s Boyfriend). With acoustic guitar in tow, Tweedy spun a yarn from the perspective of a man whose father just died. He reflects on the end of their strained relationship which was anchored in his father’s overbearing religiosity. You won’t find too many concerts beginning with such contemplative music or lyrics. But this incipient piece was the perfect way to ease the crowd into a night of eclectic sounds that, no matter how different they were in theory, always blended euphoniously in practice.

After the acoustic-driven One Sunday Morning, Wilco segued to my favorite song off of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, the dyspeptic Poor Places. This polytonal song utilizes a brilliant mix of effects in the studio, but the live incarnation is no less bereft of beauty. At least half of Red Rocks sang with Tweedy: “And it makes no difference to me / how the cried all over overseas / when it’s hot in the poor places tonight / I’m not going outside,” and loudly cheered when the flanger-effect whoosh engaged, marking both the climax and dénouement of the song. There would be no robotic female voice signaling “Yankee, Hotel, Foxtrot,” at the end, yet something even better in its stead…

But before I get to that, it is important at this point to pay homage to Sarah Moessner’s visually stunning set design. Hundreds of white textile strands were knotted and balled at varying points, from top to bottom, and hung from three discrete portable crossbeams. The strands were illuminated with warm, saturating colors like vermillion, orange, and citron and, at other times, cool arrays of bice, purple, cerulean, and mauve. For some songs with a slower tempo, robust coloration gave way to a monochromatic candelabra look, where soft white bulbs illuminated just a fraction of the strands – think Christmas light white. Red Rocks is a well-established musical cathedral, but the set design and lighting arrangements made it feel like an actual place of worship to an aural divinity.

After Poor Places, Art of Almost set the table for the single set, multiple-encore evening. The cerebral part of this composition comes from its distinct symphonic structure; most modern songs do not articulate an intro, exposition, development, recapitulation, and coda. Art of Almost not only adopts this structure, but it also concomitantly works on a visceral level; on Friday, drummer Glenn Kotche attacked with syncopation in order to color and texturize the piece with sundry off-beats. Lest we forget the final member of this sensational sextet, Jeff Stirratt’s bassline was almost baroque in nature and dovetailed gorgeously with Kotche’s beats. I had a unique opportunity to take photographs in the Red Rocks pit during Art of Almost and was sucked into this madcandy vortex. I came out with a smile so wide, my jaw ached for the next six or seven songs.

The hour and a half set was punctuated by other Wilco feats of power, dexterity, and bravado as well as displays of meditation and musing. Early in the set, the crowd was treated to arguably the two finest pieces from Sky Blue Sky: Side With Seeds and Impossible Germany. Sansone left his Korg set-up to play guitar for Impossible Germany. The soloing and improvisation on this piece require the delicate balance of three axes and Sansone played his part with aplomb. However, I was initially perplexed about Cline’s approach.

During the solo, he started to play too many notes, drowning out the other guitarists while paying little deference to the muted spaces in between notes that have an indispensable role in a balanced attack. In football, sometimes you’ll hear a color commentator denounce running back X for running east and west instead of north and south - the idea being that X is dancing around instead of picking his hole and rushing downfield. At the beginning of Cline’s solo, I felt he was running east and west. I was not impressed by the sheer quantity of notes he was playing because, without any space in between, they sounded busy and lacked direction. It didn’t seem like he had a plan to go “downfield”. However, Impossible Germany ended beautifully with Tweedy and Sansone trading solos over Cline’s machinegun shredding, while strobe lights shot across the stage and audience.

I must emphasize that, on the whole, Cline proved over and over why he is considered one of Rolling Stone’s Top 100 guitarists of all time, particularly on I’m The Man Who Loves You (oscillating pedal effects were superb), Dawned on Me (double neck!), and Hoodoo Voodoo (dance party rock and rip). And Cline’s resplendent guitar work was integral to the aforementioned centerpiece of the entire show – Art of Almost.

Towards the middle of the set, Wilco sandwiched the eponymous song from their latest album in between two pieces that are as titularly self-explanatory as anything out there. The Red Rocks crowd unleashed a roar at the opening riff of Handshake Drugs and sang along with equal enthusiasm. But Tweedy reached his comical apex during the preface to I Must Be High: “I think we should’ve played this song first because of [sic] aromatic [smells at Red Rocks]. Who here is from Boulder? Raise your hand. Did you know it’s easier to find pot in Boulder than Advil?” Tweedy then offered a short story about driving around Boulder earlier in the day trying to find a place that sells an anti-inflammatory while, in the process, passing a multitude of dispensaries.

The band rounded out the 17-song set with the Heavy Metal Drummer > I’m The Man Who Loves  You couplet, followed by Dawned on Me and A Shot in the Arm. Cline took over for the set closer with a thundering sustain on his Fender. He then followed it with machinegun shredding that was overlaid by Jorgenson and Sansone pounding away on their Nord synths and Korg workstation, respectively. A breathtaking and apropos knockout punch to close out the set.

The first encore featured three songs, including Via Chicago. For those not familiar with this tune, it is a serene piece until, a few minutes in, a warzone breaks out. It was an eerie juxtaposition to hear the mimicked sound of fireworks popping and gunfire strafing while Tweedy maintained a mellow sang-froid in his voice and demeanor. The Punch Brothers, who opened for Wilco, came out to close the first encore with fan favorite California Stars. Unfortunately, their acoustic instruments were almost entirely drowned out by Wilco’s gear. Nonetheless, the group effort was appreciated and well-received.

While a small contingent of fans began to head for the exits after the first encore, those who stayed were treated to a phenomenal couplet to close out the night. After Theologians and Monday, Wilco went all-out rock ‘n’ roll. Outtasite (Outta Mind) ensured that nobody remaining at Red Rocks was sitting down. At one point during the piece, I swear that Kotche looked just like Keith Moon frenetically pounding away at his kit. After that dance party, the band closed with Hoodoo Voodoo, featuring one of Wilco’s instrument techs, Josh, on the cowbell. I’m sure most of you have seen the famous Will Ferrell/Christopher Walken SNL skit. Well, a shirtless Josh did his best Will Ferrell impression, running all over the stage while hammering on his singular instrument. It was a fitting end to a night filled with devilishly fun pop, kinetically-driven rock, acoustic-oriented ballads, and, just for good measure, a healthy dose of humor.

As Tim O’Brien and Friends kicked off the final set of RockyGrass 2012, I planted my feet a couple of yards behind the elevated stage. The canopy of treetops overhead, awash in color from the stage lights, absorbed a light drizzle. To my right, the deity of all double bassists, Edgar Meyer, calmly warmed up next to the main stage staircase. He would join O’Brien and fellow bassist Mike Bub momentarily. Aoife O’Donovan, the spritely young phenom who floored the crowd all weekend long with her diaphanous vocal harmonies, fluttered and spun in tight circles off in the wings of stage left. A wave of inspiration hit me. I opened my notebook and began writing: “Despite Casey Driessen’s lightning quick fiddle fills and the thunderous pops and thwaps emerging from Mike Bub’s upright bass, an aura of peace and tranquility surfeits the air, engaging all nature, human and…”. But before I could finish writing that mawkish drivel, a stout, Buddha-bellied bearded man, clutching a can of beer in his hand, approached me. 

“Journalist?” he snarled.

“Kinda, sorta,” I replied, unsure of what he wanted.

The man took a swig and continued, “Well, write this down. I asked Craig (Ferguson, RockyGrass festival director) if I could teach a full week unicycle class next year and he turned me down!”

By now, I sensed the jest in his voice and played along.

“During RockyGrass Academy? You wanna teach unicycle lessons?” I asked.

“Yep! But he said no. I just thought you should be aware of that for your article.”

A bit incredulous, but still not understanding the joke, I said, “Okay, but I need to know your name if I’m going to use this.”

The man stuck out his right paw and, in a husky voice, he said, “Vince. Vince Herman.”

A Series of Confluences

Planet Bluegrass Ranch is a beautiful riparian venue, cradled to the north and east by the North St. Vrain Creek and buttressed by the mantle of Lyons’s majestic sandstone cliffs. Less than a mile away, the St. Vrain River is forged from the confluence of the North and South St. Vrain Creeks. But it was back at Planet Bluegrass Ranch where a host of more poetic confluences – musical, communal, historical, and generational – materialized along the banks of this teeming creek. Even Planet Bluegrass’s logo, displayed from the apex of center stage, is a confluence. It’s an adaptation of the Yin-Yang called the “Yinjo Yangdolin”.

I have been listening to Leftover Salmon for at least a decade and also attended a handful of their shows. So how is it that I failed to recognize their guitarist, Vince Herman, who is also one of Colorado’s most famous and beloved musicians?

Beginning with RockyGrass Academy, which commences five days prior to the festival, the musicians become part of the landscape, not a cut above it. They arrive to teach amateur bluegrass enthusiasts, participate in midnight picking sessions on the campgrounds, and, from all observations, revel in the artistry of their peers joining them on the three-day bill. Throughout the weekend, I saw men that are associated with virtuosity – Sam Bush, Noam Pikelny, Ronnie McCoury, and Jesse McReynolds, to name a few – conversing with fans and displaying a high level of ebullience while listening to their fellow pickers perform. I was reminded that they are not only star musicians, but fundamentally, huge fans just like everyone else. Or, in Planet Bluegrass parlance, “Festivarians”.

On Friday evening, for example, while The Punch Brothers were forging a masterful set, their peers could be found clustered in the crowd, braving the rain with everyone else. Yonder Mountain String Band’s Jeff Austin sat in the fourth row and sang Ophelia to his young daughter while Thile paid homage to the late Levon Helm on stage; Casey Driessen, in lieu of a chair, squatted a row back, behind Austin’s wife; living legend Tim O’Brien sat in front of the Austins, with one arm around his wife; and guitarist Michael Daves was seated a few chairs to their right. And those were just the musicians within my sightline. While some bands had obligations that limited their stay, RockyGrass is not the type of festival where the tour bus shows up, the set is executed, and the band departs with alacrity. No, RockyGrass is a celebration where bluegrass artists – first, second, and third generation – bring their families and make a weekend, and in some cases, an entire week, of the occasion. 

So as the festival was coming to a close, why is it that I didn’t recognize Vince Herman, a famous guitarist I’ve seen dozens of times either in person or photographs? The integration of professional musicians into the larger RockyGrass community – the confluence of their roles not merely as entertainers, but also teachers, family men, and adoring fans – was the likely culprit for that hiccup in simple facial recognition. Vince was one of at least 30 people who approached me, unsolicited, over the weekend. Musicians and fans alike, who might ordinarily be wary of journalists, were dying to gush about RockyGrass – or talk about unicycles – on the record.

“Bigger Tarp, More Friends”

At 9:30 a.m. on Friday, I entered the Planet Bluegrass Ranch festival grounds to a sea of tarps, stretching at least 50 yards from the stage and extending 60 yards across the breadth of the field. Most of the lawn was covered with a patchwork of large rectangles: blue, brown, burnt orange, pine green, some crusted with old dirt, others emitting the scent of brand new, sunbaked plastic. While there are many facets of RockyGrass that fans look forward to, the tarp run has to be high on the list. People line up at midnight to receive a lottery number. Once everyone has a card, a number is drawn at random to determine the order of the queue and, nine hours hence, entry when the gates open. Festivarians dash to acquire premium real estate close to the stage, laying down tarps for demarcation. But why the rush? Brian Eyster, communications and marketing director for Planet Bluegrass (and Festivarian since 2000) explained:

“We’re committed to the single stage idea. Most festivals aren’t. It comes back to the idea of community. People run in and claim their spot at the beginning and they have a shared experience throughout the day. Everybody’s in one place and everybody’s hearing the same music. It fosters community because everyone is sharing in the same experience (and not traveling from one stage to the next).”

If the tarp run sounds hardcore, it very well may be. But it does not contravene the tenets of community, sharing, and egalitarianism that are heavily promoted in Planet Bluegrass events. Before 23 String Band christened the festival Friday morning, a RockyGrass representative took the stage to announce the official tarp policy. Any individual could move up and sit on someone else’s tarp if all, or even just a few, of the occupants were walking around the grounds. Unofficially, people who had larger tarps than necessary would often encourage fellow Festivarians, especially those of whom they’ve never met, to sit with them. I saw a threesome of women walking around in ‘70s style three-quarter sleeves tees with the words “Bigger Tarp, More Friends” emblazoned across the chest. Friendships can be almost instantaneous. 

No more than an hour later, I decided to take advantage of this policy. And that’s when two things happened; first, I met Bill, Joy, and Greg, and, a little while thereafter, I decided that a review focusing solely on the music of the festival would sell the true greatness of RockyGrass short.

Traditional Bluegrass or Big Tent?

While Telluride is unequivocally the more well-known of Colorado’s two main bluegrass festivals, RockyGrass is actually one year older. The father of bluegrass, Bill Monroe, started the Rocky Mountain Blue Grass festival in 1973. He booked the talent while the fledgling Colorado Bluegrass Music Society organized and promoted the event. The Adams County Fairgrounds played host (relocation to Lyons didn’t occur until 1992) to some of the biggest luminaries of the scene. Ralph Stanley’s RockyGrass debut came at the second annual event in 1974; Jesse McReynolds, along with his now deceased brother Jim, was initiated a year later, in 1975; and Tim O’Brien, who played his 29^th RockyGrass this year, made a name for himself in the fiddle and guitar competition in 1975, as well. It was no mere coincidence that all three legends were on the bill for the 40^th anniversary celebration. Eyster asserted: “The lineup has been crafted to reflect the earlier years of the festival with seminal artists (like Stanley and McReynolds)”.

But it does not lean solely on the big names or styles of bluegrass royalty. Eyster explained, “We wanted to fill out the lineup with young acts that are on the rise like Trampled by Turtles and The Punch Brothers. The best RockyGrass festivals balance gritty traditional bluegrass with progressive elements and even some surprises.”

While Eyster’s assessment of balance, in my opinion, is absolutely correct, there has been a fierce debate, one that has spread all the way to the International Bluegrass Music Association (IBMA), about what constitutes real bluegrass. Traditionalists, or “purists”, point to the arrangements of first generation artists like Monroe, Stanley, McReynolds, and Earl Scruggs as truly consonant with the genuine article. They dismiss the newer eras of phenoms – such as Crooked Still, The Infamous Stringdusters, and Yonder Mountain String Band – who have introduced elements of rock, jazz-fusion, extended jamming, and, in some instances, unique instrumentation such as the cello. Newgrass, or “progressive”, fans prefer a big tent approach – while they may favor one style over others, all are welcome. The only immediate concerns of full inclusion are market share and visibility. Progressive artists tend to rake in a heavier portion of both. Amateur banjoist and singer Nina Dropcho, who also writes a bluegrass column, described this position: “So long as progressive bluegrass doesn’t kill off traditional bluegrass, then we’re fine. As long as we have both, there’s room for everybody.”

All genres and generations of American music have paid tribute to their foundations, but none has remained prohibitively enslaved to the sound of its founding fathers. Charlie Parker’s bebop, Miles Davis’s modal jazz, and Herbie Hancock’s funk-fusion all displayed an awareness of, while completely embellishing upon, the aesthetics developed by Louis Armstrong. Likewise, Stevie Ray Vaughan and B.B. King could borrow Lead Belly’s chord progressions while concomitantly sculpting the blues to their own sense of euphony and showmanship. In much the same manner, a farrago of second and third generation innovators has ensured that bluegrass continues to expand and thrive upon the foundations created in the 1930s, ‘40s, and ‘50s. While RockyGrass has a reputation of focusing on more traditional bluegrass, there was a healthy dose of progressive music that expounded upon Bill Monroe’s arrangements.

Trampled by Turtles, who played the early evening set on Friday, was a salient part of this mix. None of the 20+ acts on the lineup card approximated the speed and ferocity with which TxT blazed throughout its uptempo pieces. “We really beat up our instruments,” acknowledged mandolinist Erik Berry. Like his bandmates, Berry’s style and flare are heavily influenced by rock ‘n’ roll. Growing up, he emulated Eddie Van Halen, Jimi Hendrix, and all of Ozzie Osbourne’s guitarists, “even the lesser known ones.” He then went on to recite the exact chronology of Ozzie’s axe men, even digressing into a soliloquy on Jake E. Lee.

On multiple occasions, TxT brought a throng of jamband fans to their feet with rock-oriented sequences of accelerando and, in some cases, metal-influenced thrashing and headbanging. But this was not a one-dimensional band pulling from a single aesthetic influence. More than just extracting an electric sound from acoustic instruments, TxT channeled one of Berry’s heroes, Ralph Stanley, during beautiful ballads interspersed throughout the set. The unique confluence of styles, tempos, and techniques was exquisite.

And while it may provide a bone of contention for purists, Berry appears unsympathetic to their concern. Of everyone with whom I spoke, he delivered the most incisive anecdote on the fait accompli that is genre evolution: “We’re walking through the airport earlier and someone asks us, ‘Are you a bluegrass band?’ To a bluegrass purist, we’re supposed to say ‘no’. But we’re in an airport, so what am I supposed to say? ‘We’re a rock-influenced string band?’ In 20 years, natural selection will get rid of a lot of people with an ‘anti’ opinion….Do people expect Buddy Holly, CCR, and Radiohead to sound alike? They’re all rock!”

Sam Bush – Connecting Purists with Progressives

In furtherance of Berry’s point, progressive sounds, styles, and techniques often convolve into the mainstream musical etymology. A lexicon – language or music – lives, breathes, and grows forever larger. Sam Bush, who headlined Friday, chartered New Grass Revival in 1971, just two years before RockyGrass came into being. The band was on the vanguard of the progressive movement, employing traditional instruments to play rock, blues, and jazz-influenced bluegrass. Even their raiment and shocks of long hair were a source tension with purists at the time. When I sat down with Bush, he found more than a hint of irony in retrospect: “When I played in New Grass, we turned heads, but then evolution occurred and it was basically normalized. What we played in New Grass was considered progressive, even edgy, but it definitely sounds like bluegrass today.” However, Bush revealed that the strong sense of brotherhood he forged with his New Grass bandmates, as well as the likes of Edgar Meyer and Jerry Douglas (Strength in Numbers), was anchored not so much in their unique sound, but their shared roots: “As progressive as we’ve written certain tunes, bluegrass is our common denominator and that’s where we tend to meet up, so to speak.” Instead of conspiring to alter traditional bluegrass, the confluence of styles brought to bear in Bush’s bands has, instead, expanded upon its pulchritude and appeal. 

Bush is second-generation bluegrass royalty. Just as the name of Monroe’s band, The Blue Grass Boys, birthed the genre’s original appellation, Bush’s 1971 collective introduced the moniker that would come to define the progressive subgenre of his contemporaries (Seldom Scene, New South): newgrass. And if Bill Monroe’s bluegrass is the sun and newgrass is Mercury, then third generation progressive grass (Yonder Mountain String Band, The Infamous Stringdusters, Crooked Still, et al.) would be Venus, orbiting on a different axis a little further away, but still wholly dependent on the central star in the solar system.

If there is one satellite in the whole of bluegrass that has been everywhere in the galaxy, it is Bush. He has shared the stage with just about every picker who has ascended to stardom. From first generation pioneers like Monroe and Scruggs; to his contemporaries like promethean flat-picker Tony Rice and dobro extraordinaire Douglas; and finally to the prodigious, free-wheeling, genre-bending trailblazers of today like Mike Marshall and Chris Thile, Bush has picked with them all. So it was fitting that, on Friday evening, he paid homage to his roots while, at the same time, passing the torch.

Bush, along with Scott Vestal (banjo), Stephen Mougin (guitar), Todd Parks (bass), and Chris Brown (snare drum), serenaded Festivarians with over two hours of traditional bluegrass. Well – compared to his sonic explorations of the ‘70s and ‘80s, relatively traditional bluegrass. Classics like The Osborne Brothers’ Big Spike Hammer, were interspersed with newgrass favorites such as John Hartford’s Steam Powered Aero Plane. All the while, Bush demonstrated why, at 60, he is still one of the most well-regarded mandolinists in the world. Given the nature of the set, his famous full-forearm tremolo was not as salient as usual, but his neckwork was, as always, scintillating.

“After I listen to Sam, I want to burn my mandolin,” Billy Wilson confessed, with total affection. “Sam is the greatest of all time.” An amateur picker, Wilson first attended RockyGrass in the early ‘80s, but like many Festivarians, lost track of how many he has seen. For decades, the community consensus aptly reflected Wilson’s GOAT assertion. But in recent years, mandolin prodigy Thile, of Nickel Creek and, more recently, Punch Brothers, fame, has dissolved this unanimity. Interestingly enough, Bush has been one of the most vocal advocates of Thile’s ascendance. Before his band took the stage, he invited Thile, 31, out to lay down the harmony on Brilliancy. A current surged through the crowd in awareness of what was happening – the two most gifted musicians in their particular instrument, creating electricity on stage. During our sit down before the show, Bush explained why he chose Brilliancy for the duet.

“One time Chris said to me, ‘Hey, would you play Brilliancy? I think I know the harmony.’ And he did. For me, Brilliancy is pretty challenging, but I say this about Chris Thile and Mike Marshall – anything I can play, they can play the harmony to it. I admire Chris’s musicianship so much because really whatever instrument he chose, he’d be probably the best you ever heard on it. Mandolin is his instrument of choice and I’m really happy about that.”

For the record, Thile’s guest spot marked his fourth appearance, out of nine total bands, for the day. In each incarnation, he augmented the sound with his lightning quick fingers, soulful vocals, and dynamic stage presence reminiscent more of a vaudeville star than a musical prodigy.

After a sublime mandolin duet, Bush bid adieu to Thile and brought his band out. In addition to songs from the bluegrass canon, they peppered the set with diverse covers that, lyrically, promoted a unifying theme. In a nearly 10-minute rendition of Bob Marley’s One Love, Bush incited the crowd to sing the refrain – “One Love / One Heart / Let’s get together and feel all right” – a cappella near the end. He dedicated the next song, Joni Mitchell’s One Tin Soldier, to the victims of the recent Aurora theater shootings. Her poetic message advanced upon Marley’s simple proclamation:

“And they killed the mountain people, so they won their just reward / Now they stood beside the treasure, on the mountain dark and red / Turned the stone and looked beneath it / Peace on earth was all it said.”

While the origins of Bush’s covers spanned from bluegrass to reggae to folk, he incorporated the same views that Planet Bluegrass actively promotes – community, benevolence, and inclusivity.

Community, Benevolence, and Inclusivity – Words Transform Into Action

On Friday, less than an hour after my arrival, I decided to take advantage of RockyGrass’s generous tarp policy. I left a cooler, extra clothes, and Crazy Creek on my tarp and winded my way to the front of the field. I spotted a vacant blue patch in the second row and, after sitting down, struck up a conversation with a trio of friendly faces. My neighbors, Bill Hogrewe, Joy Barrett, and Greg Mudd, baby boomers all, were each closing in on their 20^th RockyGrass. Like almost everyone else I met who was initiated last century, none of the three could remember his or her exact baptismal year.

Greg works at Bart’s Music Shack in Boulder and is also a freelance photographer. He sported a woolly charcoal beard and may have been the only person at RockyGrass with actual film in his camera. I immediately took to him. Greg was eager to watch first generation lions Jesse McReynolds and Bobby Osborne perform, but like most Festivarians with whom I spoke, revels in the discovery of new talent building on their roots: “Leftover Salmon, String Cheese, and Yonder Mountain were very much influenced by Bill Monroe, Peter Rowan, and other (traditional) musicians,” he contended. Cognizant of the success engendered by these three Colorado bands, Greg recoils at the thought of even younger generations hamstrung by a restrictive set of guidelines. Half the fun is listening to novel, ground-breaking musicians take their predecessors’ sound in uncharted directions. Even if that direction is back toward Big Mon. After Thile and Daves delivered a musically and theatrically stunning performance, Greg exclaimed, “The set with Chris and Michael was mind-blowing! If they ever decide to get a great bass player like Sam Grisman, as well as a fiddle and banjo player, that could be the next big thing for traditional bluegrass.”

Greg’s friends, Bill and Joy, are married and live in Boulder. They started coming to RockyGrass soon after its 1992 relocation to Lyons. The couple moved to the East Coast, twice, but returned to Lyons almost every year for this late July celebration. Bill donned a thick mane of silver hair and cropped beard of matching hue. His face and demeanor were both sanguine throughout the weekend. And Joy had the kindest eyes and an even gentler spirit. The couple recalled some of their fondest memories of RockyGrass, even those that occurred more than a decade ago, with robust detail. But for all their vivid retellings and quotable reminiscences, it was the actions Bill, Joy, and Greg took that made the largest impression.

When the owners of the vacant blue tarp returned Friday morning, my temporary neighbors immediately extended their hand of friendship. They invited me to hang out with them any time I wished on their tarp. They worked hard to claim real estate in the first or second row (center stage) all three days, but made a habit of including me in their circle. Despite my peripatetic habits, I knew I could always return to watch the action from a premium vantage point.

During the second afternoon, all of that walking caught up with me. That, as well as a 13-hour sunbaked Friday and six hours of 90-degree heat on Saturday. My eyelids became heavy. After The Hillbenders' mid-afternoon set, I decided to take a nap on my tarp and recharge for the evening. An hour or so later, when I awoke, my backpack – along with the camera, iPad, glasses, sandals, notebooks, and keys inside it – were nowhere to be found. For three hours, without even a pair of shoes to assist, I searched the grounds to no avail. All the while, everyone around – Bill, Joy, Greg, random people who saw me scouring the field, the ticketing station employees who also ran the Lost and Found, and even the backstage security guard – assured me with an unusual amount of conviction that my bag would be found. “People at RockyGrass would not steal your bag,” was the universal affirmation I got over and over from veterans of the festival. I wanted to believe that but I also knew that it would only take one bad apple.

After resigning my search, the backstage security guard offered to walk to his tent (on the adjacent campgrounds) in between sets to loan me his sandals. An hour later, when I was squinting to see Béla Fleck’s nimble banjo rolls, a girl to my right offered me her glasses to see if they worked. Lo and behold, we had the same prescription. Just like binoculars at a sporting event, she passed me her glasses intermittently so I could catch glimpses of Béla, Ronnie McCoury, Alan Bartram, Danny Paisley and Jason Carter. Similar to the set Bush put together, his former New Grass bandmate paid homage to the forebears of bluegrass with 90 minutes of traditional arrangements.

Throughout the evening, and into the next day, Greg implored everyone who would listen to be on the lookout for a gray backpack with green trimming. Bill and Joy chimed in as well. When Béla closed out his set around 10:30 p.m., and I still could not locate my car keys (among many things), they did not hesitate to offer me a ride home. My feet were shredded by night’s end and, despite politely declining the security guard’s altruistic gesture, I gladly accepted a spare pair of Bill’s sandals to avoid further damage.

While my backpack was still nowhere to be found, I decided to hold out hope. After all, if total strangers were offering me their clothes, glasses, a ride home, and helping me search for my bag, then maybe it was true – maybe it really wasn’t possible to have my valuables boosted in such a kind and benevolent community.

At the Junction of Multiple Generations

The most striking feature throughout the 40^th anniversary RockyGrass was the seamless confluence of generational participation and enthusiasm. This makeshift community would be unable to flourish, or even sustain itself, without membership from all age groups. From toddlers to teenagers, swaths of children could be found taking guitar lessons at RockyGrass Academy, wading in the creek, and listening to the sultry sounds of banjo rolls and bass licks with their families. Similarly, yet conversely, one could spot septuagenarians dancing together, cheek-to-cheek, in the muddy aisle behind the soundboard.

But even more remarkable was the ubiquitous sense of trans-generational egalitarianism – a cooperative spirit that razed the walls and barriers people frequently (and often without noticing) erect in everyday life. Bill, Joy, and Greg all had a good 20 years on me, but their invitation smacked of one second grader telling another whom she just met, “Come over to my house after school to play!” And they were not alone. Across the sea of tarps, The Greatest Generation, Baby Boomers, Gen-Xers, and beyond broke bread together and shared in the mirthful music that transcends epochs and eras.

This transcendence could also be found on stage. Famed banjoist Ben Eldridge hammed it up on Lay Down Sally during Seldom Scene’s Sunday spot; while on Friday, his son, guitarist Chris, gilded Punch Brothers with his golden guitar picking. Pickers like Sam Grisman and brothers Rob and Ronnie McCoury proudly carried the torch in their famous fathers’ (David and Del) absence this year.

And the good majority of artists talented enough to get an invite to RockyGrass paid tribute to an older generation of masters who can never play RockyGrass again. Scruggs and revolutionary flat-picker Doc Watson, born 10 months apart in the Roaring ‘20s, both died this year and were eulogized by one musician after the next on stage. Tim O’Brien, 58, made a special point to commemorate these two lions during his set. Former Hot Rize bandmate Pete Wernick, 66, joined him for most of the evening. Wernick announced that when North Carolinians Watson and Scruggs came to play near his home in New York City, “it was like gods in our midst.” Additionally, The McCoury brothers made a guest appearance with O’Brien to pay tribute to Scruggs.

Almost, but not completely, lost in the mix of honoring Watson and Scruggs, as well as Levon Helm (who also died this year) and Everett Lilly, were O’Brien’s own sublime creations. Nellie Kane nodded to the traditional happy-grass of the ‘50s and the pulsing accelerando of Land’s End sent a thrilling shockwave through the crowd.

The mural of trans-generational cooperation was brought to fruition by artists who, representing a medley of bluegrass epochs, collaborated together on stage. O’Donovan, 29, the young vocal stylist with an ethereal mien, harmonized with O’Brien and guitarist Peter Rowan, 70, during Helm’s sendoff on The Weight. “She uses her breath to let the song float on the wind,” Dropcho stated. There was, in fact, a buoyance in the piece. Helm would have been taken aback at the polyphony engendered by O’Donovan, Rowan, and O’Brien during the refrain.

But this confluence of generations was at its most profound during a Saturday afternoon session housed in the densely packed Wildflower Pavilion. The roofed, but outdoor, venue resides in between the larger campground and the back edge of the main lawn. While it fields a limited number of RockyGrass sets, it hosted maybe the most memorable event of the entire weekend. Three masters – Jesse McReynolds (83), Béla Fleck (54), and Ronnie McCoury (45) – who blossomed in three different eras treated the standing room only crowd to one of the most sybaritic experiences a bluegrass fan can enjoy. At his advanced age, mandolin powerhouse McReynolds was sharp as a whip in both his picking and humor. He incited laughter and awe in the crowd with stories about his wife and working on a tribute to Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter. McCoury, meanwhile, played the sidekick during his stories – the Ed McMahon to his Johnny Carson. Words cannot begin to do justice to the sublimity of those mandolins, plus Béla’s banjo, combining to knock out Nervous Breakdown. The dexterity, speed, meticulousness, and tone with which it was played, while all three men raced in perfect synchronization, led me to actually pinch myself – I thought it was too good to be real. But I wasn’t dreaming. The applause that followed was deafening.

The only other event approximating that level of precision and power was another feat of trans-generational collaboration; Thile joined his former teacher, John Moore, as well as mandolin virtuoso John Reischman, during Bluegrass Etc.’s early afternoon set on Friday. Girded by the rhythm of Moore’s bandmates, Dennis Caplinger and Bill Bryson, the triptych of mandolins created scintillating textures and harmonies on classics like Salt Creek and White Freightliner.

Coda

With my car still locked in a dirt field at Bohn Park, I had no way of getting back to Lyons for the third and final day of RockyGrass. When I awoke Sunday morning, I was resigned to missing the festivities. Yet somehow, as Peter Rowan and The Travelin’ McCourys hit the stage, I found myself standing in the second row of Planet Bluegrass. A gray bag – replete with camera, iPad, glasses, notebooks, and keys – was strapped across my shoulders and Joy’s arms were strapped across my back and neck. As a testament to the strength of this community, I swear that Joy was as happy, if not happier, than I was. We embraced for almost half a minute and I was overrun with emotions.

I was thrilled to be reunited with the contents of my backpack, but the wave of exaltation that overcame me had little to do with car keys or camera lenses. About 90 minutes prior to our mammoth hug, my phone rang: “We found it! We found it!” Joy shouted. Through a confluence of perseverance and altruism on multiple fronts, my bag was located. And thanks to a ride I hitched from Boulder to Lyons with my roommate’s friend, I was reunited with what truly mattered - my new friends. The same backstage security guard, the one who so kindly offered me his sandals the night before, spotted my bag in the early afternoon. He brought it up to the ticket office which housed the Lost and Found. The employees, also aware of the situation, alerted Joy, Bill, and Greg who, in turn, called me with the great news.

So on Sunday evening, with my backpack safely in tow, I stood on a slate of rock a couple of yards behind the stage. Meyer was practicing his bowing. With her eyes closed, O’Donovan swirled and swayed to the romantic descants of Casey Driessen’s fiddle. At that moment, I was reminded of something that Sam Bush told me two days earlier. While gushing about his hero, Bush stated: “I’ve been very fortunate because Doc Watson has influenced me in a lot of ways and some of them weren’t even musical. It was just the kind of person he was and the way he lived and how he treated people.”

Bush, who is famously one of the most beneficent spirits in all of bluegrass, intimated that his exemplar blazed more than just a musical trail. Watson’s personal prerogatives, the manner in which he treated people, played a significant role in shaping Bush’s own generosity. When I first sat down with him, he realized that the room we were in was a little noisy and might interfere with the sound of the interview recording. So he took me back to a small, quiet room where we both sat on a bed and he talked. I asked for seven minutes of his time and Bush gave me 15, not to mention a wealth of useful information.

