ANN ARBOR BLUES FESTIVAL

ANN ARBOR BLUES FESTIVAL

The Ann Arbor Blues Festival came at the height of the Great Pop Festival Overzap of 1969, and for all but the ivory tower bluesfreaks it took a certain readjustment of one’s sensibility to be able to take it all in the proper sensory-emotional perspective. It was kind of weird, almost disconcerting to come floating down the slope intothe lush green saucer of the festival field and hear slide guitar and one voice floating out over all those people. The energy was there, but it seemed to disappear when it came out ot the p.a., swallowed up by the interference effect of the crowd’s vibrations. What with this and that, the passage of time and some dynamite sets, though, things came together and the weekend was an unqualified success.

Friday night J.B. Hutto played some hard blues and surprised a lot of people; some with the stinging intensity of his electric slide tone, others with his 1956 rock and roll show. Clifton Chenier came out (minus his notorious brother Cleveland on rubboard) and greeted the crowd with; “I bet you never heard anybody play blues on the accordian, have you? Well, I’m gonna sock it to you.” He didn’t, though. Playing with an unfamiliar and kind of unsympathetic drummer, he couldn’t get into the cajun two-step rhythms that give his music whatever interest it usually has, and he wound up playing a bunch of lackluster rhythm and blues.

Although Junior-Wells, dressed all in black and looking bad as hell, did a total high energy set that brought the crowd to its feet for the first time, the highlight of the night was incontestably B.B. King. Whether rapping or playing, stretching out in spare and tension-filled lines or diving full on into orgasmic release, he was in complete and masterful control throughout his set, which was a measured progression of climaxes, each carrying the energy level to a higher plateau until he finally flashed off stage leaving the crowd spent and shivering in the damp night.

B.B.’s fantastic performance came as no surprise, but Luther Allison’s set on Saturday was pleasant revelation. Tall and lean, Afro handsome, and only 25 years old, Allison knocked everybody out with a set that was musically excellent and pleasantly showy. He brought the band “way down low,” almost to inaudibility, and got the audience clapping to the subliminal rhythm while he crooned, shouted, harangued or just rapped. “I’m a soooul man . . . and also a blues man.” He was all over the stage, down the stairs, playing the guitar on his back, dancing, throwing impish grins to the chicks. After Ann Arbor, Luther Allison stands out as the young Chicago bluesman to watch.

As usual, Howlin’ Wolf was a monster. Growling, grimacing, posturing, striking terrifying and

theatrical poses, looking incredibly eerie in the blue stage lights, he ground out vocals over music so heavy it seemed to hang over the stage like a viscous mist. For an hour and a half he kept the energy level intact, his voice almost a charicature of itself, his harp playing more raucous than ever. If anyone ever asks you what stage presence is, point to Wolf and tell them to divide that by ten.

What with Luther Allison’s antics and Wolf’s madness, there was time for only a truncated set from Muddy Waters. Muddy loves to let the suspense build by having his band play a couple of tunes before lie even comes on stage, then coming on and looking appreciative while they play one more, then singing a little bit, and finally, after about five numbers picking up his ominous-looking black guitar and really getting it on, putting it down, singing even harder for a couple of tunes, and whipping off stage. He didn’t

have a chance to run through the whole number at Ann Arbor, though; he just came on stage and sang three songs, two of which he played on. “Gypsy woman told my momma Just before I was born/ Got a boy child cornin’/ Gonna be a son of a gun.” That, and “Mannish Boy,” the song from which the Stones took their name. Muddy, deservedly a living legend, just laid them down with power and dignity, and none of the show that had preceded him, but he was magnificent, and the crowd loved him.

Sunday, instead of being two separated concerts as had been planned, was one continuous show which featured JrHbt of pickup bands and fantastic impromptu combinations. Luther Allison was back to do a much more restrained set of his own, and stayed on stage to back up the next three performers. T-Bone Walker, after a mediocre set of his own, stayed to lead Big Mama Thornton’s backup band and under her playful coaxing c^me out with some of the best guitar playing of the weekend. For “Heavy Load” Big Mama brought out Fred McDowell, who accompanied her on the original recording, and sitting for the first time in an incredibly electric set, gave out with a stirring performance.

After a couple of mixed sets from Big Joe Williams and Sam Lay, Lightnin’ Hopkins came up to lay the audience out. Lay had closed his set with “Got My Mojo Workin’” and Lightnin’ opened his with some sly comments about “all these young men messin’ round with my stuff,” him being the original man who “went to Louisiana and brought back the mojo hand.” For the edification of the crowd he then proceded to do and incredible version of “Mojo Hand,” which he followed with an extended rap about “the Man have gone to the moon.” You can “look aroun’ for Of Lightnin’ ‘cause he’ll be up there pretty soon,” he predicted. He was obviously enjoying the huge audience immensely, and he would gesture menacingly at the crowd as he popped strings or choked crucial chords. Jiving with Lay’s band, who had stayed to back him up, he challenged, “try cat chin’ me now,” as he launched into some virtuouso shuffle. He was beyond reproach both as a musician and an ego freak (not necessarily the same thing), and the crowd loved him.

For some reason Charlie Musselwhite played two sets Sunday, although nobody seemed to particularly .care for his performances, which seemed overly tight and slick, competent, but no more. Magic Sam played a flawless set, but by that time Chicago blues had been played to death, and neither he nor Otis Push received particularly enthusiastic receptions.

Freddy King was another story. It’s doubtful whether many in the audience knew' what to expect, but he convinced a lot of people. His playing is much like B.B.’s, but more blatantly virtuoso, more conventionally stunning, and he’s every bit as charming and likable on stage. He played an extended set that was punctuated by clapping from the sudience, and left the stage to Jimmy Cotton, who sprung an enthusiastic and convincing performance on the crowd, which included acrobatics and the impassioned removal of a shirt, much to the delight of the assembled multitudes.

The festival ended perfectly with Son House. Son is very very old. His mind wanders and his hands shake. He doesn’t play much anymore; he doesn’t even own a guitar. When he first came on stage, after a somewhat pompous introduction by Dick Waterman which patronized both him and the audience, sat down and talked aimlessly for about five minutes, you were seized with the fear that he didn’t remember why he was here, that he would never start playing and Waterman would have to come on and lead him from the stage while you

watched, hurt and embarrassed. But when he finally sang “Death Letter” he was transformed into a tortured incarnation of the Blues itself. The crowd stood raptly still as the Delta spoke through his ancient lungs, as he gasped and groaned in total absorption w'ith his music. Even though dulled by time, his guitar playing was perfect, hard and sensual, the key notes stinging and the slides rasping. He wasn’t great for a man his age, he was just great, and being there, being swallowed up by his music was a religious experience, the ultimate resensification. He rapped some more, sang again, and brought his wife on stage to sing several gospel numbers a capella. Then he trudged off and the audience was left, stunned, to try to absorb what he left behind.