originally published September 13, 2006

BIG BILL BROONZY

Amsterdam Live Concerts 1953

Munich

The late Big Bill Broonzy may have played many a traditional song during his storied run, but was far from a traditional bluesman. Broonzy, in a genre not especially known for its showmanship, often provided a one-on-one, thought-provoking perspective that not only came across in his playing, but also through spoken interludes and asides that dot his recordings. These moments of sly humor and frank discussion also play a heavy supporting role in Amsterdam Live Concerts 1953, a two-disc presentation of Broonzy’s lengthy early 1950s stint in the nightclubs and theaters of Holland.

Culled from master tapes recorded by archivist Louis Van Gasteren, who gladly paid Broonzy the asking price of two bottles of old gin for taping privileges, the concerts may very well be some of the cleanest and most intimately taped live blues performances remaining from that era. Disc one, taken from a February 26, 1959 show, starts off with Broonzy conversing with the audience in his well-deep baritone, offering the much-quoted aside “All songs is folk songs to me, ‘cause horses don’t sing songs where I come from.”

From there, his unfiltered acoustic set touches not only on the blues, but also on many of the kindred genres that have since complemented and shaped it. The languid tempo and extended vocal passages of “When The Sun Goes Down” might pass for straight-up blues were it not for the subtle after-hours jazz and proto-R&B touches that Broonzy’s arrangement adds. The speedy, multi-note flatpicking style of "House Rent Stomp” would eventually inspire Appalachian pickers like Doc Watson, while “Black, Brown and White” - an overlooked forerunner to the protest songs of the 1960s, and one that Broonzy’s label put a five-year block on due to its depiction of racial conflict – is performed without reservation or apprehension before the open and accepting audience. The second disc presents a more scattered picture of Broonzy that entails several instrumental cuts and renditions of his peers’ material, such as a heavily personalized take on Bessie Smith’s “Back Water Blues,” complete with a remembrance of the 1927 Louisiana/ Mississippi flood that Broonzy and his family endured.

Both Broonzy’s keen eye for human mannerisms and his multi-faceted guitar style are touched upon well by these performances. Even though a few kinks do arise (like disc two’s unexpected fadeout between “Trouble In Mind” and “Glory of Love”), the sound is generally crystal clear. No backup band, no fancy introduction - just an apparently half-lit Broonzy and his guitar banging out some of the most modestly presented but crucially important blues of the day.

SEBADOH

Sebadoh III (Expanded)

Domino

Even more so than Lou Barlow’s troubled previous band Dinosaur Jr., Sebadoh bridged an oft-undiscussed gap between the bespectacled, lo-fi basement crowd and longhaired, dope-smoking guitar rockers. In the band’s lopsided catalog, there’s no entry that documents this indie-rock odd coupling more than the sprawling Sebadoh III.

Much of this can likely be attributed to the personalities of songwriters Barlow, who was, indeed bespectacled and decidedly lo-fi, and Jason Loewenstein, who filled the longhaired dope-smoking quotient to the best of his abilities. At 23 original tracks and a bonus disc containing 18 grab-bag rarities, the reissued Sebadoh III is a conquest hinged on uncertainty, unpreparedness and all-important pent-up aggression.

The original album is still a mess, but a gloriously engaging one at that. A band that covers the Minutemen (“Sickles and Hammers”) and Johnny Mathis (“Wonderful, Wonderful”) within 10 tracks of one another can’t be running on a foolproof game-plan. What remains is a handful of both heartfelt and pissed-off relationship anthems like "Freed Pig” and “Kath,” some pre-Beck boho hipster folk courtesy of Loewenstein, several semi-psychedelic contributions like “Violent Execution” and the charging “Supernatural Force,” plus a whole lotta squeaks, buzzes and inharmonious vocals.

The bonus disc could’ve easily been one-half of a double album, since the recording quality and general tone of the material differs little from what did make the cut. Included is the entire 1991 Gimme Indie Rock EP and several home/ studio outtakes, including the hilarious mock-promo “Showtape ‘91.” Equally hilarious liner notes by Barlow, Loewenstein and Eric Gaffney accompany. For geeky four-trackers that never opted for regular haircuts, it really doesn’t get much better than this.

JAMES HUNTER

Believe What I Say

Hepcat

With the recent revival of soul stalwarts like Solomon Burke and Bettye Lavette, it’s a wonder that Britain’s James Hunter hasn’t had much exposure across the Atlantic before now. Hunter’s electric brand of swinging Northern soul harkens back to the glory days of artists like Jackie Wilson and Sam Cooke, and his 1996 debut Believe What I Say, previously unavailable in the United States, reveals itself as a highly enjoyable dark horse from start to finish.

Hunter, who began his career under the cheeky alias “Howlin’ Wilf,” cuts an irresistibly contagious swath throughout Believe What I Say, touching on Ray Charles-style rave-ups ("Hallelujah, I Love Her So”), calypso-flavored swooners (“I Want To Get Old With You”), and flat out testosterone-powered R&B charges. Vocally, Hunter was very reminiscent of Charles at this point, but his throaty wail doesn’t really come off as hackneyed or impersonated.

Van Morrison guests on two renditions of his old faves “Turn On Your Love Light” and “Ain’t Nothing You Can Do,” but the true spotlight here is on Hunter and his impeccable backing crew of ace horn players and percussionists. It’s rare that a debut album comes along sounding so mature and distinct while still remaining firmly entrenched in its influences. Believe What I Say was and is one of those albums that even the most reluctant set of thighs would shake and shimmy to.

Michael Andrews Redux Nation is a monthly column focusing on album reissues, repackagings and box sets.

Michael Andrews

Redux Nation is a monthly column focusing on album reissues, repackagings and box sets.