This ethic of kindness, altruism, and community permeated the whole of RockyGrass. From Bush and the other musicians who spent time talking with me to Bill, Joy, and Greg; from the employees who helped me locate my bag to the random Festivarians who joined in the search. I could see this ethic through the environmental efforts to compost and recycle just about everything sold or used on the grounds. I could see this ethic in the tarp policies that encourage inclusivity and instantaneous friendship. I could see this ethic in a confluence of generations on the stage harmonizing to create sonic lullabies and fantasias. And finally, I could see it in the confluence of generations bonding with one another on the field, in the campgrounds, and, next year when I arrive at midnight, in line for the tarp run.

Above and beyond all the honorees alluded to in Tim O’Brien’s closing set, one more must be mentioned: Woody Guthrie. Two weeks prior, Guthrie would have turned 100 years old. In memory, and in perfect concord with the principles of community, benevolence, and inclusivity, O’Brien chose to sing some of the verses from This Land Is Your Land not ordinarily taught to grade school students. One of them hews closely to the RockyGrass experience:

“As I went walking I saw a sign there,

And on the sign it said ‘No Trespassing’.

But on the other side, it didn’t say nothing.

That side was made for you and me.”

At every other festival I have attended, the barriers that are created and observed between and among musicians, fans, security, journalists, and vendors are well established. There are figurative and literal “No Trespassing” signs all over the place. But at the 40^th annual RockyGrass, those barriers were leveled by the kindness and enthusiasm of all in attendance. Everyone – paid employees, unpaid volunteers, and paying customers – worked to promote an idyllic atmosphere. A confluence of disparate people and personalities, anchored by their love of bluegrass, made it easy for me to understand why RockyGrass sold out in February and, above all, why thousands of Festivarians travel annually to Lyons for this pilgrimage.

Since I started reviewing shows, I have taken great care to listen not only to the music made on stage, but also to those who bring live improvisation to climactic heights with their ears and energy: the crowd. At any show, the canvas is always painted by the musicians, yet concomitantly framed by the listeners. Two crowd members, in particular, helped me frame Dark Star Orchestra’s superb tour closer at the Boulder Theater last Saturday. One younger and one older. The first asked questions and the second spoke in declarations. Both approached me randomly and were gone so quickly, I forgot to ask either of them for a name. Despite our ephemeral dialogue, they made a permanent imprint.

The band ignited the crowd with an Eyes of the World > Throwing Stones > Foolish Heart > Jack Straw opening salvo. Dancing in the center of the third row, I was hypnotized by Rob Barraco. One of his keyboards was not only perpendicular to most everyone’s sightline, but also near the lip of the stage and low enough to admire his dazzling finger work. Barraco’s presence was impossible to ignore. All smiles and vertical head nods, his countenance implored everyone to lock into, and feed off of, his enthusiasm.

After DSO finished Jack Straw, allowing the crowd its first breather, a girl no more than 16 approached me and exclaimed: “Oh my God! You’re writing down the setlist! That’s so old school!”

Now let me be clear. At 32, I did not know I was capable of doing anything old school. But this pixie with dark, braided pigtails was so enthralled with my handwritten setlist, that she started peppering me with questions like, “Did you see Phish in the ‘90s? (Yes.) Oh my God, really? (Yeah!). What was your favorite show? (Big Cypress). You have to tell me all about it! Was it the most amazing experience ever?”

I hardly finished describing the 12-miles-in-12-hours traffic jam, much less what happened once we reached the campgrounds, when DSO launched into Blow Away. And just like that, my interlocutor twisted and swayed out of sight. But I couldn’t concentrate on the Brent classic. Pixie-girl had the same envy, interrogation, and longing in her voice that I have displayed when entreating Baby Boomers to surfeit me with stories from their ’70s Grateful Dead shows. “Seriously? You saw Pigpen at The Fillmore East? Pray tell me: everything…You saw how many Weather Report Suites in ’74? Describe your favorite one and then, after I’m sated with jealousy, I will kill you.” I have even harbored a secret envy towards my parents, born in ’47 and ’52, despite the fact they’ve never seen a Dead show – I’m actually a little pissed off that they didn’t take advantage of their parents’ temporal (yet accidental) gift.

During the latter half of Blow Away, thoughts of generational envy eventually led me to Owen Wilson. More specifically, Owen Wilson romanticizing the cultural mystique of 1920s Paris in Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. Throughout most of the film, we are led to believe that the grass is always greener in generations past. I was mulling over how Pixie-girl, through mere inquiry, anointed my salad days “the best” while I did the same for Boomer Deadheads. In a minute or two, I snapped out of it and dutifully returned my attention back to the show. But the ruminations reappeared a half-hour later at setbreak.

DSO concluded the first set with a Deal that started out being, “If you close your eyes and just listen, you can hear Jeff (Mattson, lead guitarist) channeling Jerry to perfection” and ended, ten minutes later, with an insight from our second framer. He was in his late ‘50s, short, and sported a well-cropped Gandhi mustache. He must have noticed the lavender look of awe in my eyes as we filed out of the theater and said, matter-of-factly, “I have been to hundreds of Dead shows dating all the way back to the early ‘70s. I have never, ever, not even once heard a Deal that came close to the one we just saw.”

Coming out of my mouth, it might be considered blasphemy to some. But Gandhi merely articulated what I was thinking as we ambled out onto 14^th Street. And he was “there”. After one of the most epic single song performances in my concert-going history, I devoured the cool autumn air with large nasal breaths. My jaw was locked in place after smiling wider than the Cheshire Cat. Once the crisp breeze filled our lungs and cooled us off, Gandhi continued: “I’ll tell ya. Nobody does it like Dark Star. The Samson (and Delilah) last night and the Eyes (of the World) opener tonight and, of course, the Deal…I mean a lot of it reminds me of the Dead in their ‘70s heyday, but some of it is just simply better!”

A moment later, Gandhi and his friend started shuffling toward Pizza Colore, grinning ear to ear.

In furtherance of Gandhi’s exclamation, there are a small handful of Dead originals that Jerry Garcia could have utilized for solo dynamism or the band, as a whole, could have employed as a jam vehicle. The two most prominent were showcased Saturday night in DSO’s original setlist. Deal began to line up perfectly in tone, harmony, and accent the way it would circa 1977. But then Mattson shot it into the stratosphere with a sandstone-edged, rainbow-beveled rock ‘n’ roll solo for the ages. The band continued to gird him with the same three chords while rhythm devils Dino English and Rob Koritz blasted away on their crash cymbals and snares. As the crescendo and accelerando merged into a climax, Mattson caterwauled for a half bar and then went full-on tremolo, sending the crowd into ecstatic shrieks, paroxysms of joy, and a balls-to-the-wall dancing frenzy. Simply and utterly glorious.

The second set was an even greater marvel than the first. Because they played an original setlist instead of an historical Dead show, DSO was able to kick it off with a towering 15-minute Viola Lee Blues, complete with three entirely different vignettes connected only by the refrain. They wasted nary a single note in driving this late-‘60s/early-‘70s stalwart to an oneiric wonderland.

After a raw and powerful vocal performance by Barraco on James Brown’s anthemic It’s a Man’s World, it was obvious that DSO was carving out an entire set devoted to The Dead’s first golden age: 1969-1970. However, the next song, St. Stephen, sounded nothing like the terse, uplifting transitional piece from Dark Star one would hear on, for example, the ’69 Fillmore West recordings. Instead, just like Deal, DSO breathed a new life form into an old song. This powerhouse rendition of St. Stephen was propelled by sky-high jamming and, when all was said and done, DSO took one of the shortest songs in the Dead catalogue and stretched it out into an 11-minute masterpiece. While the post-hiatus St. Stephens (from 1976 on) were certainly longer than earlier versions, The Dead never brought the song to complete fruition like DSO managed to do in the middle of the second set.

Playing the didgeridoo, Nick Stanfa joined English and Koritz for Drums which segued into the only longueur of the entire night, a lackluster Space. But then, as Kevin Rosen laid down the famous bassline opening for The Other One, DSO roused the crowd into another burst of rapture. Rhythm guitarist Rob Eaton howled the lyrics that immortalized the beat icon and Merry Prankster, Neal Cassady, as Rosen’s bass immured the starry-eyed fans in waves of sonic euphony.

DSO closed out the set with a cover of Reverend Gary Davis’s Death Don’t Have No Mercy, replete with so much soul it felt like a requiem mass, and Turn On Your Lovelight, which packed almost as much punch as its first set counterpart: the aforementioned Deal.

While awaiting DSO’s return for the encore, Midnight in Paris again popped up in my head, but this time, I was contemplating the latter half of the film. Owen Wilson is so enamored with the poets, painters, and cultural bastions of Paris in the ‘20s that he becomes dumbstruck when the American expatriates and European artists pine for the glory days of the 1890s. What should have been salient from the beginning, and what Allen expressly articulates, is that the Golden Age never gilds the present tense. Instead of longing for the days of yore, he implores us to live in the here and now because, if we don’t, we’ll have missed out on the inevitable epoch of cultural perfection. Maybe it will be defined as “golden” by someone who has yet to even draw his or her first breath. But it doesn’t have to be. It could be ours.

After all, just look at the distinct musical acmes we've seen since the the '50s. First was all the great bebop and modal jazz you could handle; next came the dawn of rock and roll, British superbands, and the San Francisco scene; the '70s was, admittedly, a peak for rock, jazz fusion, and the dawn of newgrass; the '80s...(well, that's a tough one); Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Soundgarden started the '90s off with a bang, but they were nothing compared to the rise of Phish, String Cheese, Widespread Panic, and moe.; the '00s saw an explosion of the jamband scene as well as acts like Wilco and Arcade Fire who could impress both in the studio and up on stage. And if all of this wasn't enough, a band like Dark Star Orchestra has integrated decades worth of musical knowledge to not only resurrect The Dead's glory days, but also expand upon the compositional works of Garcia/Hunter and Weir/Barlow. I used to tell myself, "It will never be the same". However, looking at the historical context of musical evolution, why would I even want it to be?

While Lisa Mackey belted out a soulful and knee-buckling It Hurts Me Too, I basked in all its present glory. And, as if to drive home all the signs and symbols about following one’s bliss and living for the contemporary golden age, DSO closed out the show, and their tour, with The Golden Road (To Unlimited Devotion). “Hey hey, hey, come right away / Come and join the party every day.”

I am grateful to Pixie-girl and Gandhi for imparting me with the gift of seeing the present for what it is and, equally so, to DSO for its performances on Friday and Saturday. The band gave me a present my parents never could: their birthdates.

Check out more photos from the show, including a lot of fan shots.

Donna the Buffalo has been touring for the past 20 years and has deservedly built up its own fan collective known as The Herd. That’s why I was initially mystified at the barren nature of The Dirty Bourbon in Albuquerque on Monday. In retrospect, I really should not have been too surprised. After all, how many shows have you seen on a Monday? The songwriting nucleus of Tara Nevins and Jeb Puryear has kept DtB going strong since its formation in upstate New York. And that should have been another clue right off the bat. The Herd and more casual DtB fans populate dense portions of the East Coast, pockets of the Midwest, and enclaves with fecund musical scenes west of the Mississippi. Albuquerque is rough terrain for any band that does not surf the tidal wave of rock, rap, country, or mariachi music.

Before the show, Nevins explained, “People have called us a melting pot of zydeco, reggae, pop…(she furrows her brow in disgust and trails off)”

“You don’t like that description?” I queried.

“No. I’d like to think of our music as original. We’re an Americana dance band,” Nevin said.

And with that statement, it is easy to understand why DtB played a very mediocre, subdued show on Monday. The Dirty Bourbon is an upscale country/western bar nestled in the elbow of a strip mall. Two levels of tables and barstools form a horseshoe around a large dance floor that could, at capacity, house about 200 people. Unfortunately, there were never more than 30 pairs of feet bouncing around and, more often, 15 to 20. In total, roughly 100 people came to a bar that could, altogether, host about 500.

It’s one thing to ask a newly formed band to generate enough passion and energy to compensate for a sparsely populated venue. That happens on a regular basis. But expecting a band that has played to sold out crowds since the last millennium and hosts three of its own festivals…well, that’s asking a whole lot.

But the task is still within the realm of achievement. However, the inhospitable nature of The Dirty Bourbon would convince any band that tonight just wasn’t going to be its “night”. For the first 40 minutes of the set, the quintet was lit in a single color: blue. Finally, Puryear announced, “If there’s anyone on the lighting board, we could use some reds and oranges. Thanks.” Even stranger, though, was the fact that the nearly empty dance floor was awash in lamp light while faux colored strobes, hung in all four directions, attempted to create a disco feel (The Dirty Bourbon even had its own disco ball in the form of a saddle). So while the band was barely lit up, they could watch the 20 or so people on the floor with perfect clarity.

The acoustics of this rectangular room were predictably awful and, to add insult to injury, the house audio setup was equally distressing. Nevin’s beautiful fiddle work and acoustic guitar were low in the mix. Through no fault of his own, Mark Raudabaugh’s drumkit was set up against a back wall. Due to the acoustic properties of the arrangement (directional flow and reverberation of sound), the snare and cymbals often muffled Nevin’s strings. I have no problem making excuses for a band that I would see again in a heartbeat – DtB made a valiant effort and did not have to play for nearly three hours. But it did.

DtB explored many popular songs from their catalogue, including Family Picture, Seems To Want To Hurt This Time, and, the highlight of the night, 40 Days and 40 Nights. Despite the sonic encumbrances, Nevins ripped it up on her fiddle solo and Puryear’s electric guitar riffs harkened back to the early ‘60s when rock ‘n’ roll truly began to take shape.

The combination of factors militating against DtB’s success makes it wholly difficult, if not outright futile, to elaborate on the rest of the show. I have made this point in sundry other reviews: a successful concert is not simply the product of a band performing well on stage. A host of variables can ensure a potentially great night falls victim to circumstances beyond the band’s control. Everything from crowd energy to acoustics to the subjective “vibe” within a venue can wreak havoc on a seasoned act like DtB. The four flatscreens projecting Monday Night Football, mechanical bull in back, and dance floor, imbued with more color and light than the actual stage, all contributed to a vibe incongruent with the band’s sound.

Dave Lindsay, a fan since the early ‘90s, observed, “If this (show) was in Florida, there wouldn’t be room on the floor. It would be sold out.” Consequently, I applaud DtB for coming to Albuquerque: a city of half a million which is often skipped over by musicians who would go out of their way to play a gig in Boulder – 475 miles north, but only a fifth its size. As I said earlier, I would return to see this quintet in a heartbeat. Just not in The Duke City on a Monday.

The first time it happened, in December of 2001, I was in a room roughly the size of The Fox Theatre in Boulder. I stood ten feet from the edge of the stage while my girlfriend and her sorority sister shared a stale rum ‘n’ coke beneath the east wall jungle mural. Ekoostik Hookah, an Ohio-based jamband, launched into the eurhythmic, tom-driven section of their epic piece, Ecstasy. Guitarist Steve Sweney trilled and leaned heavy on his wah-wah while Dave Katz made the music float on the wings of his organ’s reverb. A minute or so into this final section, I looked down and was flabbergasted. My hips and feet were moving but I never remembered telling them to move. Similarly, I noticed my arms, shoulders, and torso were jerking and swaying and it seemed all but involuntary. I looked over at my girlfriend and she shot back a moue of horror and humiliation. Before that concert at The Canopy Club in Urbana, Illinois, we had attended dozens of shows over two years and neither of us ever deigned to dance – mostly because we weren’t blessed with innate rhythm and wanted to avoid the accompanying derision. But the music insinuated itself into the deep recesses of my brain and I had no say in the matter. My dancing was awful, but any sense of embarrassment was drowned out by the feeling of…well, ecstasy. The music made my body come to life like it never had before. And the euphoria that ensued extinguished any self-consciousness.

Fast-forward 11 years to Motet’s New Year’s Eve blowout at The Fox. My own timing and rhythm has improved dramatically and I began dancing up a storm during their opening cover of Prince’s funk reverie, 1 + 1 + 1 = 3. About two minutes in, I noticed a guy, 24 or 25, off to my left. His limbs twitched and jerked as if they were at the mercy of involuntary spasms. And that’s when I had a vivid flashback to my Canopy Club awakening. Despite the awkward jolting of his torso and hips, I saw a man letting his desire for happiness override his fear of negative judgment. While I can’t say this for my own girlfriend, his significant other danced ever so smoothly next to him and, to her credit, not once shot a discouraging look his way. He was breaking free from the rigidity of both his mind and body. I couldn’t help but smile. And I imagine the nine musicians up on stage did the same.

So what the hell does this have to do with Motet’s brilliant sold out NYE performance? This will be my third review of the band in 2012. In the first two, I certainly touched on visceral reaction fans have to the band’s extraordinary funk, Afrobeat, and jazz aesthetic. But it’s high time for me to make it a central focus. A concert review, after all, is not inherently a music review. The word comes from, among other derivations, the late Latin concertāre meaing “to work together”. For me, this not only encompasses the musicians, but musicians and their fans working together to make the best music possible. In an earlier review, Dave Watts, Motet’s sui generis band leader and drummer, averred, “We find that when the audience is excited about a song, that energy flows directly into the band and back out the music again, creating a positive feedback loop.” I likened that positive feedback loop to an electrical circuit.

Since that December night at The Canopy Club, I have been to hundreds of concerts and some of them have been so memorable that I actually dreamt about them years later. But my body has never been infused with the type of searing electricity that it feasts from at a Motet show. When I think about why this is, my mind wanders not to the actual underpinnings of composition and improvisation, but to the intensity the band creates. I’ve lost myself in Michael Kang’s (String Cheese) uplifting mandolin solos while spinning like a whirling dervish. I’ve shed tears of joy while doing the chicken boogie during an obscenely beautiful Harry Hood (Phish) jam. But I have never danced like a corybantic lightning storm until I set foot in the Boulder Theater for my Motet baptismal, Halloween 2011.

And exactly 14 months later, the wattage has only increased. Motet blanketed the evening with muscular covers by the likes of Earth, Wind, and Fire, Tower of Power, Michael Jackson, Talking Heads, and Fela Kuti while sprinkling a few original compositions into the mix. The horn section, comprised of Matt Pitts (tenor sax), Gabe Mervine (trumpet), and guest baritone saxophonist Serafin Sanchez, is always a driving force behind the arrangements, fashioning another layer of harmony, rhythm, and solo work. Its command and ebullience was on greatest display during the highlight of the night: Kuti’s Expensive Shit.

The 16-minute long powerhouse was accentuated by Pitts’s latin jazz and funk solo and Garrett Sayers’s silk and thunder bass line. This was the song which actually made me start talking to myself: “Slow down! Slow down!” But I couldn’t. While my personal rhythm might have improved from 2001, there was still a lingering sense that the music could coopt my body from my brain. But it was more than just the music. Lead vocalist Jans Ingber’s perpetually sthenic, yet totally fluid, movement across the length of the stage was the catalyst that propelled me just as much as the sound. He is a phenomenal dancer who seems to incorporate everything from the ferocity of hip-hop to Michael Jackson’s early ‘80s smoothness and ingenuity. Sporting a blue, short-sleeve Oxford shirt and skinny red tie, Ingber was the Pied Piper and Energizer Bunny rolled into one and convinced me, even when I was short of breath, to maintain the intensity throughout Expensive Shit. My brain pleaded with me to slow down, but Ingber and the music cut the brakes. And I’m glad they did because it was a moderately cathartic experience.

If you are a Motet veteran and came upon this review hoping to catch a glimpse of the music from New Year’s Eve, I sincerely apologize. The aim of this piece was not to relay what was played or opine about the sound. Instead, I took this opportunity to influence fans who may be a fixture in the jamband scene but have yet to venture out to a Motet show. The Boulder area has a core of improvisational mainstays like String Cheese, Leftover Salmon, and Yonder Mountain String Band. While The Motet’s arrangements and genre spectrum do not much resemble those of the other bands, its improvisational skills, adroit soloing, and overarching energy fit squarely in the jamband tradition; it is music that will surfeit you with emotional and psychic energy after draining the last ounce of stamina from your body. It is music that can convince just about anybody - like the guy who took his training wheels off during the Prince cover – to dance like nobody’s watching. The band’s enthusiasm and musical chops, combined with the crowd's energy, will all but guarantee a night to remember. New Year’s Eve 2012 certainly was.

One year ago, today, I saw Kung Fu for the first time at Cervantes. They opened for The Motet during their Funk is Dead Halloween reprise. Apropos to their name, Kung Fu took the stage in full black gis and, given that first visual, I really didn’t know what to expect. A few minutes later, guitarist Tim Palmieri executed his first solo of the night, and it was nothing short of a revelation. While the “he sounds just like so-and-so” trope of concert reviews may be a bit overdone, I cannot help but proffer my own lovechild analogy: the intensity springing from Palmieri’s Fender made him sound like the spawn of John McLaughlin and Robert Fripp circa 1971-73. My jaw was on the floor every time he leaned into his power stance, lowered his lids, and let it rip.

“You close your eyes and envision a lot of things,” Palmieri said, describing his state of consciousness while soloing. “You get to the point where you’re not thinking, but you’re in control of you’re thinking. It’s a paradox of controlled freedom.”

With enough stage time to just whet my appetite last year, I had high expectations for Kung Fu’s headlining show at The Fox Theatre on Wednesday. With a sophisticated olio of funk-fusion, electronic dance, and rock ‘n’ roll and musicianship that can be described as nothing less than virtuosic, the New Haven-based quintet wildly exceeded those expectations. But here’s the rub; neither their meticulous blending of musical styles nor daedal improvisation is the chief component that makes Kung Fu one of the most exciting bands in the country.

McLaughlin, Miles Davis, John Scofield, and Frank Zappa all played formative roles in Palmieri’s musical development: “I love channeling those influences in fast, furious fusion,” the guitarist averred. “(The key to our success is) getting on stage and playing music with attitude and a rock ‘n’ roll spirit.” And therein lies the essence and distinguishing imprint of Kung Fu. Davis and McLaughlin pulled from sundry musical genres when creating the landmark album, Bitches Brew. But I’ve never felt the urge to get out of my chair when listening to it. On the other hand, Kung Fu marries the complex rhythms, exotic time signatures, and high-volume sonic magnitude of their fusion forebears with melodies, tones, and jamming that are eminently danceable. The result of this union is an exhilarating musical experience that invigorates – and completely satiates – the mind and body.

The band took the stage at 10:30, donning street clothes instead of gis. Chris DeAngelis laid down a pulsing, funkified bass-line and for the next hour and forty-five minutes, there was not a single longueur in the entire set. Kung Fu tackled intense compositions and jams with a sublime level of intuition, precision, and energy. I cannot remember another band that plays with the haunting virtuosity of Mahavishnu Orchestra and the dance-party energy of The Disco Biscuits.

When I asked Palmieri to describe the sensibility of Kung Fu, he took a moment to collect his thoughts, then posited, “We want to hold the groove within while taking a lot of chances…Everyone’s a great listener and killer player and the music is intense, especially at high altitude.” While Kung Fu was formed in late 2009, the band members have a much longer history that affords them the listening skills and experience to take chances. Palmieri and drummer Adrian Tromontano were founding members of the popular East Coast jamband The Breakfast. DeAngelis joined the group a decade after their incipience, in 2008, and keyboardist Todd Stoops even sat in with The Breakfast for a month during the fall of that same year. When adding together this historical context with the three-plus years Kung Fu has toured, it’s a little easier to understand why the “listening” skills displayed on Wednesday seemed nearly telepathic. Whatever risks the band took, they all seemed to flawlessly pay off due to an eerie sense of timing and anticipation.

Stoops offered a variety of meaty chords and, when the occasion called for it, ornamented Palmieri and Rob Somerville’s melodies with popping descants. Somerville, a veteran of Deep Banana Blackout, displayed brilliant stamina and eased with tenor sax solos that swelled and crackled in the upper registers. Barrel-chested and amply-bearded Tromontano was the picture of delight hammering away on his kit. Which brings me to another important, but underappreciated, point. The entire quintet had smiles plastered across their face for the entire set. Not tiny upward grins, but full-on ear-to-ear, carpe diem, joie de vivre, Fuckin’-A Man! Smiles. That happiness and joy filtered immediately down to the crowd who were not only drenched in sonic mirth, but also visual delectation.

Lest you think I’m making a big deal about physiognomy, go ahead and take a look at the virtuosic performers named at the beginning of this piece: Mahavishnu Orchestra (McLaughlin) and King Crimson (Fripp). While the music is perfection and the musicians are entitled to whatever level of gravity they choose to exude, my point is this: the crowd has a better time when it knows the performers are enjoying themselves. Even in the middle of an intense solo, with his eyes closed and head cocked to the left, Palmieri beamed with ecstasy. The crowd responded in equal measure, dancing with an animated bliss impelled by the guitarist and his four bandmates.

The improvisational segments, which accounted for a hefty portion of the set, featured prominent guitar and saxophone leads girded by Tromontano, DeAngelis, and Stoops’s luxurious electronic dance rhythms. The result of this hybridization was a psychedelic and robust electro-funk-fusion that felt supernatural and otherworldly. Palmieri affirmed that he’s never had an out-of-body experience while playing guitar, but the same probably cannot be said for a few members of the crowd who seemed fully transported by his blisteringly fast finger work.

Four people approached me at different junctures in the show because they saw me taking notes. They put in roughly the same two cents which is this: while it’s nice to attend a show at an intimate venue like The Fox, it is borderline criminal that Kung Fu is not playing for thousands instead of hundreds. And I wholeheartedly agreed. If the sizeable jamband community on The Front Range knew what Kung Fu was all about, this quintet could likely sell out 1^st Bank Center. I had plenty of room to dance in the first row because The Fox, while certainly bustling, was not filled to capacity. But I would gladly sacrifice my vantage point and dancing radius for this band to get their due. Here’s hoping that next time they venture out to Boulder, home of the CU Buffs, the crowd is packed in shoulder-to-shoulder.

Check out a few more photos from the show.

This Thursday, February 28, Lazy Dog will host a multiple-band benefit in honor of those affected by the Sandy Hook shootings in Newtown, Connecticut. Matt Flaherty, a founding member of Boulder’s own Hot Soup, initiated and organized the proceedings. The following is an interview with Matt all about this benefit. Suggested donation is between $10 and $20.

GW: Why did you want to hold a benefit concert for Newtown? How did it become a reality?

MF: The benefit was my idea. I grew up just minutes away from Newtown and decided that this would be a good option for a benefit. So I contacted a few venues around town and chose the Lazy Dog. Then I contacted all my musician friends to see who could contribute.

GW: To which Newtown charity will the benefit be donating and how did you decide on that specific one?

MF: We will be donating all the money to the Newtown/Sandy Hook PTA. They have a basic fund for all the needs of the kids at school. My idea was to contribute to the music program at the school, because I believe music has the power to heal. So I contacted the music director and she pointed me towards this fund. She told me that they were going to be giving her money for some new pianos and a stereo.

GW: For those not familiar with some or most of the bands on the bill, can you give our readers a rundown of who is playing and the style/discipline that anchors their music? [All bands will play a roughly 20-minute set, except all-stars.]

MF: Well we have quite a diverse lineup. My guitar students’ band, Tynan The Great, will start out the show. They are all in high school and are really talented upcoming musicians. Duck Pond, an acoustic bluegrass band from Denver, will come on next. The third band is the No One Cares String Band from Boulder.  They play bluegrass/folk and are all a bunch of fun guys. The Jaden Carlson Band plays fourth – Jaden is another great young musician with lots of promise from Boulder. The fifth band, also from Boulder, is a funk group called Jababa. Next will be an all-star jam featuring members of Hot Soup, Jet Edison, Magic Beans, Grant Farm, and myself (all-star jam will be a 60-minute set). Lost Optical will be finishing the night off with some funky electro style jams.

GW: What can fans expect to hear for the All-Star Jam?

MF: The Allstar Jam will be pretty funky and loose.  These are all guys that have played together for the most part, so expect some really nice music.

Along with Mirco Altenbach (sax) and Adrian Entfer (bass), you cofounded Hot Soup in late 2007. What has the band been up to since the beginning of the New Year and what are its plans in the near future (spring/summer)?

Hot Soup has been taking some time off in February but we have a bunch of shows coming up in February including Frozen Dead Guy Days in Nederland, and opening up for Max Creek in Denver.

GW: Is there anything else you’d like our readers to know about the benefit?

MF: I think the basic message for this show is if you wanted to contribute to the Connecticut tragedy, this is your chance in Colorado. All of the money will be going to help out the kids that go to the school. Whether it’s the music program or counseling the money will be of great use.

Do you believe in augurs? As a bookworm and English teacher, I always look for them in literature and instruct my students to do the same. Omens of good things to come and harbingers of impending doom are common tropes in fiction. But the portents woven into those narratives are intentional and premeditated – mechanisms to clue the reader in to future events. Real life is another matter entirely. Until Saturday night’s Furthur show at 1^st Bank Center, I never gave much thought to augurs in the natural world. However…

About ten minutes before the band took the stage, I looked over my shoulder and noticed a small dusting of white powder near the (left) soundboard barrier. But as I turned around, I realized the paltry pile formed a rather long trail – one that finally terminated five feet away. Above the trail’s end, I spotted a man in his late ‘30s who was holding a bag of, what I presumed to be, the rest of his cocaine. As a personal matter, I do not use illegal drugs and often harbor little patience for those who do abuse them. But I still felt compelled to do the neighborly thing, so I went up and notified him about the hole in his bag. What he said in response blew my mind: “Nah, man. That’s not coke. My friend died recently and he wanted his remains to be spread out on the floor of a Furthur show. That way Deadheads could dance on his ashes while he got to share one last party with them and the band.”

A Keanu Reeves chorus of “Whooooaaaa!” came whooshing out of the mouths of my friends who gathered around by then. My own mouth was agape, but no sound came out – just a little drool after a few seconds. I was in a state of metaphysical stupefaction. The gravity and sheer transcendental awesomeness of his friend’s dying wishes sank in immediately and I just stood there, soaking in the profundity of it all. Some people want their ashes spread out on their favorite run in Jackson Hole or a hallowed surfing spot from childhood. This was a guy who achieved wholeness not on the slopes or waves, but in his natural environs: the show. We were about to dance on the ashes of a fellow Deadhead who wanted one last ride. My friends and I reached the conclusion that this concert would be a cut above your average (read: amazing) Furthur-fest. Clinging to the symbolic value of the ashes, we augured – however irrationally – that this had to be a special show. And while causality could never be established, our prediction eventually manifested into reality.

After opening with a tight The Music Never Stopped, Furthur announced themselves in a major way with an early showstopper: Althea. Jeff Chimenti exploited all seven octaves on his piano during the first solo, galvanizing the crowd into a hypno-dancing frenzy – heads tilted back, eyes closed, floating on a singular cloud. Althea is one of those quintessential Jerry songs that sends shivers down my spine when played well. John Kadlecik’s voice, famously reminiscent of Jerry in timbre and, at times, even rasp, crackled with every verse, underscoring the protagonist’s pangs of consciousness: “I told Althea that treachery / was tearin’ me limb from limb. / Althea told me: now cool down boy / settle back easy Jim”. In the final white-hot crescendo, Kadlecik turned up his flanger pedal tone which modulated beautifully underneath Chimenti’s arpeggios and climaxing waterfall run.

While Furthur does not pretend to be The Grateful Dead, part of its success comes from Kadlecik and guitarist Bob Weir’s ability to lavish the crowd with a vocal imprint from memory’s past. Weir’s voice projects as well, at 65, as it did 25 years ago when The Dead were touring stadiums. Look no further than Looks Like Rain for a prime example of Weir’s frozen-in-time vocal strength. It continued a weekend replete with ballads that insinuated a soul-crushing beauty and pathos into each night.

In the penultimate song of the first set, Furthur married this balladic pulchritude with Ryan Adams’s Peaceful Valley. Sunshine Becker and Geoff Pehrson gave the song its shape with their pitch-perfect harmonies atop Kadlecik’s wailing vocals. More than that, though, the lyrics brought me back to the ashes beneath my feet: “Lord, take me home to the peaceful valley… / Up there in the clouds / In that glorious kingdom / Tell me there ain’t nothing but an easy recline”.

The septet segued into a raucous Touch of Grey to close out a simmering set that, on paper, might look a bit on the slow and dull side. It was anything but.

When Furthur returned, they opened up with a Help on the Way that portended the Help > Slipknot > Franklin’s triptych being threaded through the second set. Help quickly segued into Cassidy. Clocking in at over 11 minutes, the Weir classic showcased five musicians totally invested in listening to, and riffing off of, each other’s unique sound. Phil Lesh anchored the discursive jam with his pulsing bass improvisation. The most impressive part of the whole piece occurred with the abrupt, yet pin-point, deaccelerando from the jam back into the refrain. It was the audio version of watching a gymnast run at full speed, bounce off a springboard, and, despite all the force generated in the process, land a perfect Amanar vault. The band dropped from the crest of that swelling sonic wave down into its trough in a matter of seconds. It was jaw-dropping.

Along with Cassidy, Let It Grow was a highlight of the second set. Even though Weir started the song decisively out of pitch, he recovered and the crowd was treated to a luxurious set of oscillating jams and verses. Phil’s walking bass line braced Kadlecik’s soaring, upper register solo and nimble runs up and down the fretboard. Drummer Joe Russo pounded on his kit with primal strength and desire – even back at the soundboard, I could see his head and neck leaning into the downbeats, underscoring the visceral nature of his style and the muscle he puts into each bar. Chimenti infused his hypnotic blend of rock/jazz piano into the sundry sections of accelerando. His style in Let It Grow hinted very much at Irish piano great Lou Martin (Rory Gallagher).

