MUSIC

Saturday, August 23, 2008

'It Was 40 Years Ago Today'

One of these names is not like the others: John, Paul, George, Ringo, Bo.

But Bo Bice, the 2005 "American Idol" runner-up trying to build a Southern-rock career, is among the artists in various stages of professional disrepair now performing in "It Was 40 Years Ago Today," a barnstorming . . . um . . . tribute to the album "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band." The show hit Baltimore's Pier Six on Thursday, and comes to Wolf Trap tonight.

Half the Beatles aren't around to feel shamed by this troupe's existence. But Todd Rundgren, the most credible of the cast members by a far sight, had to be rolling over in his cot in the greenroom as Lou Gramm, the onetime lead throat of '70s hard-rockers Foreigner, butchered whatever immortal tune he took a shot at. During "Fixing a Hole," Gramm sang, "It really doesn't matter if I'm right I'm wrong," which along with being inaccurate (it's "if I'm wrong I'm right") and screwing up Lennon/McCartney's rhyming scheme and timing, was morally off: On nights like this, Lou, being right really does matter.

Gramm, alas, did remember lines such as "You're making me sing/For your sweet sweet thing," from his own "Hot Blooded," which for some reason he was allowed to also sing.

Rundgren's reverence for the Beatles runs deeply through his own music -- even if he did blast John Lennon as "a [blankin'] idiot" in a 1973 magazine interview. Of all the cast members (others include Denny Laine and Christopher Cross), Rundgren had the most fun, pounding out the opening power chords for the title track and putting a big foam flower on his head while singing "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds." Cross had his best moments hitting very high notes in a version of "She's Leaving Home" that sounded a lot like Radiohead.

Bice, to be fair, gave an adequate reading of "With a Little Help From My Friends." But were Simon Cowell to judge "It Was 40 Years Ago Today," he might point out that the Beatles and this album deserve better than adequate.

And, geez Louise, it was 41 years ago, anyway.

-- Dave McKenna

James Hunter

Dude, where's my era? Brit James Hunter was riding the blue-eyed soul train long before the Amy- and Jamie-come-latelys (Winehouse and Lidell) climbed aboard. The Artist Formerly Known as Howlin' Wilf has been trafficking in mid-'50s R&B since the mid-'80s. His blistering 30-minute set at Wolf Trap Thursday night -- opening for Chris Isaak, who was good enough to escape being upstaged -- was composed almost entirely of 21st-century Hunter originals that uncannily evoke the feeling of Otis Redding's or Jackie Wilson's songs without curdling into dopey mimicry (see Kravitz, Lenny) or boozy irony (Big Bad Voodoo Daddy). When Hunter covered "Baby, Don't Do It" by the Five Royales ("they invented soul music, so blame them"), the 1953 hit blended seamlessly with his own material.

Everyone has his own pastiche threshold, but Hunter's affable, energetic stage presence, coupled with the slinky majesty of his six-piece combo, seemed to charm any skeptics in the house into submission. (Not that Isaak's audience is gonna hate on a guy for doing solid work in a beloved, if no longer mainstream, idiom. But still.) "She's Got a Way" laid down the winning template: Staccato quacks of sax (in baritone and tenor flavors) joined Hunter's scratchy, supple vocals up front while the punchy tremolo of his guitar hovered with the keys in the middle distance, and the upright bass and drums brought the bounce.

For his rancorous poverty blues "Don't Do Me No Favours," Hunter finally let his guitar off its leash, scratching out a buoyant rhythm even during his terse solos. With the finale, "Talking 'Bout My Love," Hunter (who later joined Isaak on the Leiber-Stoller standard "Kansas City") proved himself more than ready to rock the big rooms himself, tapping out syncopated blurts on the neck of his guitar while shooting his hips and knees from side to side in a way that would surely cause most 45-year-old men permanent and humiliating injury. A three-fourths standing ovation for the opening act? Believe it. Must be why he called his 2006 album "People Gonna Talk."

--Chris Klimek

Wood Brothers

Upright bass, acoustic or electric guitar, some rack-mounted, Dylanesque harmonica -- the Wood Brothers kept things simple at the Rams Head Tavern on Thursday night. Up to a point, that is.

If the siblings still seem to be under the sway of their father's record collection -- Bill Wood played a minor role in the '60s folk revival -- there were moments when they also sounded as though they grew up playing pots and pans, entranced by sheer clangor and rhythm. Both musicians displayed a highly percussive attack. Bassist Chris favored thick tones, syncopated body slaps and bowed dissonances, while guitarist Oliver produced slashing bottleneck riffs, stinging single-note runs and fat-chord funk vamps.

Well known for his alliance with Medeski, Martin and Wood, Chris occasionally tempered the mood with his soft tenor croon, and sometimes Oliver did likewise by contributing a plaintive blues vocal. But beginning with Bob Dylan's "Buckets of Rain," which was abruptly punctuated by a rhythmic surge, the duo revealed its propulsive force and freewheeling spirit.

What's more, Chris's gift for improvisation and Oliver's affinity for both country and rock blues made for some interesting contrasts during a performance laced with original tunes drawn from the duo's two CDs, including the Southern narrative "Postcards From Hell," as well as covers of Jimi Hendrix's "Angel" and Mississippi John Hurt's "Pay Day." Oliver, who somehow managed get through the show without breaking a string, handled most of the lead vocals with soulful assurance, though a few of original lyrics didn't add up to much.

-- Mike Joyce