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Rating: That evening at Frank's bar.
I had to be there, I had bent over backwards to be there, even just this once, I didn’t think about the possible consequences nor about the journey I would have to undertake. Monday at Frank's is jam session night and today is Monday.
With Frank the owner, as well as the sole bartender, I immediately bonded; we shared the same Italian origins, the passion for "Music" in its entirety, guitars and, of course, those who played them. He told me: <<Have you ever been to Colorado? In Denver, no? Never? I remember a truly magical evening, it was '74, it was summer. Outside it was scorchingly hot and so I decided to take refuge in that small club, the Ebbets Field. For two nights a young guitarist who had already made a name for himself and had drawn uncomfortable comparisons was playing. To be honest, he was with the Energy, his first real band, drums, percussion, and bass. A group of friends with whom he loved to get together to jam. Pay attention, all people from the "circle" that I already knew and ... I could already imagine how it was going to end. However, I didn't imagine that the heat I had left behind in the parking lot below would follow me like a shadow inside those four walls, making the evening decidedly hot>>.
<<Wait Frank, I wasn't there but I have the recording of those concerts, you're talking about Tommy Bolin! And who do you think I'm here for tonight?>>.
So for those who don't know, live at Ebbets Field '74 is not Bolin’s best live, it’s not the one better recorded, nor the one with the best setlist, it’s simply the testament of a magical night, what happened on a small stage that night and the fact that old Frank still talks about it now. Here there is everything one might want to hear from this prodigy, (who hadn’t even turned 23) from his guitar and from what crossed his mind in those moments. There is the rock of "You Know, You Know" (McLuaghlin) with those slide sounds so dear to Rory Gallagher, the slow blues of "Ain’t Nobody’s Fool" with the voice of Jeff Cook (present in three other tracks) intertwining with that of Bolin’s Strat. There are classics: "Born Under A Bad Sign" and "Ain’t No Sunshine" linked in an electric and pulsating medley more than ever thanks to a bed of percussion that honestly never stops throughout the performance. There are instrumental pieces that had never been played until then: "Crazed Fandango" (with a guitar that breaks speed limits of the state of Colorado) and the funky-rock "Homeward Strut". Up to the concluding "Stratus" taken from that masterpiece that is Spectrum by Billy Cobham, and which Bolin himself helped make a jazz-rock manifesto from here to eternity.
I said it had a bit of everything: rock, blues, funk, jazz disguised as experimentation and a lot of improvisation. The reality is that few people could challenge him on his turf, that is, in the field of pure fusion. He moved in the blink of an eye from rock phrases to jazz scales, from funky rhythms to completely original solos, he played with the volume, feedback, and dynamics like only greats (Hendrix, I’d say), made even the plugging of a jack into an amplifier musical thanks especially to one thing, instinct. Hearing the intro of "Stratus" and the alien sounds generated by the guitar filtered through the tape echo effect, in which Bolin was a master and innovator, (go listen to "Comin' Home" on Come Taste The Band to get an idea) is still amazing and sends you directly to the other genius Jeff Beck. Unfortunately, a horrible rival confronted him some time later, heroin, which listed him in the long roster that the music world could have done without. As if it was not enough to fuel the myth, even his statement: <><> said to Cobham’s face, intrigued by his unique way of playing/creating.
Just as I was about to give him a piece of my mind, (damn, what did he take me for?) Frank interrupted me with a raise of his eyebrow, then passing his thumb and index finger over his mustache so dear to him he said: <<It's time, the magic begins>>.
I turned, putting the drink on the cold bar and saw at last that guy with Native American features chatting on stage with a bassist holding a fretless bass. Suddenly a series of tremendous rolls started, and I noticed that small drummer that I hadn’t even seen before, who Frank said had issues with alcohol and hotel rooms. That's when Bolin started the dance challenging that bassist who a bit cockily called himself the greatest bassist in the world. No doubt, after a series of harmonics that even with four hands I wouldn’t be able to catch, a series of full chords started immediately picked up by Tommy, who jumped onto the echo pedal (one of his strong suits). His guitar was already elbowing with a real solo bass and struggled quite a bit to emerge. In that delirium, I then remember a big bearded guy in black leather pants ready to reap the fruits of that musical harvest. He grabbed the microphone left on the floor and improvised a strange, almost mystical blues. Occasionally, Bolin's gaze would cross with that singer's, searching for confirmation or theme variations, behind them the little one on drums was flailing his arms more than ever, cutting through the dense air with his blows, while farther away at the tables in the front rows, an elderly black man tapped his fingers on the table, keeping a rhythm eyes closed. I couldn’t help but notice his trumpet placed vertically on a coaster, as if it were a bottle of bourbon; it led me to think he was just waiting for his turn to get onstage. In the background, a bunch of more or less familiar faces were delightedly watching the hurriedly put-up show. Above all, a black man with an afro head enclosed in a brightly colored headband stood out, tuning a left-handed Stratocaster. I would have bet everything I had in my pocket that it would soon be his turn. Frank’s voice brought me back to earth: <<Closing time soon>>. Only then did I realize how crowded the place was, at least as much as the ashtray of the guy behind me.
In the meantime, bet won.
The colored guitarist, dressed as if time had stopped at the summer of love, was phrasing in stereo with Bolin, the mysterious singer now blown was declaiming Blake’s poetry, and a guy dressed ridiculously was trying to bum a cigarette off me (The usual Elvis look-alike I thought to myself... But I say even here? They are just everywhere!). The beer I had left halfway was now warm, it was then that I realized I had to leave. I said goodbye to Frank, who replied with a :<< You can also call me Vincent if you want>>.
My head was heavy, maybe it was the drinks prepared by that eccentric bartender, nothing however that a cold shower could not wipe away; only then, climbing up the red-tiled staircase, did I think that I certainly had nothing to complain about. I had seen and heard Tommy Bolin doing what he did best: a jam session among musician friends, just like in Denver in '74. This time I had to pull strings and trouble the higher-ups... It was almost dawn outside, I pulled up the collar of my coat, content.
That evening at Frank’s, everyone was there. All the ones that matter, I mean.
The opinion of Commander Bossolazzi:
Amen. 5 medlars.
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