Standing on the Moon lyrically bookended Peaceful Valley from the first set and, during most of the ballad, I found myself staring at the ground beneath my feet: “Standing on the moon / With nothing left to do / A lovely view of heaven / But I’d rather be with you”. I felt weak as Weir belted out the lyrics. I could not imagine what it would be like to draw my last sets of breath and realize that the music I love so dearly is about to be gone forever. And right at that moment – frozen in that train of thought – I realized why there were human ashes beneath my feet. Before the show started, I thought it was a cool idea to have Deadheads dance on this guy's ashes and, in a sense, take part in one more show. But when it comes down to it, he wanted to be buried here. He knew that, realistically, he wouldn’t be able to see or hear the Dead anymore. Just as two spouses may purchase plots next to each other, he wanted to be buried next to one of his true loves. We all want to spend eternity – even if “eternity” is nothing more than a symbolic representation of infinite time and space – with the love, or loves, of our life.

The crowd came alive as Furthur returned to Slipknot for a second time. Russo hammered his tom-driven fills with such force that they were acoustically audible well back on the floor. Franklin’s Tower capped off a superlative second set that, as the ashes of a fallen Deadhead portended, was a cut above its kin. Furthur never fails to pull out all the stops when they come to Colorado but, this time around, eclipsed all expectations for the sandwich portion of their three-night run. The band said goodbye and sent the crowd off into the snowfall with a rip-roaring One More Saturday Night, capping an evening to remember for preternatural brilliance on the stage and a supernatural presence “on the floor”.

"The biggest and most badass show in Motet history!" - Dave Watts

In music parlance, "masterpiece" is a word used to describe the crème de la crème of albums and songwriting. In a game of word association, I might respond to the prompt of "musical masterpiece" with Pet Sounds or Yankee Hotel Foxtrot…maybe Tomorrow Never Knows or Shine On You Crazy Diamond. But after this past weekend, studio creations would not be on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I would blurt out “Motet-Fillmore-4/20/13”. In the 15 years I have been going to shows, I have heard my share of beautiful and complex music improvised to perfection. But I’ve never walked away from the venue with the word “masterpiece” ringing in my brain. On Saturday, Motet took me on a two and a half hour journey to a plane of aural – and physical – nirvana I didn’t even know existed.

Dave Watts, the band’s drummer and leader, said they put a lot of time and energy into preparing what he dubbed “the best show of our 12-year career”. And it was salient almost immediately during the second song of the set: Nemesis. This Motet original was the perfect synthesis of pulsing groove, mid-tempo EDM, and horn section funk and it was executed like never before. The preparation was self-evident by the opulent syncopation and spacing of notes within any given bar – it seemed like each musician knew which quarter or eighth note he was responsible for and filled it accordingly. Nobody was playing on top of each other, but passing the baton effortlessly, in lightning quick increments. Garrett Sayers insinuated a very raw bassline to anchor this rhythm-driven instrumental. Matt Pitts took over about halfway through with a brilliant, polished tenor sax solo. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he “overplayed” it (with too many notes) due to the plush tones of Sayers’s bass, but he was patient with his voicing and enhanced the sound with generous doses of vibrato. 

However, it was the final two minutes of Nemesis which made me realize that this show would be a wholly different beast than any other to which I’ve born witness. In the cradle of the groove, the sonic dynamics metamorphosed into a velvet sea, cloaking the crowd in all its sumptuousness. Joey Porter used a crystalline trance tonal effect on his keyboard while mimicking the bassline many octaves higher on the scale. The timbre made me think of lavender snow glazing my skin on a hot summer day. During this crescendo, Pitts, along with Gabe Mervine (trumpet) and Serafin Sanchez (baritone sax), hammered out protracted, single-note waves of sound that swelled and fell and swelled again. Finally, Sayers punched his strings in blasts of thunder and the entire Fillmore rattled and shook like never before. For those final bars, I doubt any of the 3,500 in attendance had both feet planted on the floor. I’m not sure it was physically possible.

Nemesis could have been the highlight of the night, but it was matched on many other occasions, including Girlfriend is Better, Closed Mouth, and Shakedown Street. I cannot overstate how integral Sayers was to each piece. He developed a soulful, but wickedly potent, groove and then, when it was time for a crescendo or accelerando, he took the reins with the type of confidence I’ve never seen in him before. He attacked the groove with an air of total authority and the band responded in kind.

While last year was a two-set affair, this year the band performed one set to ensure maximum music before curfew. But one thing did not change – the 420 Medley. Pass the Dutchie > Legalize It were slightly down-tempo reggae pieces, with guest vocalists Kim Dawson and LaDamion Massey showing off both their singing and dancing chops. I know I mentioned this in each of my previous three Motet reviews, but I cannot help but point out how hypnotic it is to watch Dawson and lead singer, Jans Ingber, cast about the stage. They are not only phenomenal vocalists, but they wouldn’t be out of place at any dancing competition. Their silky movement and joie de vivre smiles lather even more sex appeal onto a sound that is already teeming with it. At times, they motivate the crowd as much as the music does. Rick James’s Mary Jane closed out the medley on a night that was, for those on stage and many in the crowd, a celebration of Colorado’s vote to legalize marijuana last fall.

Motet finished the set with an 11-minute Parliament medley. After Handcuffs > Mothership Connection, they appropriately closed it out with Tear the Roof Off The Sucker (Give Up The Funk). In perfect upper register pitch, Dawson howled, for 12-seconds, “Yeaaaahhh!” and followed it with bursts of  “Yeahh Yeahh! Oh-oh-oh yeah-hah! oh-oh-oh yeah-hah!....Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” And I don’t at all feel strange for transposing that single word in all its climactic incantations because Dawson was channeling the Fillmore crowd’s feelings. We were all climaxing together and she simply gave voice to our collective ecstasy. It will be a long time, if ever, before I forget her sublime roar.

Dan Schwindt took over from Dawson with a commanding guitar solo that segued into the final refrain from the trio of vocalists. I’m not sure if they kept singing “And we funk you!” or “And we love you!” – but either way, the message was blasted loud and clear as the crowd erupted in a roof-shaking frenzy.

If Motet hit curfew after the Parliament Medley, I would have been more than satiated. But they had time to put an additional exclamation point on the evening and did so with a blistering Shakedown Street encore. Guitarist Ryan Jalbert paid homage to Jerry Garcia, using a tone that faithfully mirrored the heavy wah-wah of his Mu-Tron III. Not only that, Jalbert deftly phrased most of his disco-inspired solo either on top of, or behind, the beat – a common nuance that Jer deployed on this Dead powerhouse. Jalbert’s exquisite solo segued back into the main riff, but after the next verse, Dawson, Ingber, and Massey surprised the crowd with a minute-long harmonized scat, reminiscent of the Phish vocal jam at the end of You Enjoy Myself  (but far more textured and stylized). Porter then deployed his talk box to build off of the trio’s scatting. The band closed out this monster cover, and a monster of a night, with a short but smoldering groove carved out by Watts and Sayers.

As I mentioned before, this is my fourth Motet review and I think it will be my last for a while. There are only so many superlatives that I can heap on a band before I literally run out. I know that there are a lot Phans and Deadheads who read reviews on this site.  As you probably discerned from the last paragraph, I count myself in both of those clans. If you have yet to imbibe in the brilliance of The Motet, you are doing yourself a huge disservice. I’ve had friends who say they can see God during an extraordinary Reba solo or feel the touch of divinity when dancing to a supreme Eyes of the World. I don’t doubt them for a second. I feel it too, but just couch it in different language. I like to describe those unique solos or songs as a slice of heaven on earth. But at a Motet show, you don’t have to settle for a slice. You can have the whole pie! Hours - not minutes. This band is going to blow up. They played to a capacity crowd of 900 at Cervantes last April and, just a year later, almost sold out a 3,700-capacity Fillmore Auditorium. They’re hitting the East Coast as we speak, Jazz Fest in May, and Wakarusa at the beginning of June. There are few guarantees in life. But if you attend a Motet show, you are guaranteed to "Dance Your Ass Off!"

We have all been to shows in which our objectivity towards the music is undermined by a more powerful force. Something happens apart from the stage that distorts, and often intensifies, the true sonic nature of each set. These are the shows that lay futility at the feet of those who try to listen to a recording later on to recapture the magic. This happened to me for the first time in October ‘99 when I saw Phish at Illinois State. I was smitten with a girl who would, very soon after, become my first love. Redbird Arena was only about two-thirds full, so Jenny and I, along with five of our friends, trekked up to the last row in the upper balcony. Nobody else was around, not even security personnel. High up in the cheap seats, we intermittently made sheep’s eyes at each other while gorging on Chris Kuroda’s light show. Our ears feasted on music that was simply perfect. A few months later, I started listening to an AUD of the show and couldn’t get through three songs. It was barely recognizable. Jenny’s presence made a slightly better than average concert one of the most memorable nights of my life.

Last Friday, Widespread Panic took to Red Rocks for the second show in their four-night run. Like Phish, something extraordinary happened which made it one of the most special events I have been fortunate enough to attend. But before I delve into the subject matter, let me be clear on one thing: unlike Phish ‘99, this was a phenomenal show. It stands comfortably on its own merit, but meteorological – and some say even celestial – intervention shot the music into the stratosphere.

On this night, Mother Nature gave the sellout crowd an opulent three-part spectacle that accompanied two majestic sets of music. But before all the pulchritude arrived, She imparted Red Rocks with something a lot simpler, yet not at all trivial: cloud cover. Front Range inhabitants have been bombarded with non-stop highs in the mid to upper 90s for the past three weeks. The clouds conferred a much more pleasurable 65 – 75 degree evening onto a grateful crowd. Panic came out around 7:30 and, unlike Thursday night, immediately went to work. Sunny Ortiz established a high-energy tempo with his conga work on B of D. His plush 40-second timbale fill (mini-solo) on Surprise Valley signaled that he meant business. After those first two songs, the band populated the rest of the first set with five to seven minute pieces highlighted by Jimmy Herring’s extraordinary guitar soloing. While there’s no doubt that any great Panic show is a team effort, Herring stood out on this night and was seemingly indefatigable in his willingness to color every song with the perfect tone. Whether it was rainbow-beveled rock ‘n’ roll on Love Tractor, soul-shattering blues on Mercy, or a Santana-like Latin blaze in Chainsaw City, Herring wowed at every point in the show.

As the first set neared its close, the clouds parted and the firmament turned into a serene blend of pastels during sunset. Two amber clouds hovered directly above the amphitheater and were such a perfect shade of gold that they looked surreal – as if they were painted on the sky by Titian. Dave Schools’s intricate and rapid-fire pick-work on Stop-Go – including a powerhouse two-minute solo – was breathtaking and met with loud hoots and hollers from an appreciative crowd. Schools, a recent participant in Mickey Hart’s band, and Herring, a former member of Phil and Friends, gave a nice shout-out to The Grateful Dead with the first set closer, Cream Puff War.

My neighbor in Row 36, Kansas City resident Johnny Lyle, turned to me right at set break and exclaimed, “Jimmy was on fire!” Not only was that statement terse and ever-so-true, Herring would only get better in the second set…as would Mother Nature.

When Panic returned from set break, a lightning storm erupted in the distance. If you have never been to Red Rocks, the crowd faces east north-east. From north north-east all the way down to southeast, the sky was alit with a constant blaze of lightning. In all due deference to Paul Hoffman, who staged a spectacular light show of his own, this lightning storm was the greatest light show I have ever seen. It augmented every song in the second set to the point where I made the conscious decision to put my notepad and pen away for a while. I realized that this was a once in a decade (at the very least) and, quite possibly, once in a lifetime event and didn’t want to regret missing any of it. Additionally, through most of the entire set, nary a drop of rain fell on our head nor a thunderbolt rang in our ears. It was an almost purely optical experience.

The pinnacle of a show filled with highlights arrived four songs into the second set with Chainsaw City > Mercy > Chilly Water. The Jerry Joseph cover, Chainsaw City, allowed Herring and Ortiz to show off their reggae and Latin jazz chops. In the middle of the piece, JoJo Herman peppered his sublime organ solo with sequences of soft undulation.

But when the band segued into Mercy, the lightning storm accelerated with the most furious and intense barrage of the night. This is when another neighbor of mine pointed out that the most dramatic of all the lightning was raining down directly behind the right wing of the stage, close to where Mikey Houser – the band’s former founding member and lead guitarist who died of cancer 11 years ago – used to play. Whether you believe in celestial intervention or not, the observation was entirely true. The concentration of lightning was definitively strongest behind that area. In the second refrain, ferocious bolts of lightning struck down on each of vocalist John Bell’s accents: “And I’m not begging for mercy” – as if there was a control panel in the sky. That was the night’s pinnacle of eerie. Herring also struck lightning in a bottle with a blues solo he dug up from one of those dark places we all have in our memories. It was emphatically visceral yet technically brilliant.

Chilly Water segued from Mercy and the crowd, as they are prone to do, went into a state of frenzy. Who would’ve thought the first precipitation to drop on us tonight would come from water bottles instead of the sky? In lieu of Drums, Todd Nance and Ortiz took a minute-long duet in the middle of Chilly Water (and at a few other spots in the setlist) which transitioned into Herring’s best solo work of the night. If you have the opportunity, listen to this solo with your hand under your chin to stop your jaw from dropping on the floor. While Mother Nature continued to spoil us with Her lightning show, Herring’s fretwork electrified the crowd. As his solo climaxed, I felt like I was lifting off towards heaven. It was one of those moments in time you just don’t forget. Ever. The highlight of the night.

After one more song (Heaven), the band left the stage early to “get some stuff shored up” – i.e. wait out some potentially inclement weather. For almost half an hour, the crowd stood around and wondered whether the party was over for the night. But it wasn’t. At about a quarter to eleven, Panic returned to the stage and laid down the opening chords for Space Wrangler. And then, five minutes in, Mother Nature hit Red Rocks with Act III – rain. At first, it was drizzling, but by the time the band closed out the set with Ain’t Life Grand and Fishwater, it was pouring out. Honestly, I’m not a hippie who rages in the rain. I prefer to be warm and dry during a show. But this was different. The water felt so good as it hit my body. A lot of guys in the crowd took their shirts off to experience the storm in full. The lightning show, which was still present if a bit thinner, combined with the rain and the music for one hell of an invigorating ride. The band played a short encore, Many Rivers To Cross, and were done at 11:20 – early by Red Rocks standards. But considering that they started at 7:30, it was a full show: temporally, naturally, and sonically.

As I stated before, if you choose to buy Friday night’s show, you will get plenty out of it. Without any context, it is a superb musical experience. But for those who were there, it will be indelibly emblazoned in their memory for many years to come. It’s not everyday one is treated to the greatest light show of them all.

Check out more photos from the show.

Yonder Mountain String Band is celebrating its 15^th year as a bluegrass quartet and, as I awaited its tour closer at Red Rocks, I started reflecting on another 15-year anniversary: my own. The Music and I have been married for 15 years now. It started innocently enough with a Dick’s Picks flirtation in 1998, but quickly blossomed into regular dates at The Canopy Club in Urbana, New Years Eve blowouts at Big Cypress and Madison Square Garden, and festival vacations at Summer Camp and 10,000 Lakes. As I got older (She never does) and didn’t have the freedom to travel as much, I decided to keep things fresh by moving to the American epicenter for jaw-dropping improvisational performance: Colorado. Living in Boulder has afforded us an embarrassment of wealthy trysts, from The Boulder Theater and Cervantes all the way up to The 1^st Bank Center and Red Rocks. No need to travel when every month’s Marquee displays an abundance of choices instead of holes in the calendar.

I have seen more stellar shows in my three years in Colorado than I had in my first 12 years elsewhere. When I’m in the mood to wax nostalgic, these are the shows that prominently jut out in my memory – the ones that make me feel like I was present at the best place on earth that given night. And I am adding Yonder Mountain’s Red Rocks show to The List. Having seen the band 25 times since my first encounter at The Canopy Club in 2001, I came away knowing that this Red Rocks performance was monumental in nature. Not only was this the best show I’ve seen Yonder Mountain stage, it is also one of the most torrid feats of two-set execution I have ever witnessed.

The band took the stage at 8:48 p.m. To kick off its first of four meat and cheese sandwiches (i.e. at least two songs in between the bread), it roared out of the gates with New Horizons. After laying down its bottom slice, bassist Ben Kaufmann pulled out his bow and melted the up-tempo opener into its sonically darker counterpoint: Goodbye Blue Sky. The timbre of his upright bass was rich and silken. From our vantage point in Row 16, just left of the tapers, Kaufmann’s strokes felt like a Charmeuse scarf running across my entire body. The sonorous tones and beautiful harmonies in the first two songs belied their message of doom and disaster that lyrically linked them as companion pieces.

The shorter Pink Floyd cover segued into a longer Beatles one, It’s Only a Northern Song, and then cycled back for a New Horizons reprise. The pace and potency of these first 21 minutes are usually reserved to close out a second set. Consequently, what elevated this show to epic status was the band’s ability to maintain, and even augment, its initial burst of power and energy through a three-hour performance.

The second big sandwich of the night was a very thought-provoking bookend to the first. On The Run provided the bread and, while it was a Yonder Mountain original, Pink Floyd wrote a song by the same name, found on Dark Side of the Moon. The band did, in fact, play a second Beatles cover, Dear Prudence, which coyly responded to Goodbye Blue Sky: “The sun is up / The sky is blue…” The White Album classic started with the spartan melody of Adam Aijala’s guitar and Jeff Austin’s voice. And then it built. First, Kauffmann sang harmony to Austin’s lead, and then Dave Johnston paired a simple banjo roll with Aijala’s melody. About 1:45 in, after the first “Look around, round, round” stanza, the framework for the groove was set with Johnston taking the first solo, floating buoyantly above Kaufmann’s bass line. A minute later, Austin took the reins and was very deliberate to ensure the tempo did not accelerate outside of the established framework. Aijala then played a sparse, yet incisive, solo on the lower octaves of his guitar. The band returned to the “Look around, round, round…” stanza at about five minutes. And then it hit the cradle of the groove during a final two minutes that I’m sure will sound good on a recording, but will only provide a simulacrum of the true experience levitating between Ship and Creation Rocks.

An On The Run reprise capped off a first set which was so technically, emotionally, and visually expressive, I didn’t think Yonder Mountain could come close to eclipsing, or even matching, it after setbreak. I turned to my neighbor, who was recording audio for the show, and said, “I honestly don’t think it’s possible to top that set? Do you think they can?”

And of course it not only did so, but in a great titular irony, the band christened the second set with an Honestly sandwich. Aijala delivered on lead vocals, but the “Won’t you run back to me?” chorus was transcendental – all four musicians sung the entreaty in a multiple-part harmony with such spirit, a dude just one row down from me was literally running in place. Yonder Mountain filled the sandwich with Casualty and Fine Excuses before reprising Honestly and firmly putting me in my place. The 17-minute sandwich matched the intensity and Honestly was one of three songs that broke the pulchritude meter for the night. It was so viscerally beautiful, I was actually sad when it ended.

But the sadness faded a minute later as banjoist Danny Barnes, who opened the show, joined the band for two songs: Rag Doll and Barnes’s Funtime. Both pieces articulate the fallout from failed relationships and the psychological damage that ensues. Barnes acquitted himself really well, helping the band strike an intensely ominous tone to bolster the verse. The 20-second crescendo leading up to the final refrain of Rag Doll was notably exquisite, with Kaufmann pulling full force on his bass strings while Barnes and Johnston wound a haunting level of tension into their rolls.

Yonder Mountain closed out the second set with the final of their four meat and cheese sandwiches, this time with extra cheddar: Peace of Mind > Angel > Follow Me Down To The Riverside > Angel > Peace of Mind. For my money, this nearly half-hour beast was the highlight of the night and I don’t mind being truthful here when saying I’m just not talented enough to describe what went down for that last chunk of the second set. On the band’s website, Jeff Austin put up a quote that started:

“It is so hard to put into proper words what it means to play Red Rocks. The emotion…the true deep emotion of the combination of nature, energy, and music…I’ve never felt that emotion more clearly than the times I’ve spent on the Red Rocks stage.”

Just replace “play” and “on the Red Rocks stage” with “see a show at” and “at Red Rocks”. Some things are ineffable and as a writer, I have to fight for les mots justes (the right words) when I’m at a loss…most of the time. But sometimes I just know when fighting is utterly futile. I will say this, though; The Peace of Mind, in particular, will prominently jut out in my mind for years to come and fill me with a sense that there was nowhere on earth more euphoric than Red Rocks on August 10, 2013. Nights like these, as Austin said, are truly “fuel for the soul”.

The four-song encore was no slouch, even though I couldn’t comprehend how the band had anything left to give after two sublime sets of music. What The Night Brings closed out an evening of brilliant music, a phenomenal light show, and ecstatic dancing. For fans and musicians alike, Red Rocks is imbued with an organic energy that lights an eternal flame. I spent time last Saturday with a woman who was on her maiden trip to the Colorado landmark and a guy who has seen close to 200 shows here. Both of them, along with myself, were kids walking into our first candy store.

And even after 15 years with The Music, including a healthy dose of Red Rocks trysts, my goodness was the candy still ever-so-sweet!

out more band photos and fan pictures.

Type I: “I highly recommend getting this show. It blows night one out of the water. Man, now I can't wait for tomorrow after that display.” - Red

Type II: “Not bad 3 day run. expected way more from the boys knowing the 2012 shows were epic. Highlights: Sand, Piper, Chalkdust, legalize it, divided sky, moma dance. other than that tho average shows.” – dude

Type III: “Decent show, nothing amazing. I left the show last night thinking that Trey has lost his ability to completely shred. some nice moments, but it's clear the band is a shell of their former selves. Still had a lot of fun, but for those of us who have seen the, [sic] regularly through the Nineties [sic] know there is something missing. I'm sure this will spark a huge argument, but I am dead on. They are still completely talented, but listen to this Mike's song and then pop in Clifford Ball or the deer creek 96 Mike's and hear the difference.” – Duffman

Before I delve into Phish’s Saturday night show at Dick’s Sporting Goods Park, I need to get something off my chest. I have been waiting to air this grievance for a while now, and a format like this presents the best opportunity to do so.

Phish is subjected to more critical cannibalization of its music than any other band in history. For many Phish fans, it is second nature to diminish a performance by contrasting it with others, either past or present. You’ve all seen comments like the ones above from livephish.com, as well as on phish.net and other blogs. In honor of Phish jamming nomenclature, I’ve classified them into three Types.

Type I: Compare and contrast the quality of a recent show with that of another show in the same run or tour. This mode of connection is very common, relatively logical, and not without merit because points of comparison are both novel and contemporaneous. From the example above, Red argues that night two (at Dick’s) “blows night one out of the water.” Hyperbolic? Yes. But also reasonably benign.

Type II: Compare and contrast the quality of a show or run of shows from the present to a geographically and/or temporally similar show or run of shows from the past few years. From the example above, dude expected Dick’s 2013 to match or eclipse one of Phish’s most captivating three-night runs ever: Dick’s 2012. In this scenario, the brilliance of the past usually derogates from the beauty of the present, but occasionally the converse is argued.

Type III: And then there is the vocal minority of (sonic) normative relativists who filter any and all criticism through the lens of mid-90’s Phish. These appraisals wax nostalgic and then often turn apocalyptic, using a three-day run and sometimes even a single three-hour show as the sole point of reference for their Chicken Little blanket resignation. Duffman asserts, “I left the show last night thinking that Trey has lost his ability to completely shred.” Here, a renowned guitarist has an off night and, just like that, his sublime musical faculties are – Poof – gone forever! Not only that, but because all four musicians in the band did not meet Duffman’s golden age standards, they are “a shell of their former selves.” But don’t worry, because “they are still completely talented,” whatever that confused affirmation means.

While I can certainly abide a bit of Type I commentary, Types II and III are notionally ridiculous. And counterproductive. Did you go to a Phish show to see if the band could live up to the feats it accomplished 15-20 years ago? Or did you go for the reason you used to see Phish: to dance your ass off to a spirited olio of scored composition, beautifully marbled jamming, and intensely joyous guitar solos?

Ted Williams hit an extra-terrestrial .406 in 1941, a feat that hasn’t been matched ever since. Do you think Red Sox fans, 15 years later, called Williams a “shell of his former self” because he only hit .345 in 1956? Hell no! They still enjoyed going to Fenway to watch a living legend work the count or pull a homerun into the right-field stands. In the big picture, even if you think Phish isn’t putting up a gaudy .406 like it did in Fall ’95 or ’97, it is still knocking the cover off the ball and putting up an incredible .345. Stop acting like the band is straddling the Mendoza Line (.200). Stop bitching about Phish’s inability to melt your face anymore. That’s a you issue, not the band’s. On Saturday night, Trey was smiling so wide during AC/DC Bag, his jaw probably hurt. He was having a genuinely great time and reveling in the crowd’s enthusiasm. You probably were, too, until you realized that this wasn’t going to be the 25-minute Bag from MSG ’97. And then you went to the comment section of a Phish blog and groused, “They just don’t jam out like they used to. Face not-melted.”

When I review a show, I certainly allude to past performances as a point of reference to connect with my audience. You will easily identify those allusions in this review. But I cannot imagine using landmark shows, or entire eras of music, as a comparative cudgel to destroy or belittle all that was right, or wrong, with the show. With that in mind, I will give you the thrust of my experience: I had a great time at Dick’s Saturday night. The musical highs outshined the middling creativity or questionable song selection that moderated other parts of the setlist.

For the fifth time ever, Phish opened with a combination of Buried Alive and AC/DC Bag. Bag packed an incredible punch in a modest amount of time. During the final minute of his solo, Trey played mostly behind the beat which made the already speedy tempo seem even more frenetic and fun. The capacity crowd of 26,000 responded with a rhythmic fervor that lit up Trey’s face. He was grinning ear-to-ear as Bag segued into Wolfman’s Brother. At least that’s what it looked like from pretty far away. I was eight rows up in the east stands, parallel to the soundboard. While the sightlines weren’t great, I will say this; I was overjoyed by the robust sonic quality despite being 150 feet to the right of the board. Kudos to front-of-house engineer Garry Brown.

Wolfman’s gave us our first taste of Pornofunk for the night. Page shifted from piano to his Clavinet immediately after the final vocal refrain. The crowd erupted in anticipation of what was to come. Mike’s pop and slap (pick) bass line gained more texture and momentum as he deftly injected notes into the empty spaces Page left in each bar. Fish insinuated a simple beat on his hi-hats and snare, which allowed room for growth as the song progressed. For the first couple of minutes, Trey also played sparsely, deferring to the punchy interplay between Mike and Page. Once Fish switched to ride and burnished his syncopation, Trey followed right on his tail and the quartet hit the cradle of the groove. With Page back on piano, Trey and Mike took over as Fish hammered away at his snare and cymbals. Collective ecstasy ensued for the final three minutes of this awesome electro-funk jam-cum-rainbow-beveled rock ‘n’ roll solo. Wolfman’s was one of Phish’s iconic ’97 jam vehicles that could unfurl into a 20-minute second set anchor. This rendition displayed that signature sonic texture, merely in a more condensed package, and was a well-placed tempo balance to Bag.

Yarmouth Road and Fee, however, were not positioned to carry the momentum of Wolfman’s into the middle of the first set. Yarmouth is the newly penned Mike song that started off with a nice reggae vibe, but lost traction with the refrain and solo that can only be described as dry mid-tempo pop. Trey never ventured away from essentially mimicking Mike’s bass line during his entire solo. This is a very new song, so it might need some time to find its voice. Right now, it is a buzzkill wherever the band may choose to position it.

Halfway to the Moon, one of Page’s most beautiful compositions, was played for only the eighth time since its 2010 debut. Trey complimented Page’s vocals with poignant fills in which he bent single notes and used a mild wah-wah effect for the perfect amount of distortion. After a fairly standard Wedge and abbreviated Halley’s Comet, I was anxious for the band to pump some electricity back into Dick’s. And that they did.

While the Wolfman’s was juicy, Bathtub Gin was the highlight of the first set. Gin has always been one of my favorite Phish songs because it has yielded some of the greatest jams the band has ever played, such as the ’97 Went and ‘98 Riverport masterpieces. But this Gin reminded me more of the ’00 Holmdel rendition. Placed in the same part of the first set, this was not, to be clear, the 17-minute monster Phish unleashed in Jersey. But it employed some similar motifs and progressions that made me feel like I was floating on air and, eventually, flying through it. The “floating” phase began about nine minutes in, when Mike and Trey initiated a sequence of tonal modulation while Page added higher octave ornamentation to the tonic and dominant. The accelerando progressed smoothly as the trio was content to meld a flurry of notes around the simple chord progression. The jam quickly snowballed into its crescendo as Page laid down left-handed glory chords on his Hammond B-3 while continuing to rifle piano cascades with his right hand. Finally, I took off “flying” as Trey climaxed with a series of trills. By that point, the crowd didn’t mind a quick off-key flub in the second phrase. Just like with Wolfman's, large group nirvana was achieved by all who were present in the moment. I hope by now I have illustrated the difference between living in the past and merely alluding to it for illustrative purposes. This Gin, while amazing, wasn’t as good as the Holmdel version. But I was flying by the end and couldn’t care less which one was better.

The Antelope set closer set the gearshift to the highest gear my legs could possibly handle. The 90-second accelerando was “out of control” and the crowd was buzzing after an hour and thirty-five minute romp.

The second set, like the first, boasted four or five highlights that completely overshadowed a 20-minute longueur in the middle of it.

In the past, Phish has often used Chalkdust Torture to kick off the night and rarely placed it in the second set. But Chalkdust has been used as a second set opener five times since July 2012. Once the jam started heading off into Type II territory, I got pretty excited. But little did I know, seven minutes in, that this would evolve into a 23-minute monster that would give us an extended glimpse into Fish’s mad drumming laboratory.  

Trey began noodling about five minutes in which sounded not at all unlike the incipience of the epic Stateline Tweezer jam. But the Chalkdust jam really started to take shape at the ten-minute mark. Page switched to his Clavinet, imbuing the sound with an air of electro-funk which Trey and Mike both started riffing off. Inspired by the direction, Fish began navigating some vibrant syncopated rhythms on his hi-hats while Trey danced around Page’s funkified phrasings with short, twangy chords. Once Mike jumped in with his Moog Taurus, rounding out the groove with that delicious meat-fuzz tone, the Pornofunk was in full-saturation mode.

About 13 minutes in, Fish introduced a snare-tom sequence that I thought was surely leading into Timber (Jerry). The song never materialized though and instead we were treated to the thickest, deepest, and juiciest cut of the jam, with Trey adding distortion to augment Page and Mike’s already raunchy tones. The groove dissolved two minutes later, despite Fish trying to keep it alive with a heady combination of snare rolls and ride. It sounded like Trey and Mike wanted to veer toward the ambient, but Fish was drumming in overdrive and Page picked up on the energy. Instead of heading toward a looser, ambient sound, the band chose a classic rock feel. Trey struck single chords while Page vamped around Mike’s uplifting bass line. A little over 19 minutes in, Fish fooled me again by flirting with Manteca, but quickly moving on. Even Trey played a few bars of it before returning to the milky lands of Mike’s bass soundscape. The final three minutes belonged to Fish. While Page laid on his sustain to bolster Trey’s big chords, Fish used his entire kit to flavor the whole groove, like he was drizzling butter over lobster and fingerling potatoes. And yes, many in the crowd felt emboldened to “Woo!” at the end, but it did little, if anything, to derogate from the pulchritude of the piece.

Trey started Light in the wrong key and didn’t realize it until he was singing. But he was having such a good time that he just cracked up laughing while self-correcting. The crowd got a good chuckle out of that as well. While Light has been a key jam vehicle in the past couple of years, Phish predictably did not explore it too deeply because of the Chalkdust opener. Light segued into another song that packed whole lot of punch in a small temporal package: 46 Days. Clocking in at a modest six minutes, Trey blissfully shredded like it was a set closer and delivered me to rock ‘n’ roll heaven.

Steam, The Wedge, and Joy really worked hard to kill the momentum of the second set. Wedge was not particularly awful, but a standard version is a tough sell at this time in the show. But Steam and Joy really sponged the energy out of the place. Like I said earlier, this mid-set longueur was overshadowed by the Chalkdust opener and quickly forgotten once 2001 began.

Just like Bag and 46 Days, 2001 steamrolled the crowd in little time with its much-beloved pattern of tension and release. By the final verse, the crowd was completely locked back in with the band.

Tweezer and Backwards Down The Number Line proved a sublime combination to close out the set. Mike and Page created a rich dynamic of rhythm and melody as the Tweezer jam began to blossom. Trey then brought the house down with a hypnotizing solo while Page fashioned a melodic piano descant above the guitar lines. The solo dropped off and Mike and Page returned to the Pornofunk theme that was threaded into some of the best pieces of the night.

The composed verses of Backwards Down The Number Line are remarkably beautiful and, tonight, were adroitly executed. The jam allowed Trey one more opportunity to let it rip. And that he did. It wasn’t a particularly long solo, but hit all the right nerve-endings as the crowd danced up a storm to close out the second set.

Willie Nelson’s On The Road Again was a light-hearted affair that segued into Tweezer Reprise. Tweeprises don’t vary much in length or style, but I nonetheless have a blast every time I hear one. There’s something about the idea of mounting tension, kind of like what is found in 2001, that never gets old. I know what’s coming, but I still hear and feel all the tension coiling until the final verse arrives and I just jump like an ecstatic kangaroo.

