Scott Finch & Blues O' Delics
Live Groove!

"You're black... that means you've been too close to the sun. Black is bad. You're white... you've been too far from the sun. You have no color... no soul."

In reality, this passage from "Blues People - Negro Music in White America" by Amiri Baraka, in the context of the book, has a far more significant sociological meaning; but they would be the right words to outline a profile of Scott Finch: Scott has been away from the sun because he is white, because he is also blond; but his soul has been exposed to the sun, which bestowed upon him colors from the acid groove of Hendrixian memory. I still remember the day I found "Live Groove!" in my bag. It wasn't an anonymous purchase, and that's why I remember it particularly: the owner of a record store in Bari recommended an American guitarist to me, whose name was unfamiliar to me, nor had I ever heard his music. This was exactly what I was looking for, people unknown to me, to discover them on the edge of everything, hoping that the search would lead me to a personal discovery of which I could be proud.

When dealing with people who sell records, who quickly grasp where you want to go, it is very gratifying. On the other hand, it is frustrating to deal with clerks and/or owners who, after being asked for something quirky, look at you as if you were speaking to them in Arabic. This one, however, perfectly fit the small role he'd created for himself as a sort of innkeeper of good music always ready to welcome bands of adventurers into his prestigious inn, in search of the fateful musical boundary. He was truly an enthusiastic character, sincerely engaged in what he did, eager to listen to the customer and guide them to a safe path. I spoke to him religiously, I would say, about my period, while he listened to me, nodding with satisfaction: it was the period of the Rock Blues underground, searching for a captivating electric dark side of the Devil's Music born under the sign of Hendrix. In search of music armed with passion and played at small festivals, in bars, without a shred of commercial success following their fate.

I was thrilled with Omar and his Howlers. It was an effervescent period, very much so. Surely. In pursuit of old-fashioned authors, whose appearance necessarily had to resemble what my imagination suggested to me of Mississippi Gene, one of the wandering souls met by Kerouac in On the Road. A music dissected deeply, sieveed through from top to bottom, lengthwise and breadthwise, heard a thousand times; and precisely because of these elements, and with a pinch of rhetoric if you will, it intends to show itself as the faithful companion from which to expect nothing, from which you do not expect significant upsets, precisely because you are the first not to want them, in these cases.

This life conducted honestly, with passion and a low profile, is depicted impeccably by the words of Paolo Carù, guru and historic pen of the magazine "Buscadero". With an intense and seasoned smell of a bygone time, Carù recounts a time in a bar in Tucson when he first heard Johnny & the Torpedos. With this anecdote, he manages to focus on a circumstance to juxtapose both the lifestyle and music of Scott, and the dark and underground movement of Rock Blues and underground music in general. Scott Finch is a sincere guitarist. No musical flights of fancy come from his white Strat, simply because it is not in his strings. The blond guitarist from Milwaukee began his recording career as a professional in the distant 1969 (!), with a single evidently not destined for the history books. His adventure will lead Scott to create a series of bands that went largely unnoticed, with which he will record a handful of albums. But he will reach our days with his fine power trio and with Hendrix's Word always and constantly (and intentionally) lurking; all ready to offer this blazing and overflowing live performance: in reality, it is not a live recorded in a single evening, but instead, it is a three-night event that form this double "Live Groove!", housed in a glossy and delightful cardboard package.

The first album has Scott and his band at the Linneman's Riverwest Pub in his Milwaukee in April 2001; while the second is split between a live at Mustang Shelly's Roudhouse somewhere in Wisconsin, and some tracks recorded during his performance at our Torrita Blues Festival in Torrita, in the province of Siena, in June also of 2001. The warmth of the Blues People of Torrita evidently made an impression on the good Scott, able to brand that June evening with a remarkable tune of his, namely "Pie In the Sky"; a track with Hendrixian refinements and very captivating, with a funky mood. The evening will also see him protagonizing a very intense "Jeff's Boogie" by Jeff Beck. Also from the Tuscan set, an overflowing "Voodoo Child", closing an inspired and heartfelt Italian evening.

Returning a bit to the American nights, Scott rolls out many American classics linked to the Blues and its surroundings, alternating them with his own truly exquisite compositions: "Fire", "All Along the Watchtower" (in the Hendrix version, of course), "The Wind Cries Mary" and "Spanish Castle Magic" create a very interesting Hendrixian quartet with which Finch will close the first album. Finch does not settle, and putting much of himself into it, manages to pull from his hat some very fascinating reinterpretations: "Southbound" by the Allman Brothers Band still captures those typically funky nuances so dear to Finch; or the classics of the devil's music, namely "Stormy Monday" by T-Bone Walker all the way to "Louisiana Blues" and "Hoochie Coochie Man" by Muddy Waters, as well as "Spoonful" by Willie Dixon. Besides, Finch will continue to put on a show with two engaging versions of "Down by the River" by Neil Young and "The House of the Rising Sun", which needs no introduction.

Finch will still offer quality music, transcending time and any time, timing his music within the confines of Scott Finch, astounding in his not being astounding. Alongside Carù, closing the liner notes are Mauro Zambellini and Giorgio Mangora, leaving a competent trail from another time which also smells a bit of home to us.