Return of A2 Blues

Return of A2 Blues

Last year the Ann Arbor blues festival established itself as instant grandaddy of its line, especially by hipping everyone to the plethora of talent which makes every blues festival a sure artistic success.

This year they decided to make a move in the direction of being a real biggie, which sounded too good to be true, until the closing feature acts got squashed out of form trying to meet the imposed ‘curfews’. Maybe ’cause of getting all those groups, the festival reportedly lost a wad of money; the me (a britisher and all) started out on Friday pleading with the horde listening for free outside the gates to not try to crash & wound up asking even these for contributions on Sunday — the collection bucket did its stuff all through the last performances.

The jams hit something of a high point Friday night, when one of the main guitar prides, Jimmy Dawkins, shared his set and airtight trio with his maybe severest competition, Luther Allison — Luther sang one song and did a few guitar licks, which was just enough to ignite the spark — dynamite. Some righteous Mighty Joe Young paved the way and some hardkickin’ John Lee Hooker levelled it off. Wolf rolled his keg of booze around for the tourists.

The festival’s programming offered ample opportunity to pick up on little-known or seen artists, some of whom could really do it to you, viz. Juke Boy Bonner with his one man Texas stompin’ or Robert Pete Williams, the raw old soul of delta blues itself.

Mississippi Fred McDowell did his usual thing while Albert King closed it out with his customary just-out-of-it excitement ‘power’. Bobby BLUE Bland (never anything less than ‘blue’ to old WLAC freeks, ask Johnny Winter) was the main casualty of the programming squeeze, * just not being able to get his deep-in soul or his band properly untracked around the edges

Junior Wells and Buddy Guy forgot showbiz long enough to bring back the old days and a taste of backroom blues on the most sophisticated level — just like Monday night at Pepper’s or Theresa’s, yeah — hope you didn’t overlook li’l Carey Bell’s groovy set beforehand. For a non-Sunday afternoon sort of cat, Otis Rush closed it out well.

Johnny Winter came up out of the audience for some superjams with Luther Allison. The mannish boy of ’em all, Big Mama Thornton, capped it strong, a show that never quit and a chance for her to demonstrate the range and subleties of a voice definitely not to be stereotyped.

Only place left to go was Son House. Dick Waterman got up and nudged the audience, slapping them when they applauded for the roll of blues stars deceased since last years festival — “Support ’em NOW, dummies” — right on, brother Waterman.

This may be Son’s last nonlocal performance and he got into a rap on religiousness and righteousness which sounded for all the world like a head’s vision of the other side. The time rusted playing and singing still defined and redefined the blues at every turn. The whole set was as miraculous as seeing the patriarch bless his followers and progeny and if you hadn’t already, been moved by the festival, you were at the end.

Rich Mangelsdorff