Saturday night was a hell of a fun ride. No Dick’s 2012, Summer 1995, or even Summer 2013 qualifiers necessary. I had a great time. What else needs to be said?

In October 1978, The Grateful Dead played its final run of shows at The Winterland Ballroom, the ice-skating-rink-cum-hallowed-home-court for San Francisco’s “home-team” band. After promoter Bill Graham converted Winterland into a full-time music venue in 1971, The Dead played a total of eight runs (three or more shows in a row) at Winterland and chose the landmark hall for six New Year’s Eve blowouts, dating back to 1968. Fittingly, the band also took the stage for the final show in Winterland’s history as 1978 segued into 1979.

Despite the fact that Winterland was a poor acoustic fit for a rock ‘n’ roll band as well as largely dilapidated, The Dead performed some of their finest and most revered shows at the corner of Post and Steiner Streets. On the 35^th anniversary of the Dead’s five-day run, Dark Star Orchestra paid homage to two of those shows: 10/20/78 and 10/21/78. Although I had a blast both nights, I will speak exclusively to the former.

The Dead’s 10/20/78 and Dark Star’s 10/18/13 shows have two things in common, right off the bat: both were played on a Friday and both brought the house down in the second set. But before I get ahead of myself, the first set was nothing whatsoever to sneeze at.

DSO hit The Fox stage a few minutes after nine and kicked off the festivities with New Minglewood Blues and They Love Each Other; both were fine, but rather tame in nature. However, after a small period of acclimation, the band was off and running with a beautiful rendition of Cassidy. Rhythm guitarist Rob Eaton and Lisa Mackey’s vocal confluence on the bridge section was sensational. Mackey highlighted her harmonic prowess on the final lingering syllable of “Hear her cry”. When I listen to Donna Jean execute that move on a lot of ’76 and ’77 recordings, it never fails to warm the cockles. But the pulchritude in Mackey’s rendition lingered even longer and shone brighter. Lead guitarist Jeff Mattson punctuated the song with a tight, 90-second solo as Mackey spun and twirled with such serenity, it looked like she was meditating.

Typically I don’t focus a great deal on vocals, but Eaton channeled the lyrics to songs like El Paso so convincingly, I thought he might be the one with love pangs while running from the law. He laid bare the agony and despair of the narrator with visceral immediacy as he belted out the Marty Robbins’s cover in all its raspy glory.

It’s All Over Now marked a continuation of Eaton’s vocal adroitness, but more importantly, gave Mattson and keyboardist Rob Barraco a vehicle to showcase complimentary jive and boogie-woogie solos. The entire Fox crowd was propelled by these ‘40s-era efforts and danced with the vigor to match.

Lazy Lightnin’ > Supplication both closed and highlighted the first set. Eaton continued to be totally vested in his vocals, nailing the metaphysical and existential rap of the narrator. Drummers Dino English and Rob Koritz led an impassioned charge on both pieces which are driven by an uncommon 7/4 time signature. Their hi-hat and snare work emboldened the rest of the band to dig deep to match their intensity.

Before moving onto the second set, I’d like to give a big shout-out to Brian Adcock, DSO’s lighting director. I’ve seen some big-time lightshows that have spun me into a trance. These often take place in larger venues, like Red Rocks or 1^st Bank Center. But Adcock made the most of The Fox and DSO’s signature tie-dye tapestry backdrop. I don’t know the technical terms for different equipment and arrangements, but I will say this: I was hypnotized from the get-go. Adcock’s lighting set-up and progressions proved a major boon to the band’s sound and the overall atmosphere.

DSO returned to the stage a few minutes before eleven and immediately electrified the crowd with a majestic Half-Step. As much as I’m a John Kadlecik fan, there are times when Mattson rips it up so hard, I don’t even remember John K being an integral (and founding) member of the band. Last year, Mattson threw down on a Deal that set The Boulder Theater ablaze and this year’s analogue was his Half-Step solo. He initiated with meandering bars of twangy blues and then shifted into a host of arpeggios, bolstered by the snare and cymbal work of English and Koritz. Mattson then engaged in a series of higher octave chords before climaxing with a flurry of demonstrative trills that left me floating. The inevitable downshift into the final “Rio Grande-ee-oh” verse brought me back to solid ground, but DSO was only warming up for a masterful second set.

Half-Step segued into Franklin’s Tower, a piece that was all Skip Vangelas. The newest (permanent) member of DSO recently replaced long-time bassist Kevin Rosen and, if this Franklin’s is any harbinger, Vangelas will have a long and fruitful run as the band’s Phil Lesh. He even looks a little like Lesh, with a ruddy complexion and similar cherubic smile. Vangelas’s opening bassline had the power, pop, and punch Deadheads have come to expect. He was the band’s compass for the entire piece. When Mattson delivered the line, “And if you get confused, just listen to the music play,” Mackey lifted her arms up to the firmament and the crowd audibly rejoiced. Though Mattson was technically the one doing the soloing, I couldn’t stop listening to Vangelas tear through his progressions and attack each note like it was the most important one of the night. Finally, about seven minutes in, the rest of the band turned down the volume to let their newest member take lead for a long fill/mini-solo. After the Franklin’s crescendo and decrescendo, DSO segued into the highlight of the entire show.

Dancing in the Street began in typical fashion, with the distinct riff from Mattson’s Mu-Tron III insinuating its wah-wah above the rest of the band. But after the main verses, this changed. About four minutes in, Mattson began soloing, but his Mu-Tron filter melded perfectly with the rest of the instruments. In fact, the solo was just a single piece of a jam that was downright nasty due to the complexity and juxtaposition of sounds. Vangelas and Mattson rode side-by-side together, with the bass often insinuating a potent counterpoint to the lead guitar. Barraco utilized the higher octaves on his keyboard to paint the chords coming out of Eaton’s guitar. English and Koritz drove the bus with their jet-fuel rhythms. Almost nine minutes in, the jam ascended towards the heavens as Mattson just let loose, playing more notes in a higher octave, but with the type of precision that ensured each one was fully articulated and punctuated. The ecstasy lasted for about a minute and a half when the jam took on a whole new direction. With a hint of Dancing always in the background, the jam descended somewhat into Playing in the Band territory, circa ’72-’74. It still had the gyrating pulse of Dancing, but hit upon the darker themes explored in some of those famous Playing renditions. Eventually, the jam opted out of the driving rhythms and grew sparse as Dancing segued into Drums.

English and Koritz were masterful in their 12-minute duet. Koritz would have made Mickey Hart proud with his tom work. Drums segued into a short, but piercing Space which recalled the Close Encounters from Eugene in January of ’78.

Not Fade Away was borne out of Space and segued into another big highlight of the night. Earlier, I focused on the vocal dexterity and enthusiasm of Eaton, but Mattson should not be short-changed. He evoked all the sorrow and human folly that the lyrics denote in a soulful rendition of Black Peter. His blues guitar solo projected an equivalent level of anguish. Around and Around capped a truly glorious and life-affirming set of music.

Johnny B. Goode normally would’ve been a more than suitable ending for most shows, but The Dead performed two encores on this night, 35 years ago. Shakedown Street, yet again, lit The Fox Theatre on fire and gave Mattson one more opportunity to display his Mu-Tron III brilliance. And just for good measure, DSO regaled the grateful crowd with Werewolves of London as a filler piece before the 1:00 a.m. curfew hit.

Every time I see DSO, I become more impressed with their effort, energy, and enthusiasm. The fact that they have the musical chops to match makes them one of the best bands in the land. Tonight provided yet another example of the joy, and sometimes downright euphoria, they bring to Deadheads everywhere.

Check out more photos from the show.

Just a week ago, Carlos Burle captured the world record for largest wave surfed. Off the coast of Nazaré, Portugal, the Brazilian dropped into the face of an estimated 100-foot monster and, roughly 20 seconds later, entered the record books with the ride of his life. I am overwhelmed with joy when I listen to a band hit the groove so hard during a jam, it seems like the musicians are riding their own 100-foot wave. Picture Phish’s Ghost from Prague ‘98 or SCI’s Little Hands from Philly ’00. For seven or eight minutes, the men on stage become locked into a vortex of symphonic perfection and the resulting swells of euphoria wash over the crowd.

However, The Motet is different than any other band I’ve seen. The Boulder-based Afro-funk collection doesn’t surf big waves. Its grooves simply ARE the big waves, mounting with ferocious velocity and continuing, unabated, for the entire length of the show. On Halloween night at a sold-out Boulder Theater, those waves crested high above the crowd, which danced in delirium, and broke with heart-pumping speed and thunderous force. In their “wake”, at least one member of the crowd felt like he just experienced the ride of his life. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the other 999 felt the same way.

A Motet show is always an event, but there are two times each year in which the event morphs into an all-out bacchanal of bliss: April 20^th and Halloween. In October, the group expands from a septet to duodectet and dedicates itself to arranging, practicing, and honing songs from another band, such as The Grateful Dead or Earth, Wind, and Fire. However, it took a different approach for Halloween ‘13. Drummer and bandleader Dave Watts, along with his cohorts, decided to perform a cross-section of funk, R&B, rock, and pop hits from a single calendar year. Hence the title of the show: “The Motet presents Mixtape 1980”. The setlist encompassed everything from Stevie Wonder and Switch to Bob Marley and Blondie. Watts said that the band spent “countless hours prepping the material individually” and 14 hours collectively rehearsing it. And those countless hours of dedication paid off from the get-go.

If there is a better song to open a show than Take Your Time (Do It Right), I have no idea what it is. The S.O.S. Band’s first hit introduced the world to vocal phenom Mary Davis and sold over two million copies. Guest vocalist Camille Armstrong initiated the Motet’s Halloween night with her own Sounds of Success, capturing the throaty and voluminous voice that propelled Davis to stardom. The only woman among eleven other men, Armstrong danced front and center the entire show and sung with a power that belied her diminutive stature. I was so taken aback by the nine-minute opener, words literally failed me. So all I wrote in my notebook was “Unf*^&ingbelievable beginning!” That’s critical shorthand for “I’m so stunned with euphoria right now, my brain is frozen.”

And then the opening bassline to Queen’s Another One Bites The Dust sent the crowd into a frenzy. Vocalist Jans Ingber took the first verse, but then handed the reins to Armstrong who elicited the dynamism of Freddy Mercury’s operatic rock voice.

At this juncture, before I delve into the heart of the show, it’s important to convey the visuals that enhanced it. Just like in past Halloweens, a thematic evocation was developed. With only a few exceptions, the musicians donned white pants, Converse Chuck Taylor kicks, colorful button-down shirts, and monochromatic ties. Ingber, bassist Garrett Sayers, keyboardist Joey Porter, and guest guitarist Dan Schwindt sported classic early ‘80s mustaches (think Magnum P.I., but just a little thinner). In addition to the band’s sartorial flair, lighting designer Jonathan Root created a projection mapping piece with custom visuals to match the band’s Mixtape 1980 theme. Mounted as a backdrop, the piece stretched the length of the stage and anchored a phenomenal light show. The commitment to visual detail has always worked to augment The Motet’s sonic experience and tonight was no different. While I personally don’t know what 1980 looked or felt like, the band instantiated enough visual cues to impart me with some sense of the time, at least from a fashion perspective.

One of the highlights of the first set arrived courtesy of Led Zeppelin’s Fool in the Rain. Ingber channeled Robert Plant’s playfulness and then, three minutes into the piece, all heaven broke loose. A triumvirate of Watts, Ingber, and guest percussionist Christian Teele played a three-plus minute drum jam while others added ornamentation with hand-held percussives like cowbell and tambourine. While Fool in the Rain was technically released in 1979, the greatest rock drummer of all time, John Bonham, died in 1980. The jam was a fitting tribute. Watts and Teele established a smoking-hot Latin rhythm on their snare and timbales, respectively. Ingber took up perch next to Teele to join in on the congas. The percussion jam climaxed with Watts blasting both his crash and ride cymbals while Teele matched him, pace-for-pace, on the timbales. Finally, the fleet-handed drummers seamlessly segued, along with the entire band, into a very truncated version of Steely Dan’s down-tempo Babylon Sisters.

Walk Right Now marked the middle of the first set and, again, lit the Boulder Theater on fire. The Jacksons’ disco-pop classic showcased the protean talents of all three vocalists who had, thus far, proffered their best rock, R&B, and funk phrasings to great effect. LaDamion Massey imparted the trio with a soulful, almost spiritual, voice that harmonized with Ingber and Armstrong’s. After a few verses, Sayers nailed a libidinous bass solo bursting with roguish delight. I was dancing front row, directly in front of Sayers’s monitor, and my entire vicinity was enamored with his O-face as he ripped and popped through his solo.

After slowing it down for Smokey Robinson’s Cruisin’, The Motet capped off a phenomenal first set with the first of two funk medleys. Con Funk Shun’s Got To Be Enough kicked off the five-song amalgam with a funk-laden horn arrangement. The Brothers Johnson’s Stomp gave Sayers another spotlight to brandish a style of bass that has invariably made him one of the focal points of the entire band. After a cover by The Whispers and The Fatback Band, The Motet closed out the first set with The Gap Band’s Burn Rubber On Me. The final song, and in fact the entire arrangement, elicited everything that I love about funk – the playful and carnal lyrics, the swells and undulation of the horn section, the tasty guitar licks, and the utterly-danceable beats that invariably build momentum to fever pitch.

At set-break, I was talking to a few people in my vicinity and we were all floored with the unbounded intensity of the first set and wondered whether the band could match it for the second. I could have gone home totally satiated after just 70 minutes of music if The Boulder Theater was mysteriously shut down for the night. The first set was that fulfilling.

To my amazement, The Motet eclipsed the first set with the greatest second set I’ve ever witnessed. They started off with a Cars > Whip It > Rapture triptych. The vocal trio danced The Robot to Gary Numan’s absurdist anthem, but then, once Sayers and Porter laid down the opening riff to Devo’s, well, equally absurdist anthem, the sell-out crowd was ready to roll. Porter extracted the ray-gun timbre of Devo’s keys from his Moog while Ingber sang lead. Cars and Whip It were both largely abbreviated, whereas Blondie’s Rapture was laid out in full-form glory. Guitarist Ryan Jalbert lifted the crowd with waves of sustain as he played a melodic and wailing solo, backed by the power chords of Schwindt’s guitar. As much as I loved my spot, couched between Ingber and Porter, with Sayers directly in front of me, the only drawback was that the guitar resonance from the other side of the stage was often muzzled by the keys and bass. I didn’t get to hear as much of Jalbert and Schwindt as I would’ve liked, but it’s a sacrifice one has to make in order to dance front row instead of on the second tier, about 20 feet back.

The heart of the second set sprouted from Stevie Wonder’s funk-reggae odyssey Master Blaster. Trumpeter Gabe Mervine took an extended solo in the middle of the piece. His progressions and phrasing were divine. By the end of the solo, I was floating on air and, judging by the amount of people dancing with their eyes closed, I imagine a large contingent of my vicinity joined me.

One of the best parts of The Motet is its ability to change course without any adjustment period. The band went from Wonder to The Police’s When The World Is Running Down without missing a beat and this was easily one of the highlights of the entire night. Additionally, Porter played the finest solo of the evening, which is saying a helluva lot considering the competition he had from the likes of Mervine, Sayers, Watts, and Teele. Vamping on his Roland, Porter helped to stretch out a sub four-minute song into a nine-minute colossus. I don’t have the lexicon to characterize what Porter did on the keys. I just hope the band releases this show on The Archive so those who weren’t there can at least get a taste of the hypnotic web woven by Porter and the eleven other musicians during this song.

It’s truly difficult to do justice to Bob Marley’s Could You Be Loved, but The Motet swung for the fences and connected for another huge moment in the second set. Armstrong took lead vocals and simply nailed the prosody of Marley’s Jamaican inflection, while never forgetting about the visceral emotion anchoring the song. The piece was enhanced by her lissome dancing, along with Ingber’s R&B/down-tempo disco moves. About four minutes in, a jam ensued which was at once focused, but also spacey, with heavy distortion and reverb coming from the guitars. Sayers kept the jam tight with a bouncing bassline until everyone returned to the bridge and refrain to finish the song.

Late in the Evening acted as a second-set companion piece to Fool in the Rain. Both were immediately recognizable by the crowd and provided a launching pad for an incredible drum “solo”. After the famous verse involving a J and “owning” on stage, tenor saxophonist Matt Pitts, guest baritone saxophonist Serafin Sanchez, and Mervine truly did blow the room away with their Latin vamping. Soon after, a similar scene to the first set ensued, with Ingber returning to the congas as the same triumvirate of percussionists serenaded the crowd with yet another brilliant percussion piece. Sayers assisted on cowbell while Armstrong played the tambourine. I can’t say enough about Watts and Teele’s chemistry, syncopation, and energy as they got the crowd even more riled up before the entire band joined in to reprise Late In The Evening.

The Motet entered into their second funk medley of the evening which was thematically tied to getting down on the dance floor. As the clock approached 1a.m., Tom Browne’s Thighs High (Grip Your Hips and Move) kicked the medley off before giving way to George Benson’s Give Me The Night. The Dazz Band's Shake It Up then segued into Zapp and Roger’s More Bounce To The Ounce. In the last song of the medley, Porter finally had the opportunity to showcase his talk box skills, which assisted the band in creating an exceptionally funky rendition to live up to the original.

As a Deadhead, I liked The Motet’s decision to play a ballad for their penultimate piece and follow it with a hair-raising set closer. The Manhattans’ Shining Star accorded the trio of vocalists one final chance to wow the crowd with tight harmonies and soulful refrains. Before tonight, I had never seen Armstrong sing either solo or in collaboration with other bands. But after listening to her performance in pieces like Shining Star and Could You Be Loved, I will certainly be looking out for her name on the marquee.

Power to Dance was the absolute PERFECT bookend to the first song of the night: Take Your Time (Do It Right). Both are life-affirming pieces that make it all but impossible to stand still. Of the copious highlights, The Motet’s Switch cover proved to be the crème de la crème. Despite the energy and calories burned during a night of incomparable bliss, the band ensured that Power to Dance kept its titular promise. This is another piece where I can’t even fathom describing the nirvana that was collectively achieved by the Boulder Theater crowd. But beyond staking claim to the ineffable, what I can say is this; I witnessed two girls who were crying near the end of the final refrain, make-up and face-paint smudging beneath their eyes. When music engenders a personal catharsis, there’s no way to reject its potency. Visceral gratitude comes in many permutations: crying, dancing on an empty tank, the feeling of floating, smiling until one’s jaw locks into place, sensing a cascade of shivers racing down one’s back, and so many more iterations. I imagine most everyone at The Boulder Theater experienced some form of involuntary gratitude for the gift that was bestowed upon them. My jaw was aching and I certainly never left the ground even though I sensed I was weightless.

After thanking their fans, The Motet returned for a four-song encore, which included two Kool and The Gang classics: Celebration and Ladies Night. By then, everything was just icing on the cake and I was beyond satiated. Which brings me to November 1st. An old roommate of mine called me from a Philadelphia airport Friday afternoon. Mark flew from Boulder to Philly to see Phish’s Halloween show in Atlantic City. When we talked, he reported to me that it was a good show, but he was disappointed with Phish’s costume: a future album featuring all Phish original debuts. Earlier in the month, I tried to convince Mark to just stay in Boulder, save $600, and go to The Motet show. My entreaties fell on deaf ears as he was committed to seeing his favorite band. When I heard the letdown in his voice, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was still recovering from the greatest show I’d ever seen.

He might not have believed me either because it would have been the fourth occasion in just two years in which I would have exclaimed: “Best show ever!” The other three were, likewise, Motet masterpieces: 10/31/11, 4/20/12, and 4/20/13. At this point, Mark likely would have just dismissed me for being a perpetual prisoner of the moment. But he would be wrong. For over a decade, prior to Halloween 2011, only one show has occupied my Greatest Of All Time slot: Phish at Big Cypress, 12/31/99. But there’s just no comparison anymore.

Motet’s “Mixtape 1980” Halloween costume was an aural awakening. I have never danced as hard, loved music as much, or experienced, with the utmost force, the waves of sublime power wash over my soul.

Check out more photos from Halloween at the Boulder Theater.

New Year’s Eve 2013 was going to be a special night for the Colorado jamband scene before any notes were even played. String Cheese Incident was about to tie a bow on their 20^th anniversary as a Boulder band. Yonder Mountain String Band would soon cap off their 15^th year as a Nederland quartet. And for a certain faction of music lovers, recreational marijuana would become legal to purchase at the stroke of midnight. But the music was still a question mark. Some bands are known to play phenomenal shows in a run leading up to New Year’s Eve only to fall flat on the actual date. Fortunately, this was not the case for YMSB. In fact, from what I have gleaned by listening to excerpts from the first four shows at Boulder Theater and talking to friends who were there, this was likely one of the defining runs in the band’s 15-year history. From the dynamic list of guest musicians, including bluegrass royalty Sam Bush and Jerry Douglas, to the epic versions of powerhouses like Snow On The Pines and Peace of Mind, Yonder looked and sounded as strong as ever over these five nights.

For the New Year’s Eve show, Bush sat in with the quartet for the entire night, mostly on fiddle. He walked on stage with the band and mandolinist Jeff Austin immediately singled him out. With an intonation of pure reverence, Austin announced “Ladies and gentleman, Sam Bush!” The band then launched into the Bad Livers’ Pretty Daughter.

While that opener, along with My Little Gal in Tennessee, pushed the tempo and found a hardy groove, things didn’t really get off the ground until Big Mon, about 35 minutes into the set. Bush’s intro to one of Bill Monroe’s signature pieces catalyzed the crowd into a dervish of dancing. While YMSB is certainly capable of putting a newgrass spin on old classics, it adhered to the original arrangement fashioned over 50 years ago. Bush helped propel Big Mon to a high point of the first set with a beautifully brisk solo. Alternating between long, robust notes and rapid, short bursts, he moved adroitly through multiple octaves on his fiddle. When he handed soloing duties off to Austin, he did something interesting and completely telling of his humble and altruistic nature. After rosining his bow and rejoining the jam with short brush strokes, Bush turned his whole body towards Austin to admire his fingerwork and joyful countenance. Austin’s fingers moved like sinuous lightning as his body thrust back and forth. Near the end of the solo, he leaned back and to his left to face Bush and their eyes locked for a moment. Bush mimicked a howl of excitement while shaking his head in approval.

For those not familiar with bluegrass, Bush is widely considered the master of the mandolin. He has put in countless hours playing with, and mentoring, the likes of Austin, Chris Thile, and other disciples and takes great pride in watching them succeed. He is as humble as they come and basks in their success. That’s why the band singled him out on at least four occasions during the New Year’s Eve show. Just a few songs into the first set, Austin explained: “You meet people and sometimes you just become backstage buddies but I’m really honored to call this man a dear friend of mine and he gives me all sorts of advice from bathroom tile work to what kind of strings to use…please give it up for Sam Bush!”

The first set ended strongly with a half-hour Keep on Going sandwich. As is typical, the piece started mid-tempo with Austin singing his mantra of perseverance. The first verses segued into bassist Ben Kaufmann’s best solo of the evening. As guitarist Adam Aijala, Austin, and Bush (who played the fiddle like a ukulele) strummed a simple beat for him, Kaufmann displayed superb dexterity, using the entire neck of his upright bass. At one point, he worked his way so far up the neck, the bass’s body blocked his left hand and his fingers, perforce, stretched almost flat to reach those high notes. But just as impressive was Kaufmann’s pizzicato. He articulated notes with full form, clarity, expression, and perfect volume control. I’m sure this could all be heard on the recording, but the best part of being there, live, was watching him beam with so much pleasure and pride in delivering such a buoyant solo. 

Banjoist Dave Johnston took the reins from Kaufmann, combining some traditional rolls with picking, but Keep On Going petered out instead of seguing seamlessly into Robert Hunter/Jerry Garcia’s Reuben and Cerise. Yonder covered The Dead on four of its five nights at The Boulder Theater, including rousing renditions of Here Comes Sunshine and Althea. Bush flavored the jam with elongated single notes that gave it almost a Middle Eastern tone. The band fed off of that cue and changed key, mid-jam, to follow the haunting echoes of Bush’s exploration.

Casualty was a perfect up-tempo companion piece to follow Reuben and Cerise. It was punctuated by four straight rollicking solos, mandolin to banjo to fiddle to guitar. Johnston’s rolls cascaded with such celerity that it almost sounded like two banjos were playing.

The band reprised Keep On Going to close a solid first set. But it would only seem like a warm-up for the craziness to follow 40 minutes later.

YMSB started the second set auspiciously with a potent Too Late Now and proceeded to hit another gear by the third song, Rolling In My Sweet Baby’s Arms. Bush took lead vocals on the piece which was played at a blistering tempo, whipping the Boulder Theater crowd into a bluegrass dancing frenzy. Aijala, in particular, played a fill with such speed, I don’t even know how he moved his pick fast enough to keep up with his left fingers. Nonetheless, he articulated the notes perfectly. The way Aijala and Kaufmann marry technical brilliance with artistic vision never ceases to amaze me. As an aside, String Cheese also played Rolling In My Sweet Baby’s Arms on New Year’s Eve with the Del McCoury Band. It’s not only an interesting coincidence, but also serves as a reminder that the current sextet started out as a primarily bluegrass quartet in the mid-‘90s, just as YMSB began later in the decade.

Kaufmann’s heart-wrenching Complicated followed. I love how the chord arrangement mimics the lyrics, sonorously building in a way that “make(s) somebody feel like things are better than they seem” and “plays those blues away”. Bush fashioned a beautiful solo to accompany the verse that felt almost cathartic. Lush, protracted strokes coated with vibrato made it sound like a blues solo played to newgrass music. As the clock neared midnight, YMSB segued from Harder They Come into the countdown and then a prerecorded, horn-driven Auld Lang Syne was aired. Balloons of all sizes were released from nets housing them near the ceiling. Just as quickly as they came down, people started popping them. So if you have a chance to listen to the bluegrass Auld  Lang Syne that was taken up a minute after the balloon drop, or even the beginning of Traffic Jam, be prepared for a barrage of faux gunshot sounds.

The heart of the second set began with Traffic Jam. Aijala again hit a homerun with his solo, unleashing a fusillade of notes spanning all six strings. Somewhere in the middle of it, Austin introduced a tweak and switched from playing the normal chord progression to a single chord in a different strumming pattern. Aijala picked up on that, insinuating a burst of chords to build off of Austin’s and, after a few bars, returned to picking up a storm. This is just one example of how the band imparts the crowd with an opulent soundscape born not just from expert playing, but listening as well. The entire piece welcomed in 2014 with the type of stimulating, cohesive groove that has become a hallmark of the live YMSB experience.

Same Ol’ River followed Traffic Jam and it provided a stunning exhibit of interplay between Bush and Austin. For this song which he originally penned, Bush switched up to his mandolin and shared a sumptuous duet with Austin. For three minutes, the mandolinists played a constellation of different calls and responses. In the fourth minute, the two mandolins began to sonically swirl upwards and around each other with a series of harmonizing tremolos played concomitantly, octaves apart. This culmination provided the type of aural pulchritude that we all constantly seek out at shows and will likely bring tears to your eyes, if you listen to it in the right frame of mind. It certainly did to mine.

Two John Hartford covers further augmented the latter half of the second set. Steam Powered Aereoplane was a concise version played conventionally. It nonetheless injected the set with a dose of playfulness that was much appreciated by the crowd. However, Cuckoo’s Nest was extended with Austin returning to the verse three times after its introduction. By now, the band was three and a half hours into its show (with a 40-minute set break), but everyone was still firing on all cylinders and they carried that momentum into the set closer.

Before I get to that, however, I need to single out a member of YMSB that was not on stage. Lighting director Ted Atwell outdid himself to put on one of the finest visual displays I have ever seen. The kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, along with the set design, was fully hypnotic. The light progressions and combinations were always perfectly matched to the music and created an extra layer of intensity, making the show even more memorable. I loved the disco ball effect during Midwest Gospel Radio. It felt like I was listening to the band in a remote glade, watching the stars overhead.

A monster 19-minute Peace of Mind closed out the set. Sometimes I like to dissect powerhouse performances that seem to have multiple movements, like Phish’s Chalkdust Torture from this summer at Dicks. Other times, I feel it best to just point out some musical moments to which one should listen especially closely. This instance calls for the latter. If you happen to listen to an AUD, or purchase the SBD, focus on the jam that arises from Austin’s vocal entreaties, about five minutes in. The quartet sets the tone with an intense collaboration, spawning an Aijala solo. His exquisite picking burns fast and bright for at least two minutes until Bush gets in on the act and reprises some of the instrumentation found in the Reuben and Cerise jam: brooding and a little dark. Johnston also matches the intensity found in both Aijala and Bush’s solo efforts. Furthermore, take note of the crescendo and accelerando leading up to the final refrain. The synchronization and harmonization of instruments is ineffably beautiful.

YMSB capped off the night with a three-song encore, highlighted by another Hartford cover: Holdin’. It is not only a gorgeous song, but lyrically apropos to the incipient legalization of marijuana in Colorado. Sharecropper’s Son and Let Me Fall rounded out the encore.

My first YMSB show was in 2001 and I can confidently say that the band sounds as good in 2013 as I have ever heard it. It will leave 2013 behind with the knowledge that it finished its banner 15^th year on a high note. This is the third time in a row that the band ended the year with a run at The Boulder Theater and if this becomes a true tradition, I will be at 14^th and Spruce next New Year’s Eve, and the year after that, with bells on.

Check out lots more photos from the show, including a lot of fan photos.

The String Cheese Incident celebrated its 20^th anniversary as a Boulder band during a three-day New Year’s Eve run at the 1^st Bank Center. Out of all the big name jambands that got their start in the ‘80s and ‘90s, I can say with certitude that SCI has evolved the most from its incipient incarnation. On its first night, it opened with a Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band > A Little Help From My Friends couplet, with guitarist and vocalist Bill Nershi explaining the provenance. Originally, the sextet began as a quartet in 1993, adding keyboardist Kyle Hollingsworth a few years later and percussionist Jason Hann in 2006. The band, in turn, got a little help from its friends. But apart from growing by 50%, the real evolution has been the sound. Formed essentially as a newgrass group, SCI has incorporated layers of rock, jazz, funk, electronic, and Latin music onto their original repertoire to create rich, variegated soundscapes that keep Cheeseheads dancing with passion. Sunday evening was no exception.

If there is any song that demonstrates how far SCI has been willing to musically branch out, it was their opener, Bollymunster. As the name indicates, it was arranged to sound like a Bollywood song, but while it is founded on the interplay between strings and percussion, it is framed by an electronic resonance. Bollymunster was a very interesting listen, but it did not provide the best opening material to commence the festivities.

In fact, I would have far preferred SCI to begin with its second song, a powerhouse rendition of bassist Keith Moseley’s Sometimes a River. It started out as a conventional mid-tempo rock piece, but then the jam got heavy with Hollingsworth’s ethereal Hammond work during a solo between the second and third verses. River really heated up when Nershi took his turn in the spotlight. He didn’t pick up an electric guitar to play with SCI until a decade after the band’s formation yet, by the complete command and potency of his solo, it almost seems like it was too long. But that’s just another element in the cauldron of SCI’s evolution. Nershi’s phrasing was very straightforward, but also uplifting and quite beautiful. It reminded me of a time when rock ‘n’ roll was king of the country, not just a relatively specialized genre.

River segued into one of the band’s two apexes of the first set: Rhum ‘N Zouc. This Jean-Luc Ponty cover has been a mainstay in the Cheese oeuvre since its early days, but has found an even higher gear since Hann joined the band. He and drummer Michael Travis laid down a truly inspiring Latin jazz rhythm with an extra dose of syncopation. This piece has always created an opportunity for fiddler and mandolinist Michael Kang to shine. Ponty was a jazz violinist and he wrote Rhum ‘N Zouc to show off his chops. Kang did a particularly impressive job in using notes sparingly, allowing Travis and Hann to cohabitate in the same space. Dancing on the floor of the 1^st Bank Center became feverish and the crowd roared in approval upon its conclusion.

SCI brought out Wayne Coyne and Derek Brown from The Flaming Lips, who were watching the show from the wings of stage right. As an aside, The Flaming Lips trotted out a wonderfully decadent light show and stage props for its opening act. I also think that some of its efforts, like The Soft Bulletin and Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, are among the best albums I’ve ever heard. But The Flaming Lips were not a good opener for a band like SCI. The music was layered and lush, but usually down tempo and undanceable. The night before, Bootsy Collins opened for SCI and the entire crowd was pumped up from the beginning. And that’s the difference between visceral funk and experimental rock. When they arrived on stage, Coyne delivered a three-minute speech about the legalization of marijuana over the opening bars of Merle Haggard’s Okie from Muskogee. When the country song finally commenced in earnest, it was botched by Coyne’s pitchy vocals and the air was just sucked out of the entire arena. The collaboration materialized from the lyrical connection to Colorado as well as The Flaming Lips’ and Moseley’s Oklahoma roots – but it fell flat.

However, the energy quickly resumed with Song In My Head, punctuated by Hollingsworth’s ever-buoyant Hammond work and Kang’s mandolin solo. With the electricity firmly back in the arena, SCI closed out the set with its second apex, a Best Feeling > Jam > Restless Wind triptych.

