Once again the Bonamassa Band has demonstrated their mastery of blues rock musical presentation.
From the opening strains of Bridge To Better Days, as tension builds, and we begin our transition into this music, this phenomonon called Joe, to the crash of Bogie’s cymbals, Carmine’s thundering bass, Rick’s soaring keys and the hammer between the eyes of a wide open LesPaul that only Joe can make sound like that…we submit.
Wait back up a day…
When I entered the hall in Cocoa on Thursday I knew we were in trouble. I looked at Joe doing a sound check. I looked at the room we were in…60′ wide and 300′ long with a low ceiling and I thought in terms of unprintable language. I waved at Joe, he spoke and I spoke with the guys for a minute and then got out of the way.
Oh me of little faith. The sound crew pulled it off. They came, they listened (saw), they conquered. By the second third of the set, they had done the impossible. The instruments had become defined. The vocals were front and center and the volumes had equalized. A testament to the professionalism of each and every person involved. Many a naddering nabob would have said “It’s the room!” and went out for a cigarette.
These guys are spectacular. They not only work hard, they get it done. There is a difference.
Now we’re in J-ville and the light’s are flashing and the musical onslaught has all the hair on my old punkin head standing at a 45 degree angle backwards. MsTia is all aglow and my 3 kids are sitting there with their mouths open. From the opening notes the transformation is complete. We are in the most beautiful old school theater in this end of the state and the Bonamassa Band has us in the palm of their hand.
With the exception of some illegitimate offspring that were obviously the result of a drunken merger between homeless alkies and junkie street walkers, as a crowd we behaved appropriately. Loud and enthusiastic, but quiet when Joe shushed us.
As the last strains of Bridge faded, the minor tones of So Many Roads swelled and Otis Rush somewhere…smiled. The Sig LP cried and sparkled and Joe sang his a$$ off again.
Mountain Time saw the Giglioti Red Tobacco Sunburst and my guitar playing, joe college son’s eyes got rather large. I grinned to myself and Joe took us to another time and place. Nice modality on the opening to that one.
The quilt top Custom came out for the next two. The old shouting, stomping, hard rocking, marching in my seat, Another Kind of Love slid effortlessly into Sloe Gin, with Rick Melick, the consummate professional, transforming the atmosphere with flawless keyboard work, as the mood went dark and the crowd cried with Joe: “I’m so damn lonely, I ain’t even high…”. What a tone Joe squeezes outa that Custom guitar.
When we couldn’t cheer anymore, the (Tak?) came out of Dave’s hands and around Joe’s neck and the flood waters rose. I was floating over the levee in Nawlehns and there was High Water everywhere. When I finally got ahold of my woman I begged her to come home but with a warning..”cause if you can’t treat me no better, it’ll be Your Funeral, My Trial.
The blues wore me out by then. Tia liked the sound of that acoustic. Yes I said, young Joey B makes that old $5 garage sale throwaway sound purty good. I got the elbow for that one.
I will finish this up in a later post, y’all. I”VE BEEN SUMMONED!