Chicapah
I was an avid fan of The Allman Brothers Band at the beginning and I, like so many of their followers, was crushed and heartbroken over the tragic deaths of Duane and Barry. I didn’t think there was any way possible for them to continue to remain in the vanguard of American jazz/rock and, upon hearing their overly conservative “Brothers and Sisters” album, I knew I was right. Those two original pieces of the puzzle were impossible to replace and the drug-induced and ego-driven infighting that became legendary in the annals of rock & roll history reduced the organization to an on and off touring act that had very little impact on the music scene. I never bought another record by them but I heard some of the cuts from the various studio LPs they put out in the late 70s and 80s here and there. I always hoped that somehow they’d recapture their original spirit and knock me out like they used to but the pedestrian material they were content to produce just made me sad because the magic was long gone. My faith in them disappeared into vapor.
My beautiful wife, on the other hand, continued to adore them and went to their shows almost every time they came through Dallas. (This was years before we met, by the way.) I’m cool with that. I have no problem with people liking them at all. Different strokes, ya know? The reason I even brought her loyal affection for them up was to explain why I’m in a position to review their 1991 release, “Shades of Two Worlds.” It belongs to my dearly beloved and, upon discovering it buried in her stack of dusty cassettes, I felt it was my duty to investigate it for any traces of jazz and report my findings accordingly. It’s pretty much what I expected from them yet I can reveal that, to my surprise, there are actually some jazzy loose threads still hanging around. Not many, mind you, but some. And that’s more than I anticipated. Perhaps their weary routine of breaking up, getting back together, breaking up and getting back together again had inspired them to try to resurrect that unique aspect of their sound.
They charge out of the stalls with “End of the Line,” a powerful, boisterous southern-styled rocker. It demands your attention but if it wasn’t for Gregg Allman’s charismatic voice it could easily be mistaken for a track by any one of dozens of other loud, in your face groups. There’s nothing special about it. “Bad Rain” is another strong, rowdy number yet this one is a bit more involved structure-wise and has an ambience that vaguely reminds me of their early 70s attitude. Both Dickey Betts and Warren Haynes turn in gritty guitar solos with gusto. “Nobody Knows” is even more of a throw back to their roots with its forceful, driving 6/4 swagger making waves. During the expansive instrumental section Gregg’s Hammond B3 growls appropriately and Dickey reprises his signature repeating-pattern guitar licks as the band generates gigawatts of energy behind them. They then quieten down for a spell where Warren presents a respectable imitation of Duane’s guitar mannerisms before building up to another peak. After the final verse Betts and Haynes axe-duel all the way to the concert-like huge ending. At eleven minutes in length this really took me back to the old days when they let it all hang out and I thought at that point this album might turn into something revelatory. Maybe they were going to be rebels again.
Not. “Desert Blues” is more of the standard-fare south-of-the-Mason/Dixon line rock; this time with a bluesy edge that I thought was passé in the 90s. This could just as well be a ZZ Top song with big, fat guitars galore and it’s the sort of stuff that doesn’t take a lot of writing acumen to concoct. Good ol’ boys and girls live for this stuff. “Get On With Your Life” follows and it’s a large helping of typical, slow beer-joint blues presented with an aggressive mien. I acknowledge the attraction that many otherwise extremely intelligent folk have for “da blooz” but I’ll never completely understand it. I’m bored by the constricting, formula-bound limitations that genre must adhere to. It does nothing for me and neither does this tune. “Midnight Man” is next and, yes, it’s yet another gigantic dose of steam locomotive Dixie rock & roll that has no intentions of even pretending to possess a speck of finesse. It might be me. Perhaps I’m just too long in the tooth to endure this kind of aural beat-down anymore.
Thank God for “Kind of Bird.” It’s the glimpse of jazz I mentioned a few paragraphs back. Betts and Haynes kindly wrote this hot instrumental and for eight and a half minutes you can close your eyes and imagine Duane and Barry smiling down on them from the ever after. The composers perform a sparkling harmony guitar melody line together while Jaimoe and Butch Trucks lay down an electrified shuffle as if it was 1971 again. They even toss in a few segments containing entertaining riffs set in odd but intriguing time signatures. A lengthy, messy free-for-all that’s nostalgic in an old-school, “Mountain Jam” sorta way leads to a clean, tight ending. This delightful number proves they still had it in them, they just chose not to go there very often and that’s a shame. They close with the Dobro-heavy Delta blues of Robert Johnson’s “Come On in my Kitchen.” It’s well-recorded and all but I just can’t get excited about it. Might as well be authentic polka to me. The gospel chorale swaying behind Gregg provides the only bright spot in the mix.
If this was a rock & roll site I’d tell you this is a darn good album. The guitars blaze, the drums roar and the vocals rasp throughout and the cavernous production gives it an arena feel that brings the music alive and right into your living room. But if you’re yearning for the spontaneous jazz improvisations and adventurous mindset that made their first four LPs so spectacular and innovative then you’d be better off pulling out your worn copy of “Idlewild South,” lighting a few candles and reminiscing. Those Allman Brothers have inherited the wind and aren’t coming back. This particular lineup seemed determined to come up with material their ticket-buying audience would go nuts over, not bold sounds that would expand their horizons. Personally, I think they underestimated them. With the exception of “Nobody Knows” and “Kind of Bird” this has nary a hint of jazz and those two cuts aren’t enough for me to recommend “Shades of Two Worlds.” Case closed.