Kang, as always, sang the Keller Williams mainstay, Best Feeling. The rest of the band played quite sparingly around Kang’s vocals and even during the initial jam, the other five musicians hit the edges, handing the reins to their mandolinist to take over. Kang kicked the jam off with a haunting display of reverb – it was like listening to Michael Hedges if he picked up an electric guitar. Sharp echoes rang out from his mandolin for a couple of minutes until he decided to marry his notes to the thunderous pulse of Travis’s floor toms and hi-hats. This provided the pad from which Kang launched into an exquisite rock solo which had me pointing my face toward the sky and closing my eyes. It was my way of soaking in the pure, unadulterated joy.

Best Feeling segued into a nearly ten-minute jam, highlighted by Nershi’s acoustic picking during the latter half. The band fed off of his creative fretwork before changing pace to introduce Restless Wind. After the verses, the sextet seemed to be on the same page when it abruptly slowed things down, likely in order to build up steam for an accelerando to end the set. For a couple of minutes, I was worried about where the band was taking the piece, since no momentum materialized. But, as often occurs, Travis and Hann ended the stasis by accelerating the rhythm. The crescendo and accelerando were perfect as Kang started the blaze with a fiddle solo before handing duties off to Hollingsworth to get the bonfire going on his Hammond. Just as rapidly, he passed the torch back to Kang who ensured everyone danced like the floor was on fire with a short, yet incredibly majestic, mandolin solo.

SCI brought out a host of guest musicians in the second set, the first among them a trio of brass stars: Karl Denson, Chris Littlefield, and Los Lobos’ Steve Berlin. The set opened with Rosie, but didn’t get cooking until Miss Brown’s Teahouse. To be more specific, the meat of Miss Brown’s sandwich, The Chicken, got the crowd fired up with a hybrid dose of New Orleans brass and booty-shakin’ funk. The Chicken segued perfectly back into an abbreviated Miss Brown’s reprise. While I was a little disappointed that the band did not explore the outer edges of this powerhouse like it normally does, I quickly forgot about it during the opening bars of the next song.

John Coltrane’s Impressions proved to be the first big-time highlight of the second set. SCI has been sinking its teeth into this meaty jazz epic (which, having been released on its eponymous album 50 years ago, is celebrating a golden anniversary), since the late ‘90s, but rarely with the texture added by Denson’s flute, Littlefield’s flugelhorn, and Berlin’s baritone sax. All nine men attacked each movement with the requisite emotion and acute listening skills to make one of Coltrane’s signature compositions come alive. For the intro, the deep, gravelly sound of Berlin’s sax combined, almost poetically, with the airy inflection of Denson’s flute. Kang voiced the same notes as Berlin and Denson on his mandolin to provide a mid-range timbre, melting the high and low registers together. With the melody set, Littlefield took the first solo which was, through no fault of his own, just slightly muffled due to the volume on his microphone. Littlefield has an incredible sense of phrasing when he plays and I just wish the levels were a little higher. After Littlefield, things really started taking an interesting turn, beginning with an electronic segment. Hollingsworth, channeling Herbie Hancock, vamped on his Rhodes and then, about five minutes in, the jam dropped off a cliff into an eerie, ambient space. When a slow tempo was reestablished, Nershi bathed it in loud singular notes on his acoustic guitar, bending them in a fashion that almost emanated an Indian vibe. Denson followed Nershi’s path, voicing his solo with a lot of tremolo and volume. About 11 minutes in, the drummers increased the tempo and Denson passed the baton back to Hollingsworth and Kang, who bridged the jam back to original riff.

Berlin stayed on for the next piece, a cover of The Grateful Dead’s Bertha, and was joined by bandmate David Hidalgo. This 11-minute version outpaced the sheer scope of anything The Dead ever did with this song, but certainly did not due justice to the feeling of a 1972 Bertha. Hidalgo delivered a rip-roaring guitar solo that had everyone dancing like mad until the band decided to pull the chord about five minutes into the piece. Letting the bottom drop out during Impressions provided a new soundscape to explore, but it was not a fortuitous choice for Bertha. Attempts to reignite the flame did not come to fruition until three or four minutes later. Granted, the finale, after the repetitious “Anymore” section imparted Hidalgo with one more opportunity pump electricity through the arena. Hollingsworth bolstered the solo with the type of organ and piano work that creates an involuntary smile. As a Deadhead, I just found the slow section in a song like Bertha a little too stunting.

Nershi’s acoustic-driven Barstool gave the crowd a breather and Joyful Sound was, likewise, uneventful – that is until it segued into a Travis and Hann duet. Known together for their electronic band, EOTO, the two percussionists spent three minutes layering samples on top of some simple beats. The result was a pulsing tapestry of sound that compelled many in the crowd to bob their heads back and forth in unison.

The rest of SCI, plus David Hidalgo, rejoined the percussionists and closed with a truly uplifting Close Your Eyes. It started with an extended instrumental jam intro before Hollingsworth’s vocals. As with most any set closer, the band made sure that everyone was dancing on a floating cloud with its most sublime crescendo of the evening. Hidalgo took the first solo and then handed it off to Kang who brought it home with a soaring effort that spiraled upward with Hollingsworth’s piano and organ flourishes, Travis’s cymbals, and Moseley’s thunderous bass notes until they all simultaneously climaxed.

Keller Williams joined SCI for a Breathe > Royals > Breathe encore to cap a solid night of music. It is hard to believe that 20 years has come and gone so quickly and a bunch of musicians that once played bluegrass standards has branched out to so many musical genres. Everything in the repertoire was on stage tonight, from rock to jazz to Latin to electronic and even funk. The sundry styles and bevy of guest of musicians made for a good mixture of salty, spicy, and savory Cheese.

The Motet had a banner 2013. Among the highlights, the Afro-funk superstars headlined The Fillmore Auditorium for the first time ever and nearly sold out the 3,900-capacity venue. More importantly, the band’s leader and drummer, Dave Watts, dubbed the 4/20 show “The biggest and most badass show in Motet history!” After laying down some fire-breathing summer performances at venues like Mishawaka and The Brooklyn Bowl, it launched another series of historic Halloween performances. The costume this time wasn’t a band, but a year. From Paul Simon to Stevie Wonder, The Motet lit up The Boulder Theater, Ogden, and other Front Range mainstays for a sublime five-day Mixtape 1980 run.

Harnessing all the momentum it built last year, the funkiest septet in the land will be kicking off 2014 in style. It just finished production on a new eponymous album and will be celebrating its release at The Fillmore on January 25. Last week I sat down with six of the seven band members after one of their practice sessions in Lafayette. We talked about the new album, the upcoming party in Denver (you will definitely want to check out the “guest list”), and how the band seems to always fire on all cylinders.

Sitting in a slightly amoebic oval are Watts, guitarist Ryan Jalbert, bassist Garrett Sayers, keyboardist Joey Porter, trumpeter Gabe Mervine, and tenor saxophonist Matt Pitts. Lead vocalist and percussionist Jans Ingber is at home in Portland.

GW: A lot of the material has been road-tested. I remember the 4/20/13 show and at least six of the nine pieces found their way onto the new album. A lot of the best live bands with loyal followings, like The Grateful Dead, aren’t able to replicate the energy in the studio of a song they play live. But you did so and then some. How?

Dave: This is different than a lot of albums we’ve done as far the material we play live. We were really homing in on these tunes for the studio first. So we brought all this material to our live show, but it all formulated out of the idea of making a record. So our studio arrangements and the vibe we’re going for works better on a record for these just for that reason alone – these were crafted as songs and then we manipulated them for the live show after the fact.

GW: This is the first studio album you’ve ever produced with all original work. How and why did the band decide to do it?

Gabe: When we were talking about making this album I even brought up doing just one cover tune in there, and there was a pretty active consensus that was like – “We’re ready to do an album of all originals.” Doing the Halloween shows every year a lot of people had known and recognized The Motet, myself included before I played with the band…I had gone to hear their Halloween shows because it was such a cool tribute night. We do a lot of homework and put a lot of effort into those shows, and people know that. So this was an opportunity to branch away from that and create some really original and authentic Motet music, kind of like a new sound that wasn’t in the same vein as the cover.

GW: Most albums will individualize tracks and explicitly say, “Written by Lennon/McCartney” instead of The Beatles. The acknowledgments for this album simply say “All tracks written and produced by the Motet”. Do you normally do that? How does that process work? 

Dave: No – we don’t normally do that. (But this time) We’ve all put our two cents into each individual part. The horn players have written the horn lines, and there’s been some back and forth and some guys have written different parts for different instruments. And some of the songs’ genesis started from certain people, but there has been so much of a group effort towards making the song complete, with everyone contributing their creative input, that it seemed more appropriate, as far as the album goes,…to say “Written, arranged, and produced by the Motet.” Cause it really has been more of that with this record than any other record we’ve done. And that’s really the most unique thing about this album – the amount of time we all, as a band, put into it and it’s kind of an expression of the fact that this is more of a band than it ever has been.

Ryan: So about a year and a half ago we all got together in Dave’s studio, and some of us brought little ideas, like skeletons of tunes (such as) chord progressions, basslines. We played them and tried to, on the spot, write different parts and try different things. And we recorded it, did some different takes, went back and listened to it, see what worked, what didn’t work, wrote other parts to layer on top of that or change, and then we’d come back and play more, see what worked, listened back to it. So it was a really organic process – definitely a group collab.

GW: Were there any musicians who from the extended family who contributed to the album or was this strictly a “nuclear” album? (The core is the six of them, plus Jans)

Dave: Jans found two gals from Portland (Leisa Hart and Ericka Warren) who were great and (baritone saxophonist) Serafin Sanchez guests on the album. We have a total of four singers on the album.

GW: During the piece Rich in People, I could have sworn I heard kids singing backup.

Dave: Those were Jans’s three kids, who are 10, 8, and 4 and his wife. We call them The Singbers [a play on Jans’s patronymic].

GW: The album release party at The Fillmore will feature Snarky Puppy, Orgone, DJ Mikey Thunder. That’s quite a lineup for the festivities. How did you decide on these openers?

Garrett: We had a list of bands that are basically our favorite bands on the scene. Ones whose music we thought would compliment our own. Not everyone was available for the show, but when we finalized this lineup, we were really psyched. There’s probably not many other bands we’d want on it. Snarky Puppy’s one of our favorites. We’re excited to put them in front of our fans because they blow minds when you see them live [nods of assent/approval from the other five members after this statement]. And Orgone is just awesome funk. We really dig those guys. And Mikey Thunder has always been our favorite music to get down to before we get on stage.

GW: Should we be looking forward to any on-stage collaboration with members of Snarky Puppy, Orgone, or other guest musicians?

Dave: We haven’t worked out all the details yet. We have our friends Jen Hartswick and Natalie Cressman, who both play with Trey Anastasio Band. They’re going to come in a couple days early [to practice] and do a bunch of songs with us for the show.

Ryan: And Jason Hann (String Cheese Incident, EOTO) on percussion.

GW: I have seen bands that, after a while, forgo practice and it sometimes really shows on stage. For a big event like this, you obviously practice and prepare. Given your other commitments (side projects, other bands, family, etc…) how do you find the time to practice?

Joey: If you play a lot of gigs you don’t have to “practice” necessarily. You just gotta stay in shape by playing. You know we’d all get better if we actually practiced [a couple of chuckles from bandmates] but because of what you said, we can’t practice [all the time]. Practicing for me is learning the new tune for the gig.

Gabe: We’ve worked out pretty decent forms of communication, whether it’s via email or text…there’s a way we go about playing our tunes that we all understand now. Dave might send out a roadmap or form to a tune, and we all know what we have to do on our end. So when we do rehearse, we show up, and we know it. Or we show up for a gig and we run it at soundcheck. Everyone knows what’s expected of them when they get to the gig or rehearsal, so the time we have is managed more wisely – as opposed to learning it with each other.

Dave: Like for Halloween we had probably 30 songs, including all the medleys, and we had to get together, and we only had two rehearsals for it. So it was a lot of homework, figuring out arrangements, getting parts together, and getting all that stuff clear. So when we show up at rehearsal, we’re not trying to figure it all out.

GW: Dave, you stated that the 4/20 show last year at The Fillmore was the best in The Motet’s history. On January 25, the band will, again, host nearly 4,000 people at the Denver institution. What do you think has happened, in the past year or two, to allow the band to make the jump from a Cervantes to a venue that holds almost four times the capacity crowd?

Dave: [With an intonation of the answer being almost too obvious to say] By living in Colorado. It’s a super-supportive scene for us. We purposely live here because the scene is so great. And we’ve been lucky to be able to grow it like we have. We can’t necessarily just take that for granted. How do you do it? You just keep pushing the envelope every time you do a show – you try to make it better and more exciting for your audience. And we’re lucky to have so many promoters in the area that support us and give us a chance to up the ante.

Garrett: The secret, though, is the Colorado music fans. We really appreciate what they do for us – they’re really what it’s all about.

GW: You have played a number of Halloween costumes since your incipience – stretching all the way back to Herbie Hancock in 2001. Pretty much all of them relate to funk, fusion, or soul music except the 2011 Grateful Dead costume. I’m curious, how did the decision come about to do this after all the other funk and soul bands?

Ryan: I think we wanted to do The Grateful Dead, but we wanted to make it like the other ones. We were brainstorming, and we liked the songs and knew they would pop off, but we would ask ourselves, “How would we make this one like an Earth, Wind, and Fire tune, or a Michael Jackson tune?” So we did actually try to model it off of all this other funk and soul music. We played some of The Grateful Dead tunes closer to the original style, but a lot of them we just completely rearranged – added horns, different chord changes. Some of the stuff is unrecognizable.

GW: Like many bands that endure over a decade, The Motet has gone through many permutations, personnel-wise. I haven’t seen any turnover since I first caught you guys on Halloween 2011. Do you feel that this is a core that will last a while?

Matt: I joined the band about four years ago.

Dave: When Jans decided that he could commit fully to the group, that’s when the seven of us have been the core members. And that was probably two and a half years ago. Once we started getting Jans and all the gigs it was like, “Okay, this is the sound we’re going for.” Before, we’d do some shows that were all-instrumental, or we’d get Kim (Dawson) to come sing, and she’d sing like three songs a set. But now that Jans is in the band, he’s going to play percussion, sing, and this is our sound. We can do any show with this lineup and, then, for other shows, we might add more people. But there’s no plan on doing it without any one of us seven.

GW: A lot of shows often have lulls in them that can suck the air out of the room. My assumption is the band members need to slow down to catch their breath or they feel the set should have a change of pace. How is the Motet able to keep the energy going for a three-hour show? Is it a matter of stamina or is it something else entirely?

Dave: It’s because we have great bass solos [band laughing].

Joey: We definitely don’t play a lot of slow songs and we don’t do a lot of space, experimental stuff. When we get psychedelic even, there’s usually a pretty funky drumbeat or bassline going on. We don’t have a lot of ballads or anything like that. I think that’s what it is. We keep it funky pretty much all the time or play upbeat Afrobeat stuff.

Garrett: We like the funky tempos.

Joey: We don’t even like to stop in between songs – often we’ll just go from one song right to the next one. We don’t want the energy to dip at all.

Gabe: There’s an artistry in making a set. Regardless of the genre. Playing a show is playing a show. Even if you have great tunes (the key is) sometimes knowing where to put what so there’s a direction to go. Sometimes we purposely start with something that’s a little bit more chill because there’s an intent, a direction – we’re heading somewhere, and I feel like that’s been a cool thing about having a set group, working with the same guys every time. We learn each other’s playing more and more. We learn how to pace our own musical ideas that we’ll use through a set because we know what’s going to happen around us and there’s a comfort there.

Ryan: It’s become essentially a trademark of The Motet that we’re going to pretty much bring it the entire time

Check out the new album review here.

Music is a ubiquitous part of my life because it has the power to make it better. On countless occasions, it has demonstrated the ability to rejuvenate me when I’m sapped of energy and to will me out of a funk when I’m frustrated or down in the dumps. It even has the power to enliven my spirits for weeks without even yet being heard – anyone who lives for the music knows what it’s like to anticipate a show weeks, or even months, ahead of time. I’ve had friends and colleagues come up to me and say, “Why are you standing there, staring at nothing, and smiling like an idiot?” When I explain myself, only those who live for the sound seem to understand.

I have worn the same grin around my face for almost two weeks now in anticipation of The Motet’s January 25 gig at The Fillmore. Officially, it is an album release party and, as you likely gleaned from the interview, it is a more-than-worthy listen. It is also totally apropos that the album has no title. Like The Beatles’ White Album and Led Zeppelin IV (both of which necessarily assumed unofficial nicknames), The Motet’s eponymous album represents everything that is pure, organic, and blissful about the band’s music. The soundscape, while variegated throughout the nine pieces, never looses its common thread. Whether exploring soul-driven funk on its first offering, Like We Own It, or reggae brass trance on one of its best tracks, Rynodub, The Motet has fashioned an album that will put sails underneath the listener’s feet while simultaneously generating the wind to propel them.

And as I alluded to in the interview, the music does not want for anything despite being created in the studio. How easy it is to polish a song that works wonders live – to put make-up on it, do its hair, dress it up in couture, and finish it off with the perfect diamond necklace. Then, what was once a naturally beautiful creature transforms into a dolled-up pageant queen, hauntingly phony and artificial. But since the process of making this album started in the studio and was perfected on the road, all of the music has the same feel to it on the album as it did when The Motet brought the house down at The Fillmore last 4/20. Six of the nine pieces appearing on the eponymous record were played at the pinnacle show.

The first of them to appear on that setlist was 123. A love letter to its Colorado fanbase, the band created a music video to immortalize the Fillmore show and accompany the release of the new album. The song truly speaks to the band members’ feelings that their success is due, in part, to its Colorado following: “I can tell by how you’re dressin’ / I see it when we drop the bass / I can tell by how you party all the time / you’re from that Colorado place.” 123 is easily the most pop-friendly song on the album, but don’t let the “P”-word scare you. It still exhibits The Motet’s signature funk with Sayers layering a lush and punchy bassline throughout.

If the ‘80s are more your thing, check out Like We Own It. Porter ornaments the piece with the type of keyboard jubilance you might expect to find on an early ’80s dance anthem. Vocalists Leisa Hart and Ericka Warren joined Ingber to propel Like We Own It to its own state of anthemic bliss. As the first track on the album, it sets both a lyrical and sonic tone – one that states: “This is going to be a 55-minute journey, so strap on your dancing shoes because you’re going to need them.” Mervine initiates the crescendo with a celebratory solo. Each musician helps to build on Mervine’s energy, filling each successive bar with more notes in the perfect place so each instrument has a separate space to shine in every measure. It’s this type of difficult precision work which The Motet has perfected over the years.

The first time I heard Rynodub, it made me think of the original NES Mario Brothers soundtrack when Mario would go underground for a level. But this is no mere videogame folly. It is a reggae brass trance gem that exemplifies the type of simmering groove the band can establish at a live show. When Jalbert vamps near the end of the piece, he sounds like Santana seducing a crowd in 1970. Almost eerily so.

Rich in People provides Ingber space to say what so many of us are thinking. He is fed up with selfish politicians who care more about getting elected and serving special interests than serving the people who elected them. Ultimately, Ingber’s message is in the title: wealth comes from relationships, not money: “Your money / can’t buy us / no profits / confine us / So see us / as equals / we’re rich / in people.”

The Fountain opens with a short wave of ambient clouds, but quickly gives way to Mervine, Pitts, and Sanchez. They draw us in with a Latin brass riff that teems with sex, rhythm, and instant chemistry. The instrumental piece drifts into an electronic dream, but never lose the palpable force carved out by Watts’s drumming.

The album closes with Keep On Don’t Stoppin’, which puts a lyrical exclamation point on The Motet’s message. But what really makes Keep On Don’t Stoppin’ a highlight of the album are the pair of 30-second waves of sound that will hit you like a euphoric bolt of lightning. The horn section joins forces with a pulsing combination of bass and drums to create a soundscape so sublime, so unerringly powerful, you may have one of two different reactions. If you’re on the dance floor and hear this piece live, you might start jumping up and down as high as you can. Alternately, when I heard the studio version on my Sennheisers, my jaw just dropped in awe. Those 30-second bursts are impossible to describe, but the happiness they create aren’t. So that’s all I can give you. If you buy the album, it’s worth it just for Keep On Don’t Stoppin’.

And speaking of – if you happen to be attending the release party at The Fillmore on January 25, you will be in luck. The Motet’s eponymous album will initially go on sale at the show. And as a thank you to its fans, the band has decided to make it affordable for everyone at $5. So if you love to “dance your ass off”, The Fillmore is the best place to be two Saturdays from now. See you there.

I have been going to shows regularly for over 15 years. Somewhere along the line, I came to understand that live music is my adopted religion and venues of great renown are, collectively, my house of worship. Being a Deadhead, in particular, is a sect onto itself. Until recently, I only understood this spiritual manifestation in the abstract. But as I waited for Dark Star Orchestra to take the stage, and then watched them beautifully channel The Grateful Dead circa 1985, I began to see matters in the concrete conveyance of symbolism, ritual, and spiritual uplift. That’s the power of The Dead.

My friend Mike and I grabbed a front row spot when the Boulder Theater doors opened at 8 p.m. and then, as usual, socialized with other congregants before the service. Seemingly half of the gathering crowd sported tie-dye or decorative t-shirts from tours of yore; many others wore hemp necklaces with glass beads as well as patchwork skirts and pants. These sartorial choices denoted a love, if not commitment, to the music that would soon be emanating through the theater. I pondered the difference between these expressions and donning a tallit, holding rosary beads, and wearing a Star of David or Crucifix around one’s neck. While there’s certainly a departure in symbolic meaning, I didn’t think there was much, if any, in symbolic status – each article is a means of group affiliation and devotion.

Far beyond symbolic artifacts, I enjoy the ritual of meeting attendees in my “vicinity” before the show to establish a rapport. It’s important for me to know the people near whom I will be dancing. Questions often arise about hometown origins and work, but quickly shift to music. As someone on the younger side, I often ask Baby Boomer Deadheads about their salad days.

“My first show ever was Englishtown,” explained a man in his early fifties, who imparted this historical note with the giddiness of a teenager.

“Wow! 9/3/77 – was it as hot as they said?” I asked.

“It was friggin’ boiling! The heat was intense,” he answered, in his Bronx inflection.

Like the numbers of a familiar Bible verse that needs no explanation, Deadheads can hear words like “Englishtown” and “Cornell” or numbers like “6/18/74” and “3/29/90” and immediately understand the context and content of a show – and then dive head first into a discussion about it. In fact, Saturday was the 24^th anniversary of the famed Nassau show with Branford Marsalis. Five minutes later, I spoke to another Boomer who was a fellow Chicagoan – we bemoaned the paucity of quality venues in a city so big.

“The Riv, The Vic, The Aragon…all completely devoid of character compared to what we have out here,” I argued.

“Park West wasn’t too bad. I saw The Dead at The Uptown in ’79 and ’80 which was a pretty good venue. But you’re right, nothing compares to Colorado,” he concurred.

Which leads me to a matter of greater import. Of all the quality venues throughout the Front Range, I view the Boulder Theater as my primary and most vital place to worship. Everything from the laid-back staff and non-corporatist vibe to the venue’s intimacy and architectural set-up forge an environment perfectly conducive for an amazing sonic Mass. I never put those pieces of the puzzle together until I was just walking around The Boulder Theater and marveling at how completely comfortable I was. I was totally relaxed – like I was home. Inspired by this novel recognition, as well as the understanding of how symbolism and ritual are embedded in Grateful Dead-themed shows, the abstract quickly gave way to the concrete.

“I can’t believe this will only be my second show of the year,” I told Mike. “I really needed this. It’s been too long.”

He understood. Between time constraints from work and the fear, grief, and melancholy I have endured watching my father get very ill, I hadn’t found the physical time or emotional energy to see my usual two or three shows each month. I desperately needed to be invigorated and revitalized and the coalescence of my favorite music and venue provided that opportunity. Religious adherents attend their house of worship for two main reasons: to convene with their community and commune with (feel closer to) their god. I went to the Boulder Theater to do roughly the same. I danced the night away with friends, strangers, and a woman who oddly fit neither category. And through the transcendental nature of Grateful Dead music channeled by six extraordinary musicians, I felt closer to my higher power. By the end of the show, I was spiritually cleansed and uplifted in the same way that (I imagine) religious congregants feel when leaving their temple after a momentous service.

Last October at The Fox, DSO chose a couplet of shows from The Dead’s Fall ’78 Winterland run and, likewise, the band played another back-to-backer on Friday and Saturday. This time, The Dead’s first two tour dates from Summer ’85 at The Greek Theatre in Berkeley were selected. I’m an unapologetic devotee of ‘70s Dead, so while I remained excited, I felt an involuntary pang of unease when I first saw the band’s stage arrangement. But any inquietude was swiftly quashed with the two opening songs.

DSO commenced the festivities with Touch of Grey. By June ‘85, the song was almost three years old, but still a year and a half away from commercially spawning a new wave of Deadheads (and plenty of poseurs) who flooded stadium and amphitheater parking lots. DSO harnessed all the energy from the verses and released it during Jeff Mattson’s solo. The crowd was immediately enthralled and dancing with an exhilaration not often seen right off the bat.

The sextet parlayed the kinetic energy from Touch of Grey into the highlight of the first set: New Minglewood Blues. As much as I love the ‘70s, The Dead improved on Minglewood in the ‘80s (the metamorphosis actually began in ’78). Billy and Mickey slowed the tempo down just a little bit while carving out a thicker groove with heavy-footed kick drumming and more robust use of floor toms. Rob Eaton belted out the vocals with as much ardor as Bobby ever did, but what set this piece apart was the interplay between the two guitarists. Eaton turned 90 degrees to his left to face Mattson while he soloed. The rhythm guitarist made his chords sound like coiled springs that were shot off one after the other, complimenting Mattson’s artful neckwork and eventual tremolo that brought the house down.

Following a big one-two punch to open the show, Friend of the Devil gave the crowd a breather with its slow, plodding verses. I was never a fan of the post-hiatus change that essentially doubled the length of the song while halving its tempo. DSO did its best to augment the emotion behind the piece, but to little success. However it’s important to point out that – like verses in the Bible – different people listening to the same song may interpret its value with immense variation. I’m sure the couples happily slow dancing together in my vicinity would care to differ from my assessment.

A solid Cassidy and mellow Dupree’s Diamond Blues ate up the middle of the set and gave way to a fantastic triptych to cap it off. Me and My Uncle, the most commonly played song in The Dead’s 30-year history, seemed a little more ornamented than the standard version. Whether at a Furthur, Phil and Friends, Shakedown St., or DSO show, Coloradans have ritualized a loud cheer when the compunctionless narrator/vocalist sings “And I’m as honest as a Denver man can be.” But the cheer of local acknowledgment is nothing like the roar set off by another famous cover that DSO performed near the beginning of the second set.

Me and My Uncle segued into a happy-feet hoedown on the floor with a cover of Johnny Cash’s phantom quest down The Mississippi: Big River. Keyboardist Rob Barraco made this into another peak of the first set with his Boogie-woogie hybrid solo in between the Memphis and New Orleans verses. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s worth stating again. Watching Barraco’s countenance (while he plays), ripe with jubilance and serenity, automatically injects me with a more palpable sense of joy – not to mention gratitude for what I’m witnessing. Mattson punctuated the song with another buoyant solo and then segued into the set closer, Might As Well.

While the narrator heads from Minnesota all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico in Big River, Might As Well celebrates the “coast to coast” Canadian party train taken by The Dead, Janis Joplin, and others in the summer of 1970. It was the band’s homage to YOLO decades before the idea turned into a widely known acronym. Mattson initiated each of the repetitious refrains’ calls with “Might as well, might as well” and the congregants, along with Eaton and Barraco, belted the response, “Might as well, might as well!” The beginning of the final verse has always resonated with me:

“Never had such a good time 


in my life before


I'd like to have it one time more 


One good ride from start to end


I'd like to take that ride again”

In response to that metaphor, when I echoed the words, “Might as well, might as well”, it was my way of ratifying that verse with a thunderous “Amen!” As DSO and the 1,000+ capacity-crowd put an exclamation point on the first set, I realized that all of the enervation and emotional cloudiness I have felt, especially this past month, had evaporated. I felt light, clear-headed, and sated with spiritual calm. The music has always brimmed with an ineffable, but very real, sublimity. Its transcendental nature – the level of pulchritude and electricity that mix and swell and permeate its recipients – make me feel like a supernatural force has been facilitating this communion all along. That might be too abstract a statement, but certain matters are sometimes beyond the means of concretization or description. 

After the setbreak, DSO came out with the same ambition and energy that kicked off the show with a soul-quenching China Cat Sunflower > I Know You Rider. I listened to the actual soundboard of the famous couplet from June 15, 1985. The original failed to match up in both scope and depth. The extra two minutes on DSO’s version where a trifle when put in context of execution. The Dead’s version sounded very poppy and was hampered by Brent’s famous/infamous “toy piano” keyboard timbre. While there were certainly points of comparison, DSO’s version was more robust in most places, including the segue jam which was, in a word, intense. And of course, as I alluded to earlier, the entire theater erupted after the verse:

“I wish I was a headlight

on a northbound train.

I’d shine my light through the

cool Colorado rain.”

Bassist Skip Vangelas dropped some serious bombs throughout Rider, injecting it with even more adrenaline.

At this point, though it may seem odd, I am going to fast forward to the end of the second set. In a bizarre but also amazing coincidence, I ran into an old ex-girlfriend just a little bit into the second set. Since we hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years, we went out into the lobby to talk during Lost Sailor > Saint of Circumstance (both of which we do not care for) and then I put my pen and paper away while we slow-danced during Terrapin Station. One thing led to another and we spent the rest of the second set dancing together like we never broke up. And of course, what would a night like that be without a second set closing Not Fade Away?

Drummers Dino English and Rob Koritz spearheaded a perfect song to finish off the set, thunder and lightning setting ablaze the transcendental flame that burned so brightly throughout most of the show. As they hammered away on their toms and Eaton and Mattson proclaimed, “Our love is real, not fade away!” Laurel and I looked at each other quizzically and then, simultaneously burst out laughing. We hugged, holding the embrace probably far too long, and then danced with mile-wide smiles as Mattson shredded up a storm.

And that’s when it came full circle for me. I thought of Clarence, the barber from one of my favorite comedies of all time: Coming to America.

Akeem: “Sir, where can one go to find nice women here?”

Clarence (after a little patter): “You gotta go to a nice place, a quiet place like a library, there's good women there and 'erm, church, they're good girls.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly quiet tonight, but I’ll be damned if Clarence wasn’t dead on in his declaration.

Check out more photos from the show, including a lot of fan shots.

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It is quite rare for album art to get noticed in the age of iTunes and Mp3 players. But I found myself captivated by the cover of Analog Son’s eponymously titled debut album when it arrived in the mail. I couldn’t help but notice a distinct similarity to one of funk’s most celebrated records. On the cover of Maggot Brain, Funkadelic’s ‘71 masterpiece, a woman is buried neck deep in the dirt, her licorice-colored Afro almost camouflaged by the soil that surrounds it. Her face is photographed in bright light as she cries out, mouth agape, for all to hear. The Analog Son cover similarly centers a woman’s countenance and sizable coiffure. However in this rendering, drawn by Belinda Jackson, she exudes peace and calm. The palms of her hands meet each other above her head and her eyes and mouth are closed in meditation. The woman’s Afro is fashioned from wavy peacock plumage while piano keys jut out from the gold and green to accentuate her contemplative pose. The juxtaposition seems like an homage to the classic with an eye on the contemporary.

Which is fitting because even the album’s title and band name – Analog Son – alludes to the fusion of past and present. Forty years ago, during the golden age of funk, analog recording was used to produce music for popular consumption (vinyl was its medium, for the those of you under 25). And the successor, or “son”, of analog was, of course, digitally encoded music. Guitarist Jordan Linit and bassist Josh Fairman wed vintage equipment and tape machines with modern production and technology to engineer an extraordinary debut offering. In it, juicy funk and meaty grooves are united with an up-tempo rock and fusion ethos to create a 51-minute voyage that is stimulating, in equal parts, to the ears and feet. I listened to this album driving in my car, perched at my desk, and even lying down in bed and, no matter where I was or what position my body was in, I was dancing. The grooves were viscerally contagious. And the answer to your question is, “Yes, of course you can dance lying down in bed.”

After 17 years together, Linit and Fairman have developed an intimate musical rapport while cultivating a national following with their funk-rock group Kinetix. It’s quite obvious, given the album’s unique setup, that they also fostered a slew of musical friendships along the way. While the duo took on songwriting responsibilities and performed on all tracks, a total of 18 guest musicians sat in to shape this standout album. The construct was perfect. There were only two architects, but after the blueprint was conceived, a coterie of expert artisans was able to put its discrete stamp on the structure. The finished product is ten unique sonic experiences that flow together effortlessly, anchored by the prevailing framework of its two designers-in-chief. 

In Analog Son’s opening piece, The Professor, Linit initiates with a riff that would make Freddie Stone proud. The first dozen bars are the apotheosis of yeasty, furnace-room funk. However, the sound soon shifts gears, gutting any expectation of monolithic influence. Ryan Zoidis (saxophone) and Eric “Benny” Bloom (trumpet) from The Shady Horns, along with Joe Tatton (keys) from The New Mastersounds, put the bounce in Linit’s step as The Professor unfurls with the dynamics of Galactic meets brass-infused salsa. The best part of the piece is Fairman’s bass play. He constantly stokes the fires of Tatton’s organ solo and augments Zoidis and Bloom’s horn fills with punchy syncopation. Throughout the entire album, in fact, Fairman has an uncanny ability to make everyone around him sound better while concomitantly showcasing his own talents.

