The Marshall Tucker Band
The Marshall Tucker Band

For those not interested in the genre, Southern Rock all seems the same: tough, rough airs under Stetson hats, long hair and beer bellies, an exaggerated number of guitarists and drummers in the lineup, blooded rock blues, tough but not metallic, etc. etc.

On the contrary, for cultists and enthusiasts, the distinctions are countless: there are the founding fathers (Allman Brothers), the AOR version of the affair (38 Special), the almost metal (Blackfoot), the very funky ones (Wet Willie), those others full of harmonies leaning towards the Eagles (Outlaws), the classy and somewhat pop proposal (Atlanta Rhythm Section), the famous ones but not sure whether to include them in the genre (ZZ Top), and so on with the nuances, up to the best, simply and by acclamation (Lynyrd Skynyrd).

The Marshall Tucker Band belongs to a yet unmentioned Southern subset: the one whose regular rock base evidently leans towards country. In reality, other elements beautifully float in their music: rhythm and blues, jazz, gospel... let's say then that the British component (Stones, Cream, even Beatles), bastardized and personalized but very evident in many other realities of this genre, is really reduced to a flicker by them. In short, Marshall is an extremely American group if there ever was one, with all the good and bad this might suggest to the personal musical taste of fans.

The album under review is their debut (year 1973), probably also their best. Heading the sextet is guitarist Toy Caldwell who composes everything, sings the quieter songs with a bright country blues timbre, takes the solos by massaging a Gibson Les Paul with... thumb! (an unusual, but agile and brilliant technique). When there's a need to scream and unleash high notes, the appropriate lead vocalist Doug Gray takes over. There's also a second guitarist in the lineup but not for dual lead antics, so typical in Southern: George McCorkie sticks to rhythm and leaves the spotlight to Caldwell; the alternative to the lead guitar is instead brought by flautist and saxophonist Jerry Eubanks. The rhythm section finally sees a second Caldwell evolve, brother Tommy on bass, alongside drummer Paul Riddle.

The album opens with the hefty and extended "Take the Highway," reminiscent of Allman Brothers were it not for the massive presence of the flute (a true unicum in Southern territory) which first dictates the melody awaiting the vocals and later takes a long solo, only yielding to Toy's six-string after many measures.

Next is the career masterpiece "Can't You See": if you look closely, it's the usual guitar loop D-C-G, but Toy's fingerpicking is stunning: a few seconds, enough time to let in the spirited voice of its author, and you feel the special magic of this song, very famous and beloved (in the United States). Caldwell, the absolute protagonist, begins to lament convincingly and passionately about the usual heart-breaking woman. Eubanks' flute and then the piano of producer Paul Hornsby beautifully embroider around it, the song rolls briskly lingering long on the chorus as simple as it is admirable "Can’t you see, oh can’t you see, what that woman, she been doing to me...": six minutes of sublime made in USA ballad, with perpetual and tireless charm.

A "stroke" of steel guitar introduces "Losing You" and the heavily country-infused phase, at the heart of the record. Two or three country blues or country gospel ballads alternate, interspersed with more rock episodes among which the frenzied "Ramblin" decisively stands out, an ultra-fast shuffle that, continually stealing time from the rhythm, creates an exciting "drive." Among the continuous offbeat rhythmic sobs, the lead guitar of the leader splashes around like a duck in the proverbial pond, swift and savory. Result: a great piece and one of the live staples for the band, from day one and forever, even extended beyond seven minutes during the most inspired evenings.

The last small pearl in closing is barely two minutes of "AB’s Song," that is Toy Caldwell all alone on acoustic, singing and countersinging, in a confidential and grateful ode to his wife Abbie, which seems straight out of a Simon & Garfunkel record.