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Blues Festival: Dipping in and out of the festival
to hear blues artistes at their best
WHEN it comes down to it the blues is music for men, it seems,
and not very young ones at that. Why I don't know. After all it's
the foundation on which popular music is built.
Maybe us blokes find comfort in the solid predictability of its
form, the familiar circular grind of the chords, the inevitable
soaring solo, the weary words on life's big issues - drink, death,
hound dogs and bad women. Maybe that's also why a lot of women find
it all rather dull and unattractive.
I suppose if blues was a motorbike it might be a deep-throated,
oil-spattered '50s Triumph Bonneville rather than some stylish
Italian stallion or thrill-packed Japanese speed machine.
Yet there's so much more to it than merely chugging away on the
old 12-bar "Woke up this mornin" trick. From its solid base the
blues explores every recess and pinnacle of human life and musical
possibility. In the flesh and in your face it can be an exhilarating
experience.
But enough of such twaddle. Let's get down to it. Kicking off the
festival at Baroc on Friday afternoon was innovative French
guitarist and singer Claude Bourbon and two or three dozen laid-back
onlookers. Dressed in black with flowing brown locks and battered
cowboy boots, he looked the part as he perched on a barstool to
strum his battered Gibson acoustic.
A few songs in and he veered off on an instrumental voyage
lasting 15 minutes which gripped the bar in its spell. It was so
mesmerising I could barely keep my eyes open.
This was top-drawer entertainment in a great setting and it was
free. The blues festival organisers have to be warmly commended for
the amount of stuff they laid on without charge. If the artistes are
up to scratch then it's a great way of sucking people into the
event. Hopefully it paid off for them in last-minute tickets bought
by the newly converted. But there again, with there being no charge
for 16 of the 27 gigs over the weekend it would have been easy to
get more than your fill without stumping up a cent.
Paying a flying visit to the Norscot Angling Club later on Friday
night to check out the Hangover Blues Band, there seemed to be
something missing. The band cranked out hot and dirty pub blues and
the 30-odd punters were rippin' it up on the dancefloor. Yet I felt
like I was in church. There was a distinct absence of sleaze and we
headed off looking for a night that was a little less clean-cut.
On Saturday the sun shone on the pier in Lerwick and it was safe
to leave the Helly Hansens home for once. The hundreds who turned
out had happy summer faces on and that wonderfully positive vibe of
a community day out spread far and wide, taking in the beer-drinking
Norwegians relaxing on their yachts and the busy cooks grilling up
gorgeous-smelling scallops on the barbecue.
Last on the back of the lorry-cum-stage to give it laldy were No
Sweat, the Yell legends who broke up forever two years ago but have
hardly stopped playing since. Apparently when Big Davie called it a
day as drummer there was a mix-up on the bush telegraph: he might
have gone over to The Rumshack Blues Band but the rest were intent
on playing on. I left the pier to the riff and chorus of
Bulletproof and it has been replaying inside my head ever
since.
This year I was only dipping in and out of the festival here and
there and with some dreadful timing, managed to catch as many breaks
in the concerts or bands finishing up as I did performances in full
flow. Tom Hanway spent so long flogging his wares and signing CDs in
The Noost late on Saturday afternoon that I never got to hear him at
all. Eventually a seasoned female blues fan got up to sing with him
and brought the house down. The look of disbelief on the face of
Tommy Henry, the publican, said it all.
Along the road at Baroc there was the strange sight of Ray Stubbs
and his one-man band. Les Scott and a table of older blues veterans
sat transfixed in the corner as the veteran long hair battered away
on bottleneck guitar, moothie and assorted accompaniments ranging
from bass pedals to drums. It was so loud and sometimes so shrill I
couldn't handle it and his undoubted charms largely passed me
by.
While Claude Bourbon had shown moments of genius on Friday,
Joshua Blue was burning hot and bright all night on Saturday. This
was another freebie concert and again in the civilised environs of
Baroc. Terry Leith had convinced me they had to be seen after he was
blown away in Brae the previous night when his band, The Vinyls, did
the support slot.
This was boisterous hard blues rock with a funky edge delivered
to perfection by four guys locked in perfect synch. The drumming was
exhilarating, the lead guitar crisp and edgy. Oh, it was loud but we
were loving it and so it seemed was Joshua himself, the only black
performer to grace the stage over the weekend, I believe.
He only turned on to the blues after he had grown up and grown
out of hip hop and heavy metal. The product of a preacher mother
from the Dominican Republic and blues harmonica father from Chicago,
he discovered his voice in the old blues records his father had
loved. As he said, he used to think blues was "a pre-historic music"
but "how wrong can a man be!"
Nine Below Zero were the famous names who flew in from London and
blew the British Legion away with their Dr Feelgood-style new wave
RnB. When I squeezed into that dark, humid cauldron towards the end
of their set what struck me was how delirious with joy everyone was.
The dance floor was pinned, a sea of big grins and sweaty bodies. It
was obvious this had been the festival's gig of gigs, sold out with
satisfaction delivered in spades.
Doubtless there were those who couldn't hum any of their songs
but there were some who had lived an important part of their lives
to their rollicking blues a full quarter century ago. Tom GTL Gray
from Skeld was one who used to cram into a tiny house in the centre
of town all those years ago to bounce around the armchairs to the
pounding electric blues of the band's first album from 1980, Live
at the Marquee.
It seems that the blues often doesn't deliver quite the same when
recorded in the studio - a bit like those folk bands who blow you
away at the festival but fail to emulate the high when you stick on
the CD back home.
As Tom and others agreed, the blues is best as a living creature.
Congratulations to the committed band of enthusiasts who have made
it their mission to convert us. I think we now understand where
you're coming from.
John Robertson
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