Of the sundry guest musicians, Denver vocalist Devon Parker makes an outsized contribution. Penning the lyrics for three of the album’s songs, Parker delivers a velvety performance with a voice that is, by now, renowned throughout The Front Range. She’s Somethin’ and Struttin’ both have a neo-funk attitude, imbued with a bit of hip-hop and even a splash of soul. Parker’s intonation, passion, and silky vibrato make me envision the star of a gospel choir. Paired with Linit and Fairman’s groove, her vocals cut a potent edge into the dynamic.

In her most notable piece, Parker lends her voice to the wave of societal discontent towards financial institutions and The One Percent rigging The Game.

“Listen up everybody take heed, it’s time you best beware

Wolves in sheep clothes and fancy suits, sittin’ in fancy chairs

Making rules to life’s games, but they never wanna play it fair

Take more than they wanna give, so do you really think they care?”

This piece reminds me, at least lyrically, of The Motet’s recent song Rich in People wherein Jans Ingber takes aim at the political machinations and belligerent rhetoric miring Congress in gridlock. But whereas Ingber exalts where true wealth resides, Parker’s song is a supplication of sorts – an appeal to those who are willfully ignoring the problem. The cynical anguish born from her lyrics seems to, paradoxically, bolster the optimistic resolve in her delivery. Mike Chiesa (saxophone) and Gabe Mervine (trumpet) punctuate the piece with gorgeous fills while Chiesa steers it straight into the funk zone with a penetrating solo. If ever performed live, this is the type of piece that should be explored and jammed out into a white-hot crescendo and accelerando. Given the studio format, truncated boundaries are somewhat understandable.

Mervine wasn’t the only Motet member to lend his talents to Analog Son. In the aptly titled A Trip Around The Son, Joey Porter (keys), along with his Juno What?! band mate, Steve Watkins (synthesizer), help Linit and Fairman navigate a musical trip that touches on soundscapes as diverse as EDM and big band jazz. But the main funk theme woven throughout lends itself, most, to a cinematic tapestry. The first time I listened to this piece, and every one thereafter, I had visions of a revenge-thriller sequence. I pictured an aggrieved samurai neutralizing first and second line security defenses as he furtively navigates the target’s lair – his blood boils with rage as the climactic battle fast approaches. The Shady Horns take lead in this piece as their suspenseful bursts, connoting quick, stealthy movement, give way to long swells that chart each new layer the samurai breaches. Finally, he enters the villain’s inner-sanctum and, bathed in bravado, girds for battle. The Juno What?! duo takes over as the combatants first lay eyes on each other. Porter insinuates ambient chords of electric piano along the lower registers and, with the commencement of the final fight a mere seconds away, Watkins joins in with a spray of ambient synth, projected with flanger-like highs and lows. Porter and Watkins, along with The Shady Horns, Linit, and Fairman, crescendo in perfect unison. I’m not one to usually indulge in such a detailed visuals when discussing music, but one of the best parts about studio albums (I usually review shows) is their ability to spark the imagination. If Quinton Tarantino ever follows through with Kill Bill Vol. 3, A Trip Around The Son should be part of the score.

Analog Island, a heady confluence of funk and jazz-fusion, is my favorite piece on the album. It’s not as fastidiously composed as the band’s other songs because it is, in part, a showcase for Linit and Tatton’s soloing abilities. The opening riff, which Linit installs in two guitar parts, is yet another libidinous gem of classic funk origins. With drummer Mike Marlier utilizing his hi-hats to drive the rhythm, The Shady Horns ride the melody until they give way to Linit. Using an envelope filter and pushing the tempo, his solo glistens with heat. He shreds the way John McLaughlin tore it up on the jazz-fusion monument The Inner Mounting Flame. And, interestingly enough, when Linit hands the reins to Tatton, he immediately reminded me of McLaughlin’s oft collaborator Chick Corea – and not only because the timbre of his electric piano matched almost perfectly to that heard on Bitches Brew or Return to Forever. Tatton’s solo dominates the second half of Analog Island with its tight phrasing and smooth articulation – all while sounding as improvised as if it was being performed live. Corea is a master of instinctual phrasing and making the difficult sound easy. Tatton exhibits those qualities in abundance during his moment in the spotlight. Tatton segues to Fairman who lights it up with a truncated solo and then the entire septet rises as one to put an exclamation point on the song. If I had one complaint, it was the nearly muted levels on Joel Scanlon’s congas, but it’s a minor quibble compared with the majesty and execution of the entire piece.

Analog Son will be released on June 24. Please follow the link below to buy it on iTunes. And make no mistake – it is a very worthy purchase. Linit and Fairman have brilliantly cross-pollinated the essence of ‘70s funk and fusion with flavors of modern rock, hip-hop, and soul. Every song on the album will have you moving your feet, even if they aren’t touching the ground. The groove is so infectious that you could be flat on your back without your feet even noticing. Mine sure as hell didn’t.

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/analog-son/id882860334

And since this is a funk review on The Grateful Web, I would be remiss if I failed to link you to possibly the greatest sans Jerry Sugaree ever – Soulive, The Shady Horns, George Porter Jr., Nicki Bluhm, and Warren Haynes. Start video at 24:30.

Last year during Widespread Panic’s annual June pilgrimage to Red Rocks, I bore witness to a natural phenomenon so sublime, it will be emblazoned in my memory until my dying breath. An awe-inspiring lightning shower accompanied nearly the entirety of Saturday’s second set. At times, the “natural” light show seemed like it was timed in unison with John Bell’s vocals and Jimmy Herring’s guitar solos (especially during Mercy). Fast-forward 364 days to last Friday, the first show in Panic’s 2014 three-day run. As the sold-out crowd quickly began filling up the stands and the slow drizzle of rain crept to a halt, another object of opulence appeared on the horizon. A double rainbow arced from downtown Denver southward for many dozens of miles. It was faint, but captivating. However, that was just the warm-up – Mother Nature’s batting practice, if you will.

I found a great area to settle in for the evening – it was almost exactly halfway up the stands in Row 32, about 20 feet right of center. The band took the stage a little after 7:30 and wasted no time in setting Red Rocks ablaze. Imitation Leather Shoes and B of D both foreshadowed a night of balls-to-the-wall, full-throttle rock ‘n’ roll. There were very few detours from the night’s ethos and, much like the entire 2013 Red Rocks run, Jimmy Herring stood front and center as the protagonist, pushing the envelope through both sets and the Talking Heads triptych encore.

The band decided to slow things down for the third piece of the first set, Tortured Artist, and that’s when Mother Nature stepped up to the plate for real. As Bell sang “one day you were both there waitin’ out the rain”, I looked up into the sky and saw a new rainbow that formed from the mist of the past half hour. Stretching from behind Ship Rock (to the south) all the way to the horizon behind the middle of the stage, this celestial crescent was far more vibrant and robust in color, not to mention saliently closer, than the pre-show double-bow. Before I knew it, everyone had their cellphones out and began taking video and photos of this luminous arch that looked and felt so close that you might be able to stand on your toes and touch it. Herring exploited the mid-tempo cadence of Tortured Artist to belt out a pair of compact solos as majestic and multi-chromatic as the firmament above him: another perfect amalgamation of music and natural beauty at Red Rocks.

The band decided to mark the middle of the set with back-to-back Van Morrison covers. Send Your Mind was an up-tempo dance party engineered by Dave Schools’s lightning quick bass runs and Todd Nance’s floor-tom work that pushed the rhythm and made for many happy feet in the stands. However, And It Stoned Me imbued the middle of the set with true dynamism, not to mention nostalgic joy. When Bell, in his immutable platinum-coated gravel-tinged voice, delivered the opening bars to this classic Moondance opener, a large roar erupted from the crowd. Almost everyone in my vicinity joined him in the chorus, “And it stoned me to my soul / stoned me just like Jelly Roll…” JoJo Hermann was vital in making this piece aurally animated with his deft keyboard work, furnishing the spaces around Herring’s guitar with organically simple fills and note groupings. He then switched to his Hammond for a mellow and perfectly phrased song-ending solo.

Happy segued into Sell, Sell and, again, Herring made the extraordinarily difficult sound easy and oh-so-beautiful. With a generous helping of his whammy bar during Sell, Sell, he sounded like an old-school guitar god. In fact, all throughout the show I kept having these flashbacks to the first time I saw Herring in November ’01 with Phil and Friends. I knew next-to-nothing about him at the time, but I clearly remember feeling these jolts of euphoria cascade down my body whenever he took lead duties (he and Warren Haynes alternated). Same feeling, more than 12 years later.

Postcard featured the type of thick, thundering, and visceral bass from Schools that took my chin in its talons and dragged me closer to the stage. But the definitive highlight of the first set was its closer – Conrad. The entire band fired as one molten unit, from Sunny Ortiz’s hypnotic conga work to Hermann’s nuanced use of Hammond reverb. And of course Herring soared on top of the pulsing rhythms, ripping it up one more time before the break.

The first set was rather truncated, clocking in at just 55 minutes. The band, in their infinite humor, might have indirectly addressed why this was the case. It was raining, on and off, before the show and well through the scheduled start time. Four of the seven songs that contained lyrics alluded to precipitation in some form. But to be clear: what they lost in time, they surely made up for with intensity.

The entire second set was played under ideal conditions, with 70-degree breezes in abundance and the rain nowhere to be seen. Panic came out after a 40-minute break and fired a brilliant Second Skin > Rebirtha > Sleeping Man opening salvo that stretched over half an hour. And I want to take a moment, before delving into this set, to mention something that occurred to me after the crowd’s eruption following the aforementioned sequence.

This band, which has been touring for nearly 30 years, is such a well-oiled machine that sometimes it’s almost easy to take its musical prowess and hard work for granted. I have seen them perform a couple dozen times in big cities like Atlanta and Chicago, smaller ones like Louisville and Albuquerque, and at festivals in the middle of nowhere. And no matter where this sextet sets up shop, it brings the heat every friggin’ night. I have seen Phish embarrass themselves a few times, String Cheese look lost at some gigs, and even Moe., a band famous for its intensity, shit the bed. But I have never seen Widespread Panic play even an average show, much less a subpar one.

Second Skin broke the second set seal with its sinuous bass line and conga rhythms. With his Hammond, Hermann floated in and out of the melody to give it a feeling of weightlessness. Meanwhile, Herring made generous use of his whammy bar to bend and wobble an extended series of protracted notes – the tremolo, along with his own vibrato, bubbling into the dark melody. The jam eventually took a detour from straight up blues/rock into the land of funk. And the focus on funk spilled over into Rebirtha – its initial riff a mischievous play between Bell’s guitar and Schools’s bass. Despite being a staple in the Panic oeuvre, Bell had a giddiness in his voice like he just wrote the piece last week. He sang almost as if he was scatting with lyrics while improvising on some of the actual verse. Hermann doubled down on the funk with his meticulous Hammond chops, syncopating his notes just before and after Bell’s lyrical stresses. And, as always, the tidal waves of sound emanating from Herring’s guitar and resonating across Red Rocks made the piece all the more magical.

The segue form Rebirtha to Sleeping Man was absolutely world-class and a highlight of the second set. Schools thundered away on his bass as Nance went heavy on his crash cymbals. The outro jam metamorphosed seamlessly into the opening hard rock riff of this Vic Chesnutt cover. And while there were many contenders, I have to declare Sleeping Man the highlight of the second set. Schools’s prodigious slap and pop bass work shook the amphitheater and rattled my bones. Bell dug deep into the well to pump his vocals with pathos and soul. Herring combined lightning quick fretwork and picking to give the piece a nitro boost in the middle until the band gave way to Hermann’s funky clavinet chops. With Sleeping Man, the band carved out a groove ten times sharper than a butcher’s knife. And, as I mentioned before, after the final two chords ripped into space at the end of the song, the crowd just went volcanic, screaming and clapping for an effort that was simply transcendental.

While I won’t go into as much detail about the rest of the set, it’s not because I am discounting what happened after the opening sequence. The entire hour and a half was pumped with the type of Widespread Panic energy that echoes between Ship and Creation Rocks at the end of every June. Thin Air (Smells Like Mississippi) was another exhibition of Herring shifting into the seventh and eighth gears that only he seems to have as well as Ortiz’s monster timbale drumming. A Driving Song sandwich, featuring Ribs and Whiskey, an outstanding Drums, and St. Louis as the meat, brought the set headlong into its finale. Both slices of Driving Song imparted Herring with a framework to scaffold off of each subsequent phrase until he was pointing straight into the firmament. His unique way of unpacking these solos reminded me a lot of Eddie Hazel, surrounded by a bunch of Marshall stacks, pouring his heart out in Maggot Brain. Not coincidentally, Herring and Panic bust out that classic once in a while.

Speaking of bustouts, the band rolled out Bayou Lena for the first time in 347 shows (thank you Everyday Companion!) and only the second time since Fall ’06. The penultimate song of the second set led to a happy hoedown for the sold out Red Rocks crowd. And then things got crazy when the opening bars of Love Tractor echoed out from the stage. This Panic mainstay must’ve been performed close to a 1,000 times by now, but, just like with Rebirtha, there’s a spark of electricity that makes it seem like it was penned a month ago. Ortiz unleashed a fusillade of conga blasts as Bell strummed the power chords that anchor this pillar of the Panic catalogue. Then Herring, one more time, let loose, making his guitar sing, wail, moan, and shout to the heavens before downshifting into the closing bars.

The band decided to honor The Talking Heads for its encore with a trio of famous David Byrne tunes. Papa Legba was fun as always, but the encore hit its peak with Life During Wartime. Everyone in the crowd seemed to know, and belted out, the chorus with Bell – “This ain’t no party / This ain’t no disco / This ain’t no foolin’ around…” – and concomitantly danced up a storm. During City of Dreams, the stage lights were made into stars and a Hubble image of Earth was projected onto the background screen. The image rotated on its axis as the stars beamed around it during this mellifluous cover. It was an exquisite ending to an exquisite night.

While the lightning showers of last year and the resplendent rainbow of last Friday were memorable phenomena, they wouldn’t last a day in my brain without the beautiful music that accompanied them. Widespread Panic, year in and year out, provides the sonic sundae and Mother Nature, in Her cosmic kindness, simply puts the cherry on top. I can’t wait to see what’s in store for next year.

Check out more photos from the show.

After I witness a transformative set of music, this is what inevitably occurs when the dust settles. After a band plays high energy, pedal-to-the-metal music for a cool 100-minutes, it’s difficult to ascertain which pieces stood out as the highlights among many other highlights – the crème de la crème. That’s why I try to balance dancing and having fun with taking notes in the middle of a song or right after it ends. It’s the only way I can filter the musical narrative and determine the truly supernal from the “merely” superb.

Jay Rattman didn’t have that luxury. His quartet, The Mile High Horns, sat in with Railroad Earth last Saturday at Red Rocks and, together, created a second set of symphonic wonderment. When I asked Rattman, who arranged the pieces and played alto saxophone and clarinet, to recall his personal highlight from the many possible contenders, he imparted me with the words you see above. I couldn’t blame him. Without my notes, the second set would have also been a blur, homogenous in its beauty and monolithic in its magnetism. During Tuba Mirum, I wrote: “Interplay between RRE and MHH is outstanding. Perfect. Locked in. Listening to each other like a dectet that has been playing together for years.” What I didn’t know at the time was that the four musicians comprising the Mile High Horns were a one-off group that never even played a show together before Saturday night, much less with the sextet who headlined. And that made last Saturday’s feat even more remarkable.

But before I delve into that masterful second set, along with the backstory of how it came to be, I would be remiss to not zoom out a bit and capture a really solid beginning of the night. After a truncated set by The Wood Brothers, and a full one from Greensky Bluegrass, Railroad Earth took the stage just before 9:30 and chose a very poignant opener: Long Way To Go. With its message of hard work and humility, it struck me as a concrete gesture from the band to its fans. Railroad Earth headlined Red Rocks for the first time in 2013 and is currently enjoying more popularity and success than at any time in its 13+ years together. Despite these achievements, the band still tours regularly and shows no signs of inertia or creative lethargy.

Walk Beside Me, a song bathed in bluegrass funk, came next. I was entranced by Andrew Altman’s hypnotic bass line which also doubled as the melody. John Skehan and Andy Goessling laced gorgeous mandolin descants throughout and Altman took an understated solo near the end of the piece.

The set began to really percolate with the fast-paced coupling of Drag Him Down > 1759. Drag Him Down lit a fire under my feet and I was dancing intensely to its jubilant bluegrass picking. Altman and drummer Carey Harmon pushed the tempo. After the third refrain, they essentially ducked out (except for Harmon’s hi-hats) so we could hear Todd Sheaffer, Skehan, Goessling, and fiddler Tim Carbone tearing up the melody in a flurry of notes that all seemed to wind together and fit perfectly into each beat. Exhibitions of mastery like this four bar interlude made me smile from ear to ear.

The transition into 1759, led by Harmon’s snare work, was relatively simple, but nonetheless as seamless as segues ought to be. I only realized a new song had begun when I heard Skehan pick a set of notes on his bouzouki that sounded like they belonged in a western. This piece was the highlight of the first set because it managed to portray a symphony of sound both potent and muscular, yet somehow delicate and refined – almost like listening to a rock ‘n’ roll Irish reel. Harmon and Altman, on his upright bass, propelled the band with their blistering tempo while Carbone wowed the Red Rocks crowd with his fiddle solo. It started as a fluid series of counterpoints to the bass line, but then he went higher in octave and unfurled cascades of notes into the crescendo. Finally, Carbone, along with Goessling on mandolin, locked in to create a dual melody to close out this fulgent rendition.

After a straightforward version of the achingly beautiful Bird in a House, Carbone rekindled the flame from 1759 with another exquisite solo during Carrying Coal to Newcastle. Skehan took the reins first, introducing fluttering bursts of tremolo with his mandolin, and then he handed duties off to his bandmate. Listening intently, Carbone scaffolded from Skehan’s work with his own melodic phrasing and even echoed the tremolo inflection in a few bars. As that solo unfolded, Skehan moved right next to Goessling (acoustic guitar) and they both ornamented the fiddle work with texture and color that made the whole piece a robust offering.

When the Sun Gets in Your Blood closed out the hour-long first set. This relatively new piece, written by Altman, provided a perfect distillation of Railroad Earth’s sumptuous and spiritual sound. Harmon’s tom work and Altman’s (upright bass) picking imparted the song with a pillowy rhythm. Banjo rolls from Goessling and Sheaffer’s acoustic strumming articulated a melody to match the sublime gentleness of the rhythm. And finally, Carbone’s electric guitar and Skehan’s mandolin fills, harmonious augmentations, and airy solos completed a sonic landscape filled with a beauty that is at once rooted in the soil and grass, but at the same time, floating in the firmament. In other words, Railroad Earth’s music feels tangible – but it also transmits a sense of the ethereal.

After a half-hour break, the second set started in an unusual manner. Four guest musicians, playing almost shoulder-to-shoulder behind Skehan’s area on stage right, began belting out a New Orleans brass-band standard on tuba, tenor and alto saxophone, and trumpet. It looked like Goessling was also assisting on his saxophone. Bit by bit, the rest of Railroad Earth took the stage and joined in the merriment for a couple of minutes until the intro segued into Monkey.

Which brings us back to Jay Rattman. I asked him how this all came to be and he was happy to explain the origins of his collaboration. Rattman met Carbone through a mutual friend and colleague of theirs – trombonist Rick Chamberlain. Rattman had been writing arrangements and recording horn parts for a host of projects Carbone was producing for other musicians. So…

“About a month before last Saturday's show, Tim contacted me to ask if I'd be interested in writing a bunch of arrangements for a four-horn section that I would then lead in performance with the band at Red Rocks. Needless to say, I leapt at the opportunity…Tim gave me written suggestions for ways they wanted me to approach the songs. Things like ‘Make this one sound like Aaron Copland in the wild west’, or ‘Think of Allan Toussaint's charts for The Band's "Rock of Ages,"’ or ‘Write something here to help build the energy coming out of this solo section going into the vocals.’”

The other three musicians – 
J. D. Little (tenor and baritone saxophones), Dan Sears (trumpet), and Michael Silverstein (tuba and trombone) – are all based around Boulder and didn’t even meet Rattman until a day before the show. He flew from New York City, where he resides, to Denver on Friday morning and rehearsed with the horns and Railroad Earth for a couple of hours in the afternoon. With just a few more hours of rehearsal on Saturday before the show, the guest musicians, who Sheaffer dubbed “The Mile High Horns”, were woven into more than half of the second set. And as I said before, I had no idea this was a one-off special event because the horns not only gelled beautifully with the band, but also with each other. “The excellent musicianship of the members of Railroad Earth as well as the musicians in the horn section made the whole process pretty low-stress considering the circumstances, and very enjoyable,” Rattman maintained, adding, “The other three horn players were excellent musicians…who did a great job bringing the parts to life in very little time.”

After Monkey, the horn section stepped down for a couple of songs. Dandelion Wine, which (I think) is the band’s most frequently played cover (Neal Casal), is nonetheless one of my favorites. There’s an energy to its execution that always makes me want to dance in circles – it feels like a hybrid of swing and bluegrass both pushing the envelope together.

After that scorcher, Sheaffer dedicated the next song, Railroad Earth, to his parents who flew here to see him at Red Rocks. And this gives me an opportunity to touch upon something I haven’t mentioned yet – the vocals. Sheaffer has a voice that is perfectly tailored to his band, though it is certainly outside the realm of “conventional” lead vocalist. He has belted out this favorite hundreds of times and tonight he sang it with such passion and heart that it felt like it was new to the rotation. Not only that, the relatively stripped down instrumental parts also showcased the gorgeous backing harmonies of his bandmates. When the lyrical apex arrived – “Oh mama, ain’t it good to be alive?” – the crowd roared with approval. I stretched my arms out, pointed my chest to the sky, and realized how lucky I was to be in the here and now.

The Mile High Horns stepped back in for the relatively rare Hangtown Ball. The first third of the song felt a little stilted and wet, but that soon changed. Skehan switched from mandolin to electric piano, injecting a bit of ragtime into the verses. Then Sheaffer took a modest solo as the jam began to build steam. Once Rattman took the wheel, though, the entire piece came to glorious fruition. His alto sax solo was perfectly phrased to sound like a jazz centerpiece while the rest of the band hit the cradle of the groove for a heavy funk jam to support him. At the beginning, the other three horns were watching Rattman and then, as he was digging deep, they returned in unison with elongated swells to bring the entire piece to a rousing crescendo. That two-minute segment was easily a highlight of the second set.

The horns stepped out once again and Harmon drummed the opening beat to Elko on his snare. With the tempo shifting upwards from Hangtown Ball, the crowd was dancing up a storm in my vicinity. And we were treated to another scintillating fiddle solo from Carbone.

Elko segued into Tuba Mirum which showcased the brilliance of the Mile High Horns. This instrumental started almost immediately as a powerful jam and then each of the four guest musicians began weaving in the same theme in different parts, almost like they were playing a fugue. It was visceral, verdant, and insanely beautiful. About three minutes in, the tempo rose from deep, bouncing funk up to faster-paced jazz-pop and then, two minutes later, returned to its original theme. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure this is where the Allen Touissant/Rock of Ages note from Carbone came into play. Tuba Mirum was one of the three biggest highlights of the night. It was a pre-dominantly composed piece that was not only deftly executed but also invoked the dynamism of music that’s novel and spontaneous.

Face with a Hole allowed The Mile High Horns another opportunity to exhibit their prowess with a rich tension and release trope that built into an eventual mountain of sound with heavy horn modulation. Mighty River was all about Carbone. I loved watching him solo on his fiddle, the fog machine going full blast in the background, his eyes closed, and hair being blown back like some modern guitar (fiddle) god.

With the opening reel riff for Like a Buddha, Railroad Earth embarked on, in my humble opinion, the singular musical apex of the evening. The horn section generated momentous bursts and swells to support Goessling’s flute intro melody. Sheaffer’s voice changed noticeably – he belted out the lyrics with so much vigor one could easily be convinced that his livelihood depended on it for this one moment in time. The second set was rife with energy before Like a Buddha, but the ten men on stage took it to a new level. The middle jam was both fluid and crisp, a perfect constellation of instruments building a lattice of up-tempo, dance-heavy sound until it peaked and disappeared into Sheaffer’s vocals during the last verse. The final jam is one of those I can’t really describe. It’s rather pointless to try. I’m sure there’s a copy on the archives. Check it out. It’s ridiculous.

Sheaffer introduced the penultimate song by telling the Red Rocks crowd, “We’ve been coming to Colorado for quite some time now. It was one of the first places we played…We always look forward to coming back to Colorado in the summertime.” And then the band embarked on the Colorado. With The Mile High Horns ceding the stage to the sextet to finish things out, the Red Rocks crowd was treated to classic Railroad Earth: robust jamming bolstering Carbone and Skehan as they traded solos – twice. Fiddlee closed out the second set with Skehan and Goessling on mandolin and Carbone on (of course) fiddle pushing the tempo to its maximum possible threshold. They picked and bowed the melody in amazing unison as Altman (upright) and Harmon, using primarily his snare drum, matched their pace with a rhythm that seemed like it was almost daring them to pick faster. This was my final peak of the evening and I danced the rubber off the soles of my sandals. I was filled with joy, yet out of breath, when the final notes echoed off the rocks and into the night.

For the encore, One More Night on the Road gave both Railroad Earth and The Mile High Horns one more opportunity to blow the amphitheater away, which it promptly did. I loved the swing element that the horns brought to the table for this piece – a great way to end the evening.

And although Psycho Killer seemed like an odd choice for outro music, the crowd was so happy that everyone around me was singing it at the top of their lungs as we filed out of the stands. There aren’t many Red Rocks events were I go home disappointed. But due to the second set last Saturday, I will hold dear this Railroad Earth show for many years to come. It left me as sated as one can be, but also with great anticipation for the band’s return in 2015. Who knows what sweet surprises it will have in store for us next year?

Check out more photos of: Railroad Earth, Greensky Bluegrass, and The Wood Brothers.

A year ago, Planet Bluegrass was in shambles. The North St. Vrain Creek, which carves a path along the venue’s northern and eastern borders, overflowed during a torrential downpour that lasted nearly a full week in mid-September. The 2013 Colorado Flood created a state of emergency in 14 counties and hit especially hard in Lyons. The town’s crown gem, which hosts the annual RockyGrass and Folks Festivals, was submerged under four feet of water. President Craig Ferguson never thought it a question that Planet Bluegrass would rise again and succeeded in rebuilding and resodding in time for RockyGrass this past July. Ferguson was an early supporter of Yonder Mountain String Band and its members thought it a no-brainer to reciprocate by playing a fundraiser last December at The Boulder Theater. Yonder’s first Kinfolk Celebration was played here in 2002 and Planet Bluegrass has hosted the event two other times, in 2003 and 2012. So the emotions – joy, pride, and gratitude – were palpable as the band took the stage Friday evening.

Forced to retool with co-founder Jeff Austin’s exit earlier this year, Jake Jolliff (mandolin) and Allie Kral (fiddle/vocals) joined Yonder to revamp the sound. Though they are not official members yet, they have generated a significant shift in dynamics and energy that serves both the band and its fans quite well. Before I delve into these shows, I want to make something very clear to the readers. The 2014 Kinfolk Celebration was a two-day event that featured over ten total sets of music. While Yonder headlined both nights, bands like The Haunted Windchimes and Head for the Hills helped to make this a true festival. While I am focusing on Yonder’s Night One show, this “Celebration” came to fruition with the help of other bands that played in the afternoon and early evenings on both Friday and Saturday.

Widespread Panic frontman John Bell was joined by Yonder at 7:30 p.m., after almost a half hour of solo work. Bell sat in a chair at center stage and was flanked by Adam Aijala (guitar) and Kral on his left and Joliff, Ben Kaufmann (bass), and Dave Johnston (banjo) on his right. They played four Panic songs (two originals, two covers) with Johnston’s Don’t Worry, Happy Birthday sandwiched in between. In both the moment, and in retrospect of the entire weekend, the combination of JB with Yonder did not work. I am a huge JB supporter, but the energy was severely wanting. I have no doubt that everyone worked dutifully to (re)arrange these tunes and the attention to detail did not go unnoticed. One of my favorite pieces from the Panic catalogue, Climb to Safety, was rearranged for the bluegrass setup using (what sounded like) a different key and tempo and put a whole new spin on this Widespread classic. I’m usually open to bands experimenting with established songs, but not even the beautiful backing vocal harmonies of Kral and the rest of the group could rescue this piece. It tried to be both bluegrass and Southern rock and couldn’t materialize into that hybrid. Worry (first set), Ain’t Life Grand, in the second set, and the New Speedway Boogie encore hit the right notes and proved more in tune with the overall vibe of the evening, but the down-tempo cadence during most of the collaborative pieces fell flat.

Yonder finished the first set much stronger as a quintet, beginning with Only a Northern Song. The Beatles cover and band staple was highlighted by Jolliff and Kral’s scintillating solos. Jolliff came first, picking on top of the beat with lightning quick fingers and a precision that did not always come so easy for Austin. Jolliff was working up a sweat on stage, but when I closed my eyes, his mandolin sang with an absolute effortlessness. For the first time in the entire set, I danced like my feet were on fire and rejoiced in finally absorbing that visceral energy which Yonder is famous for generating.

Having seen the band dozens upon dozens of times since 2001, I have no doubt that they benefit when playing with a fiddler. From Darol Anger to Sam Bush to a list of other guest musicians, the sonic landscape with a fiddle appears more robust, vibrant, and complete. Kral, who is certainly more than just a “guest musician”, has a very corporeal stage presence, much like Anger. She could be seen tapping her feet, pushing one knee in and out, and swinging her hips with carefree abandon as she wailed on the fiddle. Yes – Kral wails. Guitar gods can do it and so can fiddle goddesses. During Only a Northern Song, Kral began with long, haunting bow strokes and heavy vibrato to setup a contrasting progression. She quickly transitioned into playing shorter bursts while incorporating gorgeous double stops into the crescendo and accelerando. That minute-and-a-half solo was pure ecstasy and the crowd howled in appreciation immediately afterwards.

All The Time closed out the first set and I’m not at all embarrassed to admit that a few tears escaped from the hatch. When I am present at the creation of music that is both heavenly and (almost) ineffably sonorous, I can’t help it. My eyes well up a bit. There’s something overwhelming about the aural pulchritude that cuts deep into my emotions. Aijala sang lead and, from the get-go, I could tell this was going to be a special rendition. In the opening verses, Kral serenaded the audience with ethereal descants to compliment Kaufmann’s vocal harmonies. And then, after Johnston, she took the second solo – at which point I became deliriously lachrymose. Again, she employed exquisite double stops while seguing from plush, velvety legato to a hoedown power progression. The beauty just swallowed me whole. Aijala assumed soloing duties from Kral and, as always, picked like an absolute maniac while exhibiting little to no physical effort. I’ve said this many times about Aijala, so once more won’t hurt. He is one of the most technically brilliant bluegrass guitarists playing today. His fretwork and picking often look and sound like they are occurring at breakneck speeds, but his body and countenance are entirely composed as if what is happening is no big thing. He added another layer of beauty to the tapestry of All The Time and then handed the reins to Jolliff. He matched Aijala’s speed while working the entire neck of his mandolin. Jolliff’s solo segued into one more verse and refrain for Aijala with the entire quintet just sailing together as one perfect juggernaut. The second half of Set One more than made up for the first half and, while setbreak had landed, I was immediately itching for more.

After a solid Looking Back to open up Set Two, Yonder introduced an On The Run > Black Sheep > On The Run sandwich that brought things back up to pace. I was stationed much further away on the lawn in this set, but my vicinity was made up of fellow dancing fiends. We were just stepping, hopping, and whirling all over our spacious patch of grass. Jolliff set our feet ablaze with a fulgent solo that made me smile from ear to ear – one of those shit-eating grins that is plastered across someone’s face because they are either over-the-moon happy or are just too blissfully unaware to be anything but (thankfully, mine was the former). Black Sheep provided the meat to the On The Run sandwich with Johnston taking lead vocals on this funky, mid-tempo piece that debuted earlier this year.

JB returned to the stage to play two Panic songs bookending a Yonder original. Mercy is a veritable powerhouse at Widespread shows and hits you like a clap of thunder. Just like the first set with JB, this one was very well executed but just didn’t hit me right. I know, I know – “didn’t hit me right” is too technical for a review like this. I can use words like energy and dynamics, but beyond that, all I can say is the two JB segments in each set didn’t fit well with the ethos of a Yonder Mountain String Band show. Compared to pieces like All The Time, Mercy and Winds on Fire were just downers. Ain’t Life Grand injected a bit more life into JB’s appearance, but it didn’t by any stretch bring down the house.

Once he left the stage, Yonder broke into a resplendent version of Dolly Parton’s Jolene. Kral sang lead and, if it’s even possible, her voice is as divine as her fiddle playing. I’ve never listened to Kral’s (former) band, Cornmeal, so this was my first opportunity to hear her in any capacity. And if you couldn’t tell yet, she blew me away. There is honestly something celestial about her voice – try as I may, it’s mellifluousness is too much for words alone.

Yonder closed out the second set with a Casualty > Pockets > Casualty sandwich, imparting the crowd with the highlight of the second set. Just like the On The Run triptych, the band paired a mid-tempo piece with two up-tempo ones, cultivating a stream of complimentary rhythms. Kaufmann sang lead and carved out a heady groove with his buoyant picking. It was a simple bass line, yet he threaded it through the melody with a vibrancy and brio that had me totally locked in. Aijala, Jolliff, and Kral killed it, yet again, with their solos which segued into a well-coordinated downshift into Pockets.

Instead of a typical melody, Pockets uses a simple three-chord rock progression over which each member solos. It sounds like anthemic bluegrass and brings a great deal of power to bear. Johnston began his solo with small groupings of notes, but then topped it off with a series of banjo rolls that got things cooking in a hurry. Possibly unbeknownst to him, Johnston introduced a theme that demonstrated how well the band members listen to each other. In the middle of the piece, the quintet jammed around the three-chord theme and then Jolliff took over with another dexterous effort. During part of his solo, he mimicked banjo rolls on his mandolin, as did Aijala on his guitar, and Kral on her fiddle. They all took this one simple idea, a tiny catalyst, and insinuated it into their work, enhancing the song with a delicate symmetry. The Casualty reprise was short, but potent and the Planet Bluegrass Festivarians screamed, howled, whistled, and applauded with approval as the band left the stage.

The three-song encore was highlighted by Crazy Train, a Black Sabbath cover that Yonder adapted to their sound well over a decade ago. As always, they pulled off this heavy metal song with élan and made me realize that my feet were burning and achy. Which is a great sign. I never mind a little foot pain at the end of a show because it means I was dancing my ass off during it. JB took the stage one last time to close out the night with a cover of The Grateful Dead’s New Speedway Boogie.

At the beginning of this review, I singled out Planet Bluegrass owner Craig Ferguson who, with no reservations, began rebuilding the venue almost as soon as the flooding receded last fall. Without his vision, it’s doubtful that Kinfolk ’14 would have taken place – at least not in Lyons. But in closing, I need to give another shout-out to the other people, besides Ferguson and the musicians, who made this a fantastic happening. Festivals can be chaotic events. I have been to some in which the security personnel are not on the same page or superfluously hassling fans who are minding their own business. At most festivals I’ve attended, drunken and drug-addled fans cause some serious problems for those who are there to enjoy themselves. So many other things can go wrong from sanitation (long lines at the Porta Potties or not cleaning them often enough) to price gouging on basic items like food and water. Planet Bluegrass operates so smoothly and efficiently that those issues don’t arise. It is one of the few places that parents should feel comfortable bringing their children, which many did for this Kinfolk. Hundreds of kids could be seen running around with each other, hula-hooping, playing with glow sticks, and, of course, dancing. Even though this review was about Yonder Mountain String Band, I feel it imperative to point out a job extremely well done by the Planet Bluegrass grounds crew, security personnel, and all other Kinfolk workers. If this venue was run like other festival grounds I’ve seen, it would be a far less enjoyable experience.

Check out more photos from Friday and Saturday @ KInfolk 2014.

I moved to Colorado in 2010 to pursue my Masters degree in education. I chose CU because it had a strong program for my discipline, but I’d be lying if I said the town of Boulder, itself, held no sway in my decision. Having wandered in a proverbial desert of live music for five years, I was a deeply dehydrated Deadhead who needed an oasis to slake my thirst. Occasionally, a noteworthy band played at The Santa Fe Brewing Company or an hour south at one of Albuquerque’s few ramshackle venues, but these were rare occasions. I came to Boulder because I was sick of sonic deprivation – I knew The Fox and The Boulder Theater would host more first-rate shows in a month than the whole of New Mexico would in an entire year.

What I did not anticipate, however, was my second musical epiphany. The first came in 1998 when I discovered that The Dead and Phish made me feel more “Alive” than Eddie Vedder’s lyrics ever could. I shed my allegiance to the grunge rock of my first love, Pearl Jam, and began a long exploration into the jamband scene. My second epiphany arrived on Halloween night, 2011. I came to hear a band called The Motet play a musical costume of Grateful Dead songs and left The Boulder Theater, around 2 a.m., completely proselytized to the ass-shaking, rubber-burning magic of funk. On that same evening, as chance would have it, I also met the person who founded this website and he offered me a chance to review shows for The Grateful Web.

I began writing later that year and have enjoyed every minute of it. Apart from reviewing shows, I feel it my duty to champion the most worthy local bands that are either trying to gain a more widespread fanbase (like The Motet) or garner regional attention as a startup. Analog Son is one such group.

Guitarist Jordan Linit and bassist Josh Fairman met at DU’s Lamont School of Music and play together in the renowned funk-rock collection, Kinetix. After eight years of touring, recording, and learning the music business, this super-duo began building Analog Son from the ground up. Their eponymously titled debut album blew my mind and I am in eager anticipation to see the live incarnation of these funk-fusion pieces at Cervantes on October 19. If you are a Deadhead, a funk enthusiast, or as Linit so aptly puts it, a fan of “uplifting music that makes you want to shake your ass and have fun with your friends”, you should be there as well.

Apropos to this gig, in which the band opens for Maceo Parker, the final track on Analog Son’s album is entitled Swervantes. Since the song is purely instrumental, I inquired as to how this portmanteau came to be. Linit explained thusly:

“When I am writing an instrumental tune, while it doesn’t have lyrics, it is coming from an emotion I have been feeling that day. Swervantes started with a carefree emotion reminiscent of arriving at Cervantes – one of our favorite venues – for a funky show and seeing many familiar faces. The tune morphs through many feels and ends up in a psychedelic jam section, one that attendees of Cervantes can clearly associate with the shenanigans they’re likely to see on a happening night in this great venue. What begins as a nice carefree show can lead you to a psychedelic circus of alternative culture that many Denver residents have come to love.”

What else can be added to such a beautiful and fitting description? Earlier, I proclaimed my unabashed love for Boulder’s musical houses of worship: The Fox and The Boulder Theater. If I were making a list of comparable venues in Denver, Cervantes would undoubtedly be at the top of it. It combines the intimacy of The Fox with the history of The Boulder Theater. As The Casino Cabaret, it hosted everyone from James Brown and Ray Charles to B.B. King and Muddy Waters. Every time I see a show at Cervantes, the energy is palpable and, once a band begins to let it rip, I can actually feel the building vibrate.

When I begin to really sink my teeth into a new band, I like to understand musical signposts and anchors. So I asked which musicians have influenced the sonic dynamics of Analog Son. Fairman and Linit both list jazz guitar legend John Scofield and master keyboardist Herbie Hancock as prevailing guides. They also see Jimi Hendrix and Jaco Pastorious – arguably the preeminent guitarist and bassist in their respective genres – as musical compasses. What’s even more interesting, though, is when a musical influence becomes a peer. Linit explained:

“The Meters have been one of our favorite funk bands for some time. I remember being in College, years ago, when my friends in Fox Street gave me a New Mastersounds record and Josh and I loved the music. It reminded me of The Meters and other funk bands that had influenced us. To be making music with members of both of those bands now feels surreal.”

Indeed, keyboardist Joe Tatton of The New Mastersounds played on six tracks from Analog Son’s debut album. Furthermore, Linit and Fairman have been able to contribute to their musical heroes’ studio repertoire and live performances. Fairman elaborated on the relationship with these two bands and a couple of its key members:

“George Porter Jr. is one of my favorite bass players. I really like how he plays around the funk while making it sound effortless. He always plays a sick bass line. I have had the pleasure of sitting in with him at Cervantes and Jordan has played with him as well. So I’d say The Meters have had a big influence on us growing up and still today. The same rings true with The New Mastersounds. We've been listening to them for years, and as time went on I have gotten to play shows, sit in, and make records with them."

In fact, Fairman assisted in engineering The New Mastersounds last studio album:

Making their last record “Therapy” was one of the biggest learning experiences in my lifelong pursuit of the funk. Watching them write and record in a manner that is true to the sound, style, and soul was very inspirational. At one point Eddie (Roberts, guitarist/producer) says, “Hey, let’s mix this one Mono.” I was like, “Whoa, I’ve never done that. Let’s give it a shot.” And having such a heavy hitter like Pete (Shand) in the studio was like bass lessons everyday. Those guys are awesome.”

Linit brought the idea full circle when he stated, of Porter Jr. and Tatton, “Eight years ago they were funk musicians on a pedestal we looked up to and now they have become friends that we get to make music with. Unbelievable!”

Linit and Fairman are currently working on their second Analog Son album, which will feature Nigel Hall (Lettuce, Nth Power) and drummer Benzel Baltimore (P-Funk), along with many of the other world class musicians who sat in for the band’s debut offering. Given the natural state of curiosity and reciprocity that seems to follow Linit and Fairman around, I wondered if a collaboration with Maceo Parker was in the works for Sunday night at Cervantes. “We are definitely going to give it a shot and ask him. Wish us luck,” Fairman stated.

Whether Parker sits in with them or not, I have little doubt that Analog Son’s gig will be overwhelmingly successful. I expect to be dancing like a dervish as Cervantes begins to hum, vibrate, and transform into its funkified alter ego, Swervantes. I hope you’ll be there too.

I had a plan of action – a solution to obviate an habitual problem. It was a good solution, too. At least I thought it was. In the end, it turned out to be myopic and futile.

Ever since I started reviewing Motet shows, I’ve run into the same quandary. Just like any other show I work, I would arrive with my notepad and pens. And just like any other show, I would stretch before the first set in order to be nice and limber when it came time to dance. But when the house lights go down and the music gets going, a departure from the norm takes place.

At any other show, I can readily fluctuate between dancing and furiously scribbling notes. Although I wish I had an eidetic memory, I have nothing near one. So I supplement what I remember with splashes of shorthand to reassemble the scene when it comes time to write. But at Motet shows, I get hypnotized. Lost in the groove. I become so caught up with dancing to the gravitational pull of the music, I often forget to take my notebook out for large chunks of time. Even with a few notes here and there, I can piece the puzzle back together and compose a reasonably descriptive review, but I prefer to have more things written down to assist me.

But as I said, I had a plan. The Motet booked back-to-back gigs at The Boulder Theater: Halloween Eve and Halloween Proper. On Thursday I would get it out of my system, like a collegiate spring-breaker on the Caribbean, so when I returned on Friday, I could stay focused and diligently scribe. Night One: soak up all the sonic glory, dance on the deck until my heart’s content, and bask in the general revelry of the evening. Night Two: do my job.

And when the 31^st floated along, it actually worked…for a few songs But then the cosmic cruise ship picked me up and I was just another fan in a sea of funk. And my notepad? Well – I’ll pick that up, so to speak, a little later on. For the time being, let me take you back to The Boulder Theater last Friday for another Motet Halloween masterpiece.

After playing about a decade’s worth of Halloween costumes from a single other band or musician, The Motet has performed what it appropriately calls a “Mixtape” for the past two years. 2013 met 1980 and last week, the band sailed into the temporal hurricane of funk: 1975. A year ago, one could hear a panoply of pieces as diverse as Late in the Evening, Whip It, Another One Bites The Dust, and Could You Be Loved…along with a heavy dose of Motet’s essence: funk. But this year, the band wisely chose to tackle a slew of funk, disco-funk and soul, with only a few splashes of classic rock. Given the enormous possibilities of the banner year, I can only imagine how much fun, or even frustrating, it was for Dave Watts and his bandmates to whittle the setlist down to just a couple dozen songs.

Eight members, of what would soon evolve into a dectet, took the stage around 10:40 and opened the evening with a song that was totally familiar, but I was drawing a blank. Rhythm Heritage’s Theme from S.W.A.T. had an instantly recognizable beat, but I’ve never seen the show (S.W.A.T.) since, sadly, my only recollections of ‘70s television are awful Three’s Company reruns. Vocalist and percussionist Jans Ingber initiated this instrumental piece with a flurry of open and bass tones on his congas.

Guest vocalists Camille Armstrong and Paul Creighton came out to complete the extended lineup and they swung into Dynomite from one-hit wonder Bazuka. This got my pulse rising because it has a wicked hook and hearty groove. But more than that, I have always found myself most locked in when all three singers are harmonizing vocally and physically. Dancing is elemental at a Motet show – and not just for the crowd – because funk is musical, spiritual, and sexual. The trio of vocalists illustrated this notion all night long, but began here by pairing the booming refrain – “DINE–O–MITE!” with libidinous sets of synchronized choreography. Hell – it’s distinctly possible that their moves were spontaneous, but there’s no doubt they were in synch for the entire show.

Funk was so pervasive in 1975, even David Bowie was getting in on the act. Fame bathed the sold-out Boulder Theater with a richer, gooier mid-tempo groove, spearheaded by bassist Garrett Sayers. And this is where matters of spirituality come into play – but certainly not the dictionary definition of “spiritual”. This song was embedded into the fabric of many a Baby Boomer’s teenaged years. During this Bowie anthem, I saw a man and woman who were most likely in their early to mid-‘50s, dancing with each other like they were 17 and falling in love. This married couple was staring intently into each other’s eyes while they closely embraced and got down in unison. They were six feet to my right in a dark room, but it was easy to observe that they were infused with a vitality that’s hard to summon in one’s ‘30s, much less later on. If music can ignite those flames, then to me it has a spiritual quality. And to the cynics who think an easier explanation is afoot, don’t be incredulous. Alcohol might be a lubricant for some, but funk is the philter of love.

Sayers went to town with an abbreviated, but explosive, solo halfway into Fame. Keyboardist Joey Porter finished the song, first, by musing on his talk box and then with an arrangement that combined Bowie’s melody with that of one of my favorite Motet originals: Nemesis.

A relatively short version of Low Rider, with Ingber producing enough cowbell to satisfy even Christopher Walken’s needs (just kidding, it wasn’t indulgent), segued into a mellow version of I Love Music. These two pieces comprised the only respite of the set. War’s #1 Billboard hit and The O’Jays soul classic contained sinuous melodies and were very well-executed. But the original versions required an approach that saw the intensity mitigated in favor of a smoother, more level delivery all around.

Last Halloween, The Motet covered The Manhattans’ Shining Star, a eurhythmic soul ballad, and this year one of the highlights of the first set arrived with another Shining Star, this time from Earth, Wind, and Fire. This song is the essence of funk and Armstrong killed it on lead vocals. Near the end of this eight-minute dance fest, she dug way back and exhibited beautiful range in both register and resonance. In between her leads and coda, this song belonged to guitarist Ryan Jalbert. First, he used a bright trebly tone while scratching out one of the quintessential funk melodies in existence. And then he took it to the next level with an incandescent solo that combined funk with a heavy dose of straight up rainbow beveled rock ‘n’ roll. He sounded like the junction where Prince and Eddie Hazel meet up to shred. A truly inspiring piece of guitar work.

This is also a great place to mention the involvement of Ingber, Armstrong, and Creighton when the spotlight shifts. If someone is soloing they all face that person and dance, occasionally moving closer to the soloist to capture and feed off his energy, like heliotropic flowers following the sun across the sky. It seemed like Jalbert not only emitted the energy, but also fed off the power from this trio who, in turn, bolstered the heat index throughout the theater. Afterwards, Ingber asked the crowd, “How are these shining stars out there? We are celebrating life, right here!” And for those of you uninitiated with the band, that statement might seem perfunctory, or even peripheral. But that’s what it feels like to be at a Motet show. It is a celebration of life.

Fast-forward about ten minutes and we arrive at the second highlight of the first set: Kashmir. Instantly recognizable to even the most casual music fan, the Boulder Theater erupted upon hearing the opening riff. Fool in the Rain scored pretty big last year, yet Zeppelin’s classic from Physical Graffiti made an even larger impact. Creighton was adept at mirroring the angst and passion of Robert Plant’s vocals. He was supported by a trio of brass players – Matt Pitts (sax), Gabe Mervine (trumpet), and guest Serafin Sanchez (bari-sax) – that generated smaller swells, and then larger waves, of sound which punctuated every other component to the cover. And it was Watts who accomplished something that many try, but at which few succeed. He channeled John Bonham’s volume. Bonham was famous for his explosive and wall-shaking drumming. Watts blasted his snare and crash cymbals with ferocity as Kashmir came to a roaring crescendo. The intensity seemed almost at maximum velocity at this point in the set.

The Brecker Brothers’ Skunk Funk followed, a high-tempo funk-fusion piece which featured Ingber on the congas and Mervine totally owning with a trumpet solo executed to perfection. If you aren’t familiar with this song, go listen to it on YouTube (best on Some Skunk Funk – live ’78) and marvel at Randy Brecker’s solo. It’s literally breathtaking. Mervine cultivated the same rapid-fire phrasing and the sound of his trumpet coated the theater. The entire band was mesmerizing covering a piece with both odd time signatures and a brisk tempo. It’s the type of song where everyone has to be on the same letter of the same word of the same page or the wheels will come off in a hurry.

After playing The Bee Gees’ Jive Talkin’, the band closed out the first set with a funk triptych that had me smiling and remembering why I look forward to this show every year. It started with a laconic version of Hot Chocolate’s I Believe in Miracles, which, at just over a minute long, served, more than anything, as an entry point. With the transition into KC and The Sunshine Band’s That’s The Way I Like It, the theater began to shake. A lot of people around me seemed to be sharing the same carefree smile (or maybe shitting-eating grin – I don’t know) I felt was plastered across my face. Sanchez catapulted this piece to new heights with a solo that came from the inner depths of his being. And then when I thought there was nowhere to go but down, The Motet summited the mountain with another funk masterpiece: Kool and The Gang’s Jungle Jazz. Pitts wailed during his best sax solo of the set while Porter was grooving on his Roland. It looked like he was playing it percussively: his fingers were a bit flattened and he was almost drumming the keys. Jungle Jazz marked yet another highlight along a euphoric first-set ride through some of the greatest funk, disco, and soul songs ever written – not just in 1975.

Which brings me back to my quandary, plan of action, and ultimate Big Fail. I’ve written almost 2,000 words just setting up the show and explaining the first set and if I didn’t have such a ridiculously fun time during the second set, I might be able to spit out an apt description of it. But I did something that has never happened to me at any other show. I took my notepad out to write down “Set II” when the band arrived back on stage and then I slipped it into my back pocket where it promptly stayed for rest of the show. I was so entranced by the music and movement, I couldn’t pull myself away from it. I guess I could if lives were at stake, but they weren’t. So I danced and soaked everything in. Like I said before, my rhetorical memory – the memory I use to write a vivid, detailed review of shows – only functions well when it’s aided by written observations. While alcohol may distract the mind and cloud the memory of drinkers, my eau de vie is music. Even with what I considered a good plan, I became intoxicated with the groove and, for that, I want to apologize…but can’t. As I told Watts, in jest, a couple days after the show: “I’d rather have a shitload of fun and forget things than the other way around.” Which, of course, is a rationalization more than a justification. Oh well.

To put a bow on things, I want to thank The Motet for something larger than just two amazing shows. I want to extend my gratitude for making me see that the ‘70s weren’t just the decade of classic rock. I was a white suburban teenager who was listening to a very white, almost singular type of music growing up. And, don’t get me wrong – it was great; as a teen in the mid- to late-‘90s, Pink Floyd placated my angst, Led Zeppelin got me charged when lifting weights or running, and Aerosmith…hell, I have no idea why I ever listened to a band that musically meaningless and banal. But I wasn’t exposed to other cultural sounds from previous generations – ones that now seem to have more resonance. Jazz didn’t excite me until I was in college and funk didn’t hit the radar until a few years ago when The Motet broadened my horizons. Tons of P-Funk, Fela Kuti, and other funk and soul albums later, I am grateful for the colors, depth, and soul that the music has provided me. Halloween shows, like the ones last week, offer an avenue to bring this music to life. And what an incredible manifestation it was. See you next year. Same time. Same place.

For the first time since Yonder Mountain String Band took up residence at The Boulder Theater for its holiday run (in 2011), the band decided to play three sets for New Year’s Eve. Each set had its own motif, but all three were governed by the same primary theme. When it initially hit the stage, the quintet played an hour of buoyant, uplifting songs that were singed with beauty. For the second set, the band struck a different tone – six pieces hewed from darkness and intensity, imbuing the crowd with a haunting energy. The third set teemed with covers so saliently diverse, we listened to I Know You Rider, the Game of Thrones theme, and a Springsteen classic in unbroken succession. The three sets, in all their variegated glory, were designed and erected using the same principle: propulsion. Stagnant or repetitive jams, ripchords, and “standard versions” were nowhere to be heard. Every song, every jam, and every solo was fashioned to move forward with a purpose and drive. The only time to catch one’s breath came during the two set breaks.

The show started just a few minutes after nine with a Jail Song / Mother’s Only Son one-two punch, setting the pace, and expectations, high for the entire evening. Mother’s Only Son developed a groove so meaty and marbled, one would (without context) probably guess its placement near the end of the set, not the beginning. Whatever happened to warming up? Dave Johnston catalyzed the jam with a peppery banjo solo, soon giving way to Allie Kral. If you are reading this and reluctant to see Yonder without founding mandolinist Jeff Austin, I encourage you to watch the video we have posted on The Grateful Web YouTube page. You should view the 11-minute piece in its entirety, but pay particular attention to the two subsequent passages. While you listen to Allie’s gorgeous fiddle solo from 5:55 – 6:40, take a look at Adam Aijala to her right. Check out his mien (open/swaying) and countenance, which is almost frozen in a grin of pure ecstasy. He’s not only picking next to Allie, but also enamored with her performance. Adam looks like he couldn’t be happier with his band mate (I refuse to call Allie and Jake Jolliff guest musicians anymore). Then, if you’re strapped for time, move ahead to 9:25 and observe Ben Kaufmann bobbing along on his bass with the same ecstatic look on his face as he listens to Jake own The Boulder Theater during his mandolin solo. These are the dynamics of a band that is discovering new doors, and then entire corridors, to channel their creative energy. This is the demeanor of a band that has found renewed vitality in its newest members. Allie and Jake came aboard less than a year ago, but their sound is woven into the fabric of the Yonder’s ethos. Mother’s Only Son concluded to a wave of howls, whistles, and applause as if it was the anchor of the set, but the festivities were just getting started.

Nothing But a Breeze, followed by a Troubled Mind > 20 Eyes > Troubled Mind sandwich imparted the crowd with a healthy dose of “fast bluegrass music” as Ben referred to it. This was certainly a formative, and formidable, section of Set I, but there were even more integral pieces on which I must focus. And there’s no better place to start than with the centerpiece: All The Time. This is easily my favorite of Adam’s songs and I love how the melodic pulchritude belies its somewhat dispiriting message. Ever since Allie came on board, she has elevated this piece to the focal point of its respective set. New Year’s Eve was no different. When I heard her fiddle solo on All The Time at Kinfolk three months back, I actually had the rare event of “sonic ducts” – the involuntary production of tears when presented with a song, or part of a song, that is emotionally fraught, yet transcendentally beautiful. I felt the tears welling up again (if just a little bit) when Allie blasted off on her second go-round in the piece: same framework as Kinfolk, but totally different execution. She started, like last time, with seraphic vibrato and lush bow strokes. And then Allie accelerated with quicker bursts and sumptuous double stops as she laced her notes fervently, yet delicately, into the chord progression and melody. And as celestial as her solo was, Jake’s picking was the true culprit for reengaging my sonic ducts. Up to that point, I’m sure I’ve heard a more beautiful mandolin solo, but I just couldn’t tell you when or where or by whom. Even some of the great mandolin players sound like they’re maxing out when they pick at a lightning quick tempo. Not this one. Jake’s picking and tremolo were as clear as a bell and, more importantly, his groupings of notes, progressions, and ability to harmonize with the melody saturated the crowd with an ineffable beauty. All The Time was simply off the hook, due in part to Allie and Jake.

Just the Same had the feel of the cowboy/country interlude often found in The Dead’s first sets. It seemed like the bluegrass version of Mexicali Blues or Jack-A-Roe. And speaking of cowboy songs, the first set concluded with The End Is Not In Sight – an apt culmination of buoyant and uplifting pieces, this time with Jake on lead vocals. This Amazing Rhythm Aces cover embodied the idea of propulsion, where each musician launched forward and found a current on which to propel him or herself. Yet the individual efforts, rooted in listening and reacting intelligibly, cultivated a sonic vortex that both the band members and crowd were able to ride in unison.

The first set flooded The Boulder Theater with a joie de vivre and the second set was just as potent. But the trajectory moved away from the blissful and much more toward blistering. I laughed to myself when Adam began strumming the chords to the penultimate Dogs because the entire tenor of the set felt like a Pink Floyd album: dark, piercing, brooding, tempestuous, and undeniably intense. Years With Rose began innocently enough, with Adam instilling a slight twang in his vocals. But then something happened that took me back to last New Year’s Eve. During a sublime performance of Same Ol' River Jeff and Sam Bush moved to face each other on stage left and engaged in a mandolin/fiddle duet that brought the house down. Jake, who played at center stage, and Allie, who flanked the band’s left side, inched to almost the exact same spot and, facing each other, commenced a passionate, overlapping call-and-response which soared into an incandescent duel climax. The duet was rife with both coital overtones and organic energy; one of the many highlights of the second set.

After the final verse of Years With Rose, Allie fashioned long, tinny notes that sounded Middle Eastern in timbre while Dave modulated to the same mood in a lower octave. After the rest of the band latched on to the melody, Allie built steam with a set of locomotive triads. Soon after, the group decelerated to transition into Angel, and, in so doing, it established the mood and tone for the rest of the set. The verses in Angel were sung in a typical country mid-tempo delivery. But as soon as the vocals ceased, the band accelerated, beginning with Dave rolling up a storm while he played primarily behind the beat. The quilted stage backdrop was lit up in red and the spotlights were turned off. Now, the crowd could only see five silhouettes jamming away which gave the music a macabre feel. Adam took the reins next and picked ahead of the beat. His solo, while short, was perfectly articulated and commanding. And then Jake took speed to the next level. It’s one thing to be impressed with how fast he can play, but what’s really remarkable, to me at least, is the thoughtful and incisive nature of his solos. Very few musicians can physically execute the white-knuckle speed at which Jake plays, but even fewer can concomitantly make musical choices that best serve the band.

And as long as we’re in the neighborhood, Allie shot into the stratosphere with her own prestissimo bowing to close out Angel. It echoed the furious pace of Orange Blossom Special and, after it crested, the band once again pumped the brakes to fashion a smooth transition into Robots. And let me describe this song for you with two words: Holy shit! Yonder hit the cradle of their second-set groove in this dystopian electro-bluegrass masterpiece. The song epitomized the dark, brooding tenor of the entire set. Ben initiated with a solo very reminiscent of his Snow on the Pines openings – it didn’t necessarily forebode the diabolical musings just ahead, but served as an adroit transition to the first bars. Then Allie and Dave noodled while Jake, Ben, and Adam engraved the melody. The ominous tone relayed a trip down the River Styx, awaiting one’s fate in the underworld. And then, as if the groove couldn’t become darker, Adam turned the distortion on his guitar way up and vamped like John McLaughlin circa 1972. The heat from that solo could cauterize wounds. The sinister waves grew higher and denser as Allie used reverb to manifest the twisted and hell-bound. Jake put an exclamation point on Robots first by carving out space around his notes and then rhythmically synching with the rest of the band’s almost heavy-metal phrasing.

Once again, the Yonder quickly downshifted to segue into my personal highlight of the evening: Dogs. As I mentioned before, the entire set began to feel like a Pink Floyd album before Adam strummed the opening chords to the Animals anchor. So this choice was more than apropos. The 20-minute epic commenced in typical fashion, with Ben voicing the cynical story of a man done in by adapting to the predatory nature of society. Between the first and second verses, Allie pumped up the gain on her fiddle, lathering her interlude in a thick, haunting distortion. She did the same for the next interlude, but was joined by Jake who played a slow tremolo harmony. They played face-to-face as they had earlier in the set and the juxtaposition of a clean mandolin tremolo and high-gain fiddle sent chills down my spine. Adam then sang the famous “It’s too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around” verse. I want to give big props to Yonder’s lighting engineer who transitioned from a cloudy, hallucinatory arrangement to one that made it seem like the band was actually underwater. It takes real talent to contextually match the mood of the lights to the lyrics.

Allie continued to play guitar goddess with her fiddle until the piece turned up-tempo for a group jam. During this section, the quintet played completely in sync, foregoing solos in favor of amplifying the groove. Then Adam emerged, along with Jake, to connect the rhythm-based jam to the final mythic verse with two meticulous and (in Jake’s case) undulating solos. Adam belted out that final verse, which voices the path of the man who was ultimately done in by his own nature.

The band segued back into Angel for a short reprise that began frenetically and then slowed to a crawl as the crowd absolutely erupted in gratitude. I have seen too many Yonder sets to count anymore. And I can say with absolute certitude that NYE ’14 II easily ranks as one of the most memorable of the bunch.

Before the show began, a friend asked me to look around. “What do you see…or more like, what don’t you see?” I didn’t understand what he was getting at until he pointed toward the ceiling. There were no balloons in nets waiting to be dropped at midnight. I know it’s tradition but I actually prefer what Yonder did this year. The band returned to the stage around 11:45 p.m. After a heartfelt rendition of Holdin’ and hoedown dance-party Train Bound For Gloryland, Adam played the opening bars to Sideshow Blues – a high intensity song to lead into the countdown. A tech came out to show Ben the time on a tablet and, when the clock struck midnight, The Boulder Theater was engulfed in bubbles instead of balloons. Last year, part of Traffic Jam was ruined by the constant popping sounds, so I was thrilled to see the alternative.

Yonder wasted little time after the countdown to kick things up a notch with I Know You Rider. By this time, Allie was literally shredding – her loose bowstrings were whipping through the air as she played. I was in heaven during this piece – can you think of a better way to celebrate the beginning of the New Year than dancing to Rider? Me neither.

As aforementioned, this was the set of covers and Rider segued into the Game of Thrones theme. Chills cascaded down my back yet again. It wasn’t the cleanest rendition ever played, but it brings so much power to bear. The next time Yonder plays with cellist Rushad Eggleston, I would love to see him harmonize with Allie to lead the song.

The next piece, which I think Yonder began playing just this year, served as one of the biggest highlights of the set: Bruce Springsteen’s It’s Hard to Be a Saint in the City. It provided one of the most beautiful melodies to dance to all evening and each musician was on fire during his or her respective solo. It’s the type of song that emitted so much energy, you would be hard-pressed to find anyone in the Boulder Theater not dancing their ass off.

You’re No Good was, surprisingly, Allie’s only opportunity to sing lead all evening. And she made the most of it. Belting out the Linda Ronstadt cover, Allie’s vocals were almost pure soul, with a splash of blues. She has a truly hypnotic voice to go along with her sublime fiddle playing.

Though the third set was dominated by covers, Yonder closed things out with a 20-minute sandwich of two original songs: On the Run > Black Sheep > On the Run. With the fog machine going full-bore, Ben destroyed with his second solo of the evening in the transition back to On The Run. Allie’s solo on the reprise was also something to behold. I noticed the entire band staring at her the way Adam did earlier on, just blown away with happiness by how much vigor she injects into the sound: nirvana seemed to be permeating the stage. As the song came to a close, Allie teased Auld Lang Syne while Ben thanked the crowd and said, “You mean the world to us – all the love in the world from the bottom of our hearts to yours.” A few minutes after 1:00 a.m., the band left the stage.

Yonder came back out for a two-song encore: Whitehouse Blues and absolutely rousing, extended rendition of My Gal. By then I was completely spent.

I hope Yonder continues to play The Boulder Theater for New Year’s Eve. I was shocked to find out that this show actually wasn’t sold out. For all of you holdouts who don’t think the band is the same without Jeff, you’re absolutely right. But in many ways, Yonder is better than ever. I have been going to see them since 2001 and can say unequivocally, that Jake and Allie bring just about everything to the table. If they stay with the band, I would consider it a super-group given how much talent, creativity, and heart each musician demonstrates. There’s no other place I would rather have been for New Year’s Eve. And if Yonder returns to The Boulder Theater next year, I will again be counting down with them.

Check out more photos from New Years Eve.

Before I saw Joe Russo’s Almost Dead for the first time Monday night, I totally misunderstood the band’s titular pun. I can’t help but laugh at my sheer stupidity, but I thought it was a combination of  “Hey, we’re a Grateful Dead cover band” and “When our drummer parties, we have 911 on speed dial”. But just 15 minutes into Joe Russo’s Almost Dead's first set at the Boulder Theater, it dawned on me. I was listening to music that bore only a tangential connection to The Grateful Dead. I heard a Dark Star riff and even Dark Star lyrics. But the sound was not quite, exactly, almost…and then the light finally went on in my head: “Ohhh! I get it – it’s almost Dead.” Ding, ding, ding. (I’m an idiot – I know.)

Yet as Joe Russo's Almost Dead guided the sold-out crowd through ‘50s swing, thrashing white-knuckle rock, marmalade funk, and electro-fusion, I kept thinking to myself, “This is the most un-Dead Dead show I’ve ever seen.” By the end of the night, I considered “Almost” an afterthought and if it wasn’t so unwieldy, would suggest replacing it with “Hardly-at-all”. And that’s a compliment, even if it doesn’t seem so.

If you’re reading this, you’ve probably collected stubs seeing the gamut of post-Dead incarnations from Dark Star Orchestra and Rocky Mountain Grateful Dead Revue to RatDog and Phil and Friends. But Joe Russo's Almost Dead is the only band that bounces fluidly from one musical genre to the next, adapting the original oeuvre to whatever suits its fancy. Along the way, Joe Russo and his compatriots explore the depths of each song, probing in areas that have never been explored, hard as that is to believe. Each of its two 60-minute sets tackled but six songs. Joe Russo's Almost Dead blazed a new trail on pieces like Playing in the Band and Throwing Stones which, to that point, seemed like paths as well-trekked as The South Route on Everest.

Russo came on stage by himself and began soloing over a hypnotic electro-loop, firing up the crowd. His drum kit sat just five or six feet away from the lip of the stage and it was set aground, not on a pedestal. The heavy array of toms was braced low in a semi-circle and the kit boasted just three cymbals. Thus, Russo’s entire face and body was visible, enabling him to connect with the crowd in a way most percussionists can only dream. He hammered away on his kick drum while generating an earthquake on his toms. Think Nick Mason letting it rip during Careful With That Axe, Eugene.

With Russo and the crowd fully lathered, the other four members arrived on stage and went full throttle into Dark Star. This is a song the Grateful Dead leaned into gradually, gaining steam as it progressed. Not JRAD. “Warm up” or “build up” don’t seem to be a part of its vocabulary. Just ten minutes into the show, the intensity was ratcheted up to an 11. As a prelude to the opening riff, guitarist Tommy Hamilton picked up on the Pink Floyd vibe and shredded like a young David Gilmour.

After the first vocal verse, Joe Russo's Almost Dead re-insinuated their Syd Barrett-era sound with an ocean of ambient white noise/sustained feedback, followed by strands of acidic guitar noodling. At the edge of stage right, Marco Benevento similarly noodled on his baby grand piano, which faced out toward the crowd. The psychedelic soundscape was soon supplanted by a focused, guitar-driven jam and, just like that… > Eyes of the World.

Russo’s introduction to the Dead came not so long ago when he played with Furthur and the other members, sans Hamilton, are still getting acquainted. And that’s the beautiful thing! It would be totally anathema for Deadhead lifers to start a show with a Dark Star > Eyes. I must admit it was strange to see guitarist Scott Metzger read the lyrics off of a stand, but the novelty of this music to the actual musicians is what made this night so special. They have a chemistry going back decades through a slew of projects and mutual bands and that cohesion was evident from the get-go. Throw in relatively new material and it’s a recipe for in-the-moment discovery. And magic.

Benevento played the most jubilant solo I’ve ever heard during any Eyes, but it was, unfortunately, hard to tease out from the rest of the sound. One of the only drawbacks to the band’s intensity and volume is that the piano would often get drowned out, or at least a bit muddled by the amped up guitars and bass. I don’t know if that was correctable or simply a fact of life when acoustic strings are competing against electric ones in a relatively intimate venue (with the volume inching towards max levels).

Joe Russo's Almost Dead segued seamlessly to a swinging Me and My Uncle. Dave Dreiwitz laid down a perfect walking bass line over which the guitarists vamped while Benevento toyed with some ragtime to mix things up. And then, finally, over half an hour into the first set, our first breath.

West L.A. Fadeaway further demonstrated the band’s versatility. Anchored by Dreiwitz and Benevento on his Wurlitzer, they transformed the Garcia/Hunter staple into an extraordinary funk vehicle. Russo sang lead and his vocals were easily the strongest among the quintet. Metzger started the piece with some adroit slide work and then removed it for his solo.

Playing in the Band closed out a dynamic first set. The jam hewed closer than anything else to something one would hear from the actual Grateful Dead, but combined the best of the ’72-’74 brain-melting versions with those from the Brent era. Hamilton’s solo was one of the highlights of the entire evening. His fiery guitar work felt almost heavy-metalesque as he raced behind the beat, gorging the jam with a fusillade of notes. He was viscerally invested too and the crowd lit up as he thrust his guitar, swung his body, and bobbed his head to the beat. The first set was only a bit over an hour, but was packed with a rare molten intensity – I was in Blisstown for many minutes after the house lights came on.

The second set started with a rocking Sugar Magnolia which segued into one of the evening’s gems: Iko Iko. This was a showcase for Russo’s tom work and Benevento’s piano chops. The call and response facilitated a further bonding of the crowd with the band that already connected on a deep level. Benevento, Russo, and Dreiwitz locked in with each other with a New Orleans brass band-cum-‘50s big band swing groove. Near the end, the band dropped out almost completely for a dozen or so bars to let the crowd chant. JGB’s Magnificent Sanctuary Band followed and, by Joe Russo's Almost Dead’s standards, was tame. Well-executed, dignified, and, at times, magnificently gorgeous…but tame.

Throwing Stones > Space > Throwing Stones provided the centerpiece for the second set. Clocking in at half an hour, it blanketed the Boulder Theater with a rainbow of dreamlike soundscapes and hypnotic rhythms. The Space wasn’t traditional in the sense that Russo never left the stage or even discontinued playing, but the bellows of ambient discordance were still present. At one point, Hamilton took a few steps back so Benevento and Russo could take a duet. Russo locked his eyes on his keyboardist while Benevento experimented, in what seemed like a nod to early ‘70s jazz-fusion, on his Wurlitzer. A few minutes later, the rest of the band rejoined and Metzger threw down one of his finest solos of the evening. And while the Throwing Stones reprise was dynamic, the Sunshine Daydream that followed was nothing short of cathartic. I don’t use that word very often at shows, but it’s certainly apropos in this case. Three minutes of rainbow-beveled rock ‘n’ roll and I was floating every single second. All bands receive applause at the end of the second set, but the Boulder Theater exploded in gratitude to let Joe Russo's Almost Dead know how much they appreciated the effort.

A very unusual, but equally gratifying encore of Loose Lucy > Not Fade Away > Loose Lucy > Not Fade Away closed out an evening overflowing with the most wonderful and energetic unDead Dead music in existence. Joe Russo's Almost Dead only started up in 2013 and has played but a handful of shows. Hopefully, the band sees how much Deadheads appreciate its take on their favorite music and start to make touring a priority at least a few months out of the year. Its talent and chemistry create a “sky’s-the-limit” potential that Deadheads, both near and far, would embrace.

Check out more photos from the show.

Last summer, Analog Son released one of the strongest debut albums I’ve heard in quite some time. Guitarist Jordan Linit and bassist Josh Fairman composed the tracks and enlisted 18 musicians – ranging from nationally recognized to locally cherished – to imbue the songs with a euphonious blend of fusion and funk. Attempting to match a feat of such dynamism is not an enviable task, but Analog Son’s follow up record, Stomp and Shout, did just that. The concinnity of the band’s arrangements was, in fact, demonstrably tighter than its eponymously titled debut. Linit and Fairman adapted between seven and 14 instruments per track into a series of polished, yet visceral songs. And if you’re more of a jamband aficionado than a member of the funk-o-sphere, I know the word “polished” may elicit negative connotations (i.e. most Grateful Dead studio albums). Vanquish that thought and replace it with the following; Stomp and Shout is an absolute gem. Like Analog Son, it boasts an incredible lineup of 25 guest musicians coming together to create one powerful sphere of sonic beauty. Linit and Fairman are both the axis on which it spins and the orbital path which it follows.

In all likelihood, I doubt “guest musicians” is the germane phrase to describe the contributing efforts on this album. It smacks, at least to me, of opportunism or commercialism. It seems like every other hip-hop, pop, or country video these days says Iggy Azalea Ft. Someone Actually Talented or 2 Chainz Feat. Someone More Physically Palatable. With Linit and Fairman, “collaborators” is a far more apropos term in some instances – and “longtime friends” in others. There’s even a pianist whose moniker could be “mentor extraordinaire”. So I’m fashioning a new blanket term for everyone else who played on Stomp and Shout: funk friends. In all, 12 funk friends who worked on Analog Son returned to assist with the new album and 13 more, including Benzel Baltimore (P-Funk) and Nigel Hall (Lettuce), came aboard for their maiden voyage.

The first track, Shady Nights, is an allusion to two of its cowriters - Ryan Zoidis and Eric “Benny” Bloom – collectively known as The Shady Horns. Usually on the road with Lettuce or Soulive, The Shady Horns played an integral role in Analog Son and continue to prove their mettle on Stomp and Shout. Fairman and Linit launch with a simple, but potent, funk riff and then Zoidis’s saxophone enters the soundscape like a dream, with quick, laconic phrases stretched out in echo and delay. Bloom soon joins in on trumpet and, as the song unfolds, the two horns become urban pied pipers leading me on a nostalgic, albeit bizarre, journey.

The first time I listened to this piece, I didn’t bother to take note of its title. Nonetheless, Shady Nights – in particular the two horns – brought me back a decade ago to when I lived in Chicago. The music triggered a pastiche of Friday and Saturday nights as I remembered some of the most random and (absolutely) shady shit that went down: Loyola sorority girls vomiting on the windshield of a BMW outside The Riv; two wooks doing lines off of The Aragon floor during a moe. show (not only shady, but insanely disgusting). You get the picture. When I actually looked at the tracking the second time around, I was taken aback by how eerie the title (pun as it may be) lined up with the seedy, and often absurd, scenes I was picturing from those memorable Windy City weekends. From the get-go, I knew Shady Nights was primed to be a live showstopper and, sure enough, Analog Son brought the house down performing it in front of a packed crowd at The Bluebird Theater last night (March 7).

While I certainly enjoyed the memories that the studio version of Shady Nights elicited, I only became fully invested in the music from Stomp and Shout after listening to its second track: The Gun Show. Linit and Fairman are always quick to credit Eric Gunnison, a music professor at Denver University, as both a mentor and a defining influence on their own evolution. So while “the gun show” may evoke the image of vain men flexing their biceps, the titular pun is a literal one: a showcase for Gunnison. The Gun Show heaves and sweats with a distinctly jubilant, danceable ambience from the very first bars and even when the mood grows discordant, the palpable exultation never relents.

Mike Chiesa (sax) and Gabe Mervine (trumpet) are tagged in for The Gun Show and open with rollicking fills in this Earth, Wind, and Fire meets John Medeski instrumental. Gunnison, using everything from a Nord Electro 3 to a Hammond, joins in with a Clavinet-timbered companion melody to Chiesa and Mervine while texturizing the sound with pockets of Fender Rhodes-inflected notes. After a truncated Linit solo, Gunnison brings the Fender Rhodes intonation to the foreground to launch his solo, altering the aura entirely from funk to a tumultuous fusion. A dark, dystopian cacophony unfolds as the timbre of his keyboard continues to growl with higher levels of distortion. In the background, Fairman adeptly switches from an elongated funk bass line to punchy syncopation to match the turbulence. As the solo nears its peak, chords from the organ harmonize with the clamorous modulation of the electric piano. Finally all of Gunnison’s discrete tangents coalesce and swirl upwards into a thick sonic vapor. The Gun Show returns from its MMW wormhole back to a horn-led funk reprise. I’ve listened to it at least a dozen times already and it is most definitely a highlight of the album. And believe me when I tell you – it was one of the three biggest highlights of the entire album release party last night. I was in the front row, immediately to the right of Gunnison’s keyboard “L”. I watched the sweat pour down his face during a max intensity solo, lathering the crowd into a ball of hysterasy (Louis Carroll portmanteau for “hysterical ecstasy”).

All ten tracks are worthy of in-depth unpacking, but I will instead draw your attention to two more that most garnered mine. The title track features Ivan Neville from Dumpstaphunk (keys and vocals), Nigel Hall (keys) and four backup vocalists. A mid-tempo funk celebration, Stomp and Shout is a perfect model for how Linit and Fairman create the central axis on which the entire piece rotates. Due to the slower tempo, Fairman’s bass line is as well-pronounced as a BBC anchor. Every note is articulated in full color and depth. Meanwhile, Linit plays a guitar riff in and around the spaces Fairman leaves. However, every bar has one protracted note in which the bass and guitar converge to voice a single lush harmony. A carousel of other sounds cycle around each of Linit and Fairman’s guiding phrases, rising and falling in a sonorous dance. It’s a marvel to hear a slew of funk musicians gravitate to this rhythmic axis and perform in perfect concert – like a veteran band with decades of experience under its belt.

Neville sings lead on Stomp and Shout, opening with the lines: “Comin’ down the mountain / sippin’ on some funk / lady by my side / as I’m feeling love drunk.” Written by Linit, the lyrics are clearly an ode to the music that accompanies it. The Shady Horns blend their fills with tumescent bursts and beautiful harmonic swells. Backup vocalists Su Charles, Devon Parker, and Ashley Niven create even more mellifluous texture during the chorus, which is part call and response with Neville: “Hey now (hey now) / stomp and shout (stomp and shout) / listen to the music / let it all hang out.” Linit’s solo before the final refrain begins with a few series of notes, bent and warbled, deliberately spaced as if to signal “I’m just getting warm.” Then he starts ascending with pace, as if he was winding up to unleash the full-Hendrix. But immediately after gestation, the solo cedes its momentum to the final refrain. I would’ve liked to see Linit extend things and really explore for more than just a minute. And he did, indeed, unleash his inner-Magellan last night with a ground-shaking rainbow-beveled rock ‘n’ roll solo.

Stomp and Shout is nonetheless one of the standouts on the entire album. In a way, it’s unfair for me to circumscribe my expectations of studio work using the barometer of its live cousin. They may be relatives, but are still, nonetheless, entirely different beings. And the beauty of it is this; you don’t have to choose between the two. Stomp and Shout is a joyous album and, for me at least, served as a point of entry to a band that’s fast becoming a Front Range phenomenon. My familiarity with the album saliently enhanced my experience at the Bluebird last night. It was actually fun to see how Analog Son transformed their assiduously composed, skillfully executed studio arrangements into balls-to-the-wall forces of nature on stage.

Finally, another standout track, What It Is!, melds funk, gospel, and New Orleans brass band to foster an absolutely euphoric sculpture of sound. It’s the type of music that arouses…excites…grooves. To give you an idea, I’m currently “sitting” at my desk typing this review, not even listening to the actual music. Right now I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet and swinging side-to-side just replaying the song in my head. Once lead vocalist Devon Parker preaches in her gospel lilt, “When the bass is pumping, hips are humping / we just do our thang…”, I’m totally hooked. I’m dancing to the mere memory of music while sitting down. The song, coauthored by Parker, Linit, and Motet vocalist Jans Ingber, boasts almost everything I love about funk: gorgeous harmonies from backup singers LaDamion Massey, Dax Oliver, and Ashley Niven; hypnotizing cowbell (courtesy of Benzel Baltimore) and the deft deployment of conga counter-rhythms (Rafa Pereira); an undulating bass line (Fairman); a stanky wah-driven guitar riff (Linit); a libidinous guitar solo that feeds off the sticky bounce of the bass; and a crescendo weaving together ethereal Hammond glory chords (Joe Tatton), choreographed bursts of saxophone (Clark Smith) and trumpet (Jon Gray), and euphoric choral refrains. What It Is!...is damn near perfect.

The six tracks from Stomp and Shout on which I did not elucidate are also wondrous canvases on which a daring and fearless funk-fusion ethos is painted. Some will compel you to see Analog Son live. Others will get you dancing even after the music has stopped. But all ten songs on the album live and breathe because of two supremely talented musicians – Jordan Linit and Josh Fairman – and their cohort of fabulous funk friends.

It dawned on me half a year before I boarded a plane to Chicago for the final three Dead shows. The King Sooper’s (Western Union) teller laughed when I told him why I needed seven money orders to purchase, potentially, just three tickets. “So there are different price points for various seating levels. Accordingly, there’s a higher probability that the ticketing folks will grant my request if I send $95.50 for upper reserved and then a separate $20 for pit tickets, so if they give me the reserved, they can just return my $20 money orders for…” At this point, he chuckled, but it was one of those “Sorry I asked” sort of laughs. So I cut myself off, thanked him, drove home, and spent the next four hours decorating an envelope. When I finished, a little voice in my head started to say, “This is quite the production just to get tickets for a few shows.” I think it was a defense mechanism, my half-hearted effort to soften the blow for inevitable disappointment. The only time I’ve ever had luck in any sort of lottery system was in junior high. My name was pulled in a school-wide fundraising raffle, and I won two tickets to see Michael Jordan and The Chicago Bulls at The Madhouse on Madison. My dad and I sat 18 rows up, at half court.

When I arrived at the post office the next day, only to see 12 Deadheads ahead of me in line at a suburban Denver USPS, I tried to remain positive, but it was difficult. I actually found far more comfort in feigned apathy. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s going to be a hassle anyway for a production this unwieldy.” Though I never actively participated in the insanity that unfolded across Grateful Dead message boards, I furiously pored over the rationalizations people were already starting to make. Weeks before the final decisions were emailed to Deadheads across the country, and the world for that matter, I took solace in the litany of excuses being generated to cushion the blow. I didn’t exactly adopt them, but it felt good to read them. Examples:

“Trey’s not the right man for the job. Couldn’t they find someone, anyone else, to ascend to Jerry’s role?'

“The promoters are the most greedy, selfish, money-grubbing assholes imaginable. I refuse to participate in their fiefdom.”

“You know what’s going to happen? The secondary market is going to be flooded with tickets going for thousands of dollars. The monied class will take over Soldier Field, leaving real Deadheads high and dry. It’s going to kill the spirit of the weekend.”

The emotional mitigation kept piling up, from blog posts and message boarding to even a few ridiculous calls to boycott the show. If you want to see an early clearinghouse, and really the best predictive summation, of “the furor,” there’s no better encapsulation than the  “Trey-isn’t-worthy-to-tie-Jerry’s-shoes” Hitler parody (it is beyond funny). And then emotions boiled over once GDTS began releasing, by email, the yea or nay fates of the many tens of thousands who spent serious time and resources on their mail order requests. The lucky ones posted terse exclamations of joy, but then quietly faded into the background to avoid the appearance of excessive gloating. The fans who were sent denials continued to feed the tidal wave of pooh-poohing.

I was one of the lucky, supposedly 10%, whose ticket request was granted. But I never stopped reading the mounting recriminations from those who were simultaneously angry and crestfallen. By now, if you were one of those who could not get tickets through GDTS, The Depraved Lords of the Underworld (Ticketmaster), or the second-hand market, you may still be pissed. But it’s likely that you forked over money to watch at least one of the live telecasts. Maybe you weren’t willing to do that and decided to go old-school, sampling one of the couple dozen AUDs captured in the taper section. And I’m sure there are even a few of you out there who truly did boycott the entire extravaganza. For all of you out there who wanted to be at Soldier Field, but were shut out, you’ll want to read on. Even if you were at Soldier Field, you might also want to keep going. You have surely heard and read about the music in great detail. I will be doing something a little different. I will be addressing, one-by-one, the most common complaints, rationalizations, and justifications that attempted to turn the bitter disappointment of ticket denial into apathy…resentment into jaded aloofness…“Fuck this bullshit!!! into “Meh…” I was there. Hence, I will either debunk the eight most prominent myths surrounding the Grateful Dead’s final three shows at Soldier Field or, conversely, affirm their underlying truth. A few will be directly related to the music, but the majority will address the tangential business and logistical execution of the weekend. Every single one will be accurate (just joking – feel free to disagree).

1) “They might as well hire Justin Bieber” or “Are you f’ing kidding me? Trey Anastasio! Is this some sort of cosmic joke?” #AnyoneButTrey.

This one is easy. Ask pretty much anybody in attendance who originally scoffed at the idea that the Phish guitarist could fill the biggest shoes on the biggest stage. I’ll bet even the person who created the aforementioned Hitler tirade would now give Trey his due. Fact (opinion): Trey was the hero of the weekend. He learned over 80 songs and, time and again, blew away even hardened Deadheads who expected very little from him. Friday evening I was no more than 25 feet back from the stage, riding the center rail of the west pit. In other words, I was in the thick of it. Box of Rain was a pretty weak, if not obvious, opener, bridging July 9, 1995, to July 3, 2015. But then all hell broke loose when the ensuing jam segued into Jack Straw.

Full disclosure; I am a Deadhead to the core who also maintains an eternal love for Phish. So while I have a great respect for him, I’m not coming at this as someone who is partial to Trey over Jerry. I also realize that, for some, never the twain shall meet. But once Trey broke into the Jack Straw solo, there wasn’t much doubt left to cast. Almost immediately, he began staring at the way back of the stadium, his mouth curved as if to blow a bubble, his entire countenance relaxed, happy, and confident. Trey boasted his full-on “O-face” as he ripped a rainbow-beveled rock ‘n’ roll solo that put a charge into the 70,000+ in attendance. I was in heaven. Even Bill Walton, who seems to have a permanent smile plastered across his face, grinned even wider in the east pit, swinging his arms with pure abandon as Trey put everyone on notice. Time and again, he was called upon to crush it, and he did – whether the Dead were playing scorchers like Scarlet Begonias, Deal, or China>Rider, ballads like Stella Blue, or mid-tempo staples like Estimated Prophet, Trey was the catalyst who seemed to motivate the rest of the band. Hell, he ingratiated Lost Sailor>Saint of Circumstance to me (and maybe even to Billy, who roundly panned this combo in his new autobiography), which is a feat in and of itself.

At the airport in Denver, a guy on my flight wore a “Let Trey Sing” shirt. This movement seemed to gain steam all over social media and outside of Soldier Field. Though I’d take Trey’s vocals over Phil’s every day of the week and twice on Saturday, they were never amazing. He doesn’t have the prowess to fully voice songs like Althea and Bertha but adequately filled the role. And it also seemed like Bruce Hornsby would frequently alternate verses with him to boost the overall vocal presence.

For the final Attics of My Life encore, individual pictures of all seven performing members were projected for the stadium to see. When Trey’s image arose, the capacity crowd roared in appreciation. The only person who received a louder ovation was Bobby. Trey won some real converts this past weekend.

Verdict: Total Myth

2) & 3): “Ticket prices will be insane now! The only people that can afford to go will be Phish Head Trustafarians” or “The scene will suck when the monied-class takes over Soldier Field” #PricedOutOfTheMarket

Originally, I had these as separate categories, but felt it necessary to combine them. Seriously, if you haven’t seen the Hitler parody, you need to go watch it, then return to this review (“Oh God I can see it now…spun college kids walking around selling $15 hits of acid. Hey bro need a balloon, 3 for 20, no deals ‘bro.’”)

So there were concerns that a) Phish fans more loyal to Trey than Jerry would somehow adulterate the scene for the real Deadheads and B) Due to a very finite number of shows, the secondary market explosion would relegate true, but monetarily strapped, believers to a mini-couch tour while flooding Soldier Field with rich wannabes.

There was a small, but highly visible, fraction of boorish assholes at the show. Which is not surprising, given how many people there were in attendance. Whether it’s fair to make this leap or not, I’m going to do it. The preponderance of out-of-control douchebags and hostile drunks were young. Like, in their ‘20s. Fair or not, I’m going out on a limb and positing that they were mostly Phish fans. I’ve been seeing Phish since ’99 and Dead incarnations since ’01. This behavior, which I’ve witnessed too many times to count, is far more endemic in Phish crowds. “An example?” you ask. We met an incredibly chill group of Deadheads from Atlanta and scoped out the perfect spot both Saturday and Sunday. We were facing right up against the back gate of the “friends and family section” of the pit – lots of dancing room, comparably good acoustics, and pretty decent sightlines. On the last night during setbreak, a girl no more than 27 years old asked if she could hang out in a space one of my new Atlanta friends vacated to answer the call of nature. I can be territorial, but she didn’t seem drunk or out to lunch. So I assented. She didn’t have the wristband one needed to be in the pit (which should have been a red flag), but then, after a few minutes, lifted her foot in the air and asked me to give her a boost over the barrier. At that point, I shifted.

“Do you have a wristband to be in the pit?"

“No."

“Then my answer is ‘hell no’ – you shouldn’t even be down here.”

“But I haven’t been up close all weekend long!”

I swear on my life, that’s what she said, as if it was her God-given right to be wherever she damn-well pleased. But the entitlement didn’t end there. My Atlanta friend returned, and I told her bluntly,

“Get the fuck out of here! I’m done being nice.”

And this piece of work adamantly refuses, so three of us have to nudge her, albeit gently, from our real estate as she is throwing elbows like Kevin Garnett in a foul mood. Not a drop of shame or compunction in her entire body – she probably thought we were imposing on her. She wasn’t alone – there were hundreds of people trying to scam their way closer to the stage, and not all of them were distinctly young Phish fans. But most of them were. By Sunday, most security personnel gave up trying to corral the barrier-jumpers. I don’t blame them – they’re not paid enough to deal with that shit.

And the whole prediction about hordes of Phish fans selling doses and balloons was eerily accurate. I couldn’t walk 20 feet along the concourse without hearing some college-aged beanpole with a beard mumbling “Doses, doses,” though given the abundant supply, prices quickly plummeted to $5 a hit. Outside Soldier Field, especially after the show, both locals and strung-out college kids were selling nitrous balloons with impunity. There was a large police and security presence, but you can only line a three-mile walk with so many uniforms.

So now we get to one of the overarching gripes that came about as soon as these three shows were announced: what’s to come of the (financially) unendowed? And will the festivities be authentic with so many rich posers invading the scene? The only way I can answer the former question is to say, I knew more than a few people, and met dozens more, that were obviously not trust-fund babies or hedge fund managers. They had regular jobs and either got lucky in the mail-order lottery or scraped together some of their savings to pay a premium on the secondary market. Soldier Field was raucous, and the only real “posers” I witnessed were in the family and friends section immediately in front of us. Lots of people in that section were into the music. Trixie Garcia welled up with emotion before Sunday’s show and Mike Gordon, clad in full denim, may have had his own soundboard feed (or, conversely, very fancy earplugs). But there was a salient faction of women more interested in besieging John Mayer with selfie requests than listening to the music (as a side note, Mayer was really grooving on Sunday, at one point even mouthing the lead guitar parts during Estimated into his friend’s ear, all the while dancing). A minor contingent of men preferred to talk to each rather than focus on the show. But other than that, wherever I walked around, the crowd was fully invested. Even the shithead Phish loyalists who never want for anything were undoubtedly getting down. The vibe didn’t appear to suffer at all due to the price of tickets (both initially at face value, but more so at StubHub and the like).

Verdict (small, but noticeable, contingent of Phish fans acting like lummoxes): Mostly True

Verdict (affluent posers sucking the energy out of the scene): Total Myth

4): Let’s face it, Soldier Field in downtown Chicago on Independence Day weekend is going to be a hassle or “Why am I still walking?” #LogisticalNightmare

Okay, Soldier Field is the tiniest bit southeast of downtown Chicago, but let’s not split hairs. Like many people staying in the Loop or further North, I took the Red Line (Elevated train/subway system) to Roosevelt, walked all the way south to 18^th, and navigated the zig-zag bridge over LSD (Lake Shore Drive, get your head out of the gutter). The walk from the El stop to the Soldier Field entrance felt like a good three and a half miles, though it could’ve been less. My feet told me it was a long trek. Walking back to the Roosevelt station was less arduous because we exited out of the north side of the stadium. But unless you had some major cash to pay a cabbie or Uber driver to drop you off a quarter mile from the stadium, you were hoofing it. Pretty much 95% of all vehicles couldn’t park within a mile or two radius either, not that most people could afford $50 - $75 to do so.

Add that mileage to being on your feet for five to six hours (unless you arrived at “game time”), and you have a recipe for some very sore and aching bodies. You could see the limp in many a Deadhead’s gait when they were walking out of the show and you could hear the audible complaints: “My feet are killing me”, “My back is in knots”, “I think my ankles are swollen” were all common refrains I heard over and over as we walked and then boarded the Red Line to return “home” for the evening. You’re herded from one place to the next, like cattle, outside the stadium, and it wasn’t abnormal to hear people start “mooing” in jest by Saturday night.

But that was just part of the paucity of pragmatic planning. If you waited until setbreak to hit the loo, you were waiting in line for half an hour, minimum – women and men. Soldier Field wasn’t meant to hold the concert capacity that descended on it this past weekend. If you were in the pit or further back in the general admission field area, it might take you a solid 15-20 minutes just to reach the friggin’ line for the bathrooms. There seemed to be a small market correction on Saturday and Sunday, with people choosing to hit the head at various times during the first set, but it didn’t make a huge dent. I walked the concourse to get from the west to the east end to see a friend during setbreak on Sunday – wall-to-wall human traffic in a humidor. Glad I did it, though. And the bathrooms would put your average sauna to shame. Not that it was hot in Chicago – the weather was actually rather perfect. Human heat, sweat, and body odor mixed in oh so malodorous harmony to spike temperatures inside the stadium. Getting into Soldier Field was rather easy if you showed up anytime before 6:30. Security was almost too lax, hardly peeking in bags. But arrive closer to show time, and you were filtering into a bottleneck of bodies.

I will say this, though; there was room to dance in a ton of places on the field. If you needed room and weren’t in the first ten rows of the pit, you could find it. I don’t know how much dancing room was available in the stands, but reports from a few friends made it seem like a tight, but workable situation.

Verdict: Mostly True (But whaddya gonna do? Sacrifices were to be expected)

5) Soldier Field acoustics? Isn’t that an oxymoron? #SearchingForTheSound

Okay – I’m going to sound like I’m hedging, but I’m really not, if you read between the lines. The sound engineers had a mammoth task at hand. If you were there, you couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer volume of equipment that dotted Soldier Field. Thousands of cables, hundreds of speakers, and dozens of computers all came together to voice the septet’s sundry instruments and vocals. The engineers and technicians had to formulate things perfectly so that the speakers that towered above the crowd more than 60 yards from the stage were coordinated with those directly above it. A stadium can be an echo chamber – an aural house of mirrors. So I have to give props to those who spent countless hours tweaking the sound to make it as presentable as the stadium would allow.

That said, we weren’t in Madison Square Garden. From time to time, the treble from Trey’s guitar rose too high and pinched my eardrums. At other times, Phil’s bass was rather muted. Bruce and Bobby’s strong vocal chords melted beautifully into the mix, but when Trey or Phil sang lead, there were fits in which their vocals fell flat (and I don’t mean pitch-wise, though that would certainly apply in a few situations as well) and did not emanate outward in a robust or smooth manner. I’ve asked a few others who sat in the stands, and they had mixed reviews of the sound. For most of the weekend, I was just a couple feet south and about 15-20 feet west of the soundboard, so I was in relatively good position to absorb the acoustic dynamics.

Verdict: Push – Neither True nor Myth.

6) Promoters are ripping people off left and right. How much more juice can they squeeze from this orange? #PocketsInsideOut

Most of you reading this know the person and company that has been bombarded with recriminations about market manipulation and superfluous padding of their bank accounts. So I’m not going to get super personal by naming names. Like I said – it’s not a secret. If you figure that the vast majority of tickets to the shows garnered anywhere from $90 to $225 when initially sold, that’s…a lot of friggin’ money. Somewhere in the $25 to $30 million range (for Soldier Field alone, not Santa Clara). I don’t know what cut goes to the promotional company and what goes to the band, but that’s just the beginning. We haven’t calculated in the cost of VIP packages, entire luxury travel packages, merchandise (I couldn’t bear the thought of forking over $40 for a “Fare Thee Well” commemorative t-shirt when I had ticket stubs that were far more precious and memorable, but I know most people gladly paid the price for one last tie-dyed top), concessions (which likely go primarily to the Chicago Park District, but who knows how the $10.50 for Piss-in-a-Cup is divvied up?), and tickets they purposely held to post on the secondary market.

Of course, a whole shitload of money had to be used to pay for security, ushers, and vendors, not to mention the band and their numerous behind-the-scenes techs and management, but I still imagine the promoters came out of this deal bathing in green. In addition, the surrounding Chicago-area economy made a killing as well, with hotel prices skyrocketing to three or four times the normal rates, restaurants and bars welcoming Deadheads across the city, and public transportation getting a big boost from people traveling to and from the shows. Even if you paid face value for the tickets, it cost a lot of money to attend the festivities. There’s really no way around it. I don’t see anything particularly noteworthy about the promoters taking advantage of the situation. Everyone from Chicago businesses, to bootleg t-shirt vendors and nitrous dealers outside the stadium, to the band itself, made off well. I guess it’s a mere coincidence that the final shows took place over Independence Day Weekend because all those involved were doing things the “American Way.”

Verdict: Mostly True, but, “it’s a free country, Jack.” ‘Murica!

7) I’d love to be there, but, seriously – the music isn’t going to be that amazing, right? #GreatExpectations

I think that most reasonable Deadheads came into this weekend expecting the music to be good, maybe even great, but not transcendent. I certainly harbored these feelings. And, for the most part, we were served really good to great music. But there were some genuinely transcendent moments. A lot of them were already mentioned as Trey-fueled highlights, like Jack Straw, Scarlet Begonias, Lost Sailor>Saint of Circumstance, China>Rider, and Estimated. Goose bumps for all of them. There were others. Friday night’s Drums was super-intense, with Mickey and Billy eventually creating an Electro-African groove that pulsated through the pores of my skin. The Not Fade Away that led to a continuous NFA clap/chant as the band left the stage after Sunday’s second set closer sent shivers cascading down my back. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the turbo-charged Throwing Stones to close out Set I on Sunday. Holy smokes, I am getting chills just thinking about it 48 hours after the fact.

There were really only a few windows of average or sub-standard music during the entire weekend. We were treated to unequivocally coherent and lively renditions of Dead staples which, at numerous points during the weekend, became celestial…and, I imagine a source of catharsis for more than just myself.

Verdict: Mostly Myth (too much compelling material to ignore).  

8) Three shows in Chicago, and two in Santa Clara aren’t enough. We need a whole tour. #FareTheeWell?

Try telling that to my body right now. It would laugh at you if it had two lips and a tongue.

Verdict: Eye of the Beholder

So there you have it. All complaints and disagreements with these opinions should be lodged with a friend, a coworker, or your mailman if he has a sympathetic ear…anybody but me. Peace out.