Basement Punk Gets The Blues

OK, so it's not a Road Story but it is a great article written by Tyler for the New Paltz Oracle......

Basement Punk Gets The Blues
By Tyler Gomo, Contributing Writer

When the Paramount Center of the Arts in Peekskill appeared before my eyes on Sept. 28 with its flashing marquee shouting “B.B. King Tonight SOLD OUT,” I immediately knew that I was out of place. Rocking a Pelican hoodie and my trusty Pony slip-ons, as well as an experiment in facial hair on my face, my appearance was an immediate clash with the majority of concert-goers that chose to go business casual with tucked-in shirts, shined shoes and clean faces. I felt like the equivalent of a kid that goes to a formal event in one of those cheesy tuxedo t-shirts. But I wasn’t dressed up for the sake of mockery; as a veteran of basement punk shows, I had no clue about the unwritten laws of B.B. King concert attire etiquette. Fortunately, Paramount security at the doors didn’t see me as too threatening to the basics of twelve-bar blues, so my faith was somewhat restored.

Sitting in the Paramount, a colorful theater with Greek head busts adorning the walls like lifetime ticketholders, I had entered a time capsule. B.B. King’s band and subsequent entourage walked about the stage and orchestra section in suits that recalled 1950s “cool.” There was also a certain swagger in their steps that I had never seen before in real life, the kind of walk that just screams, “Yeah, I’m the trumpet player…but I’m the baddest one you’ll ever meet!” Despite being in the back regions of the theater, I felt that kind of energy during something as simple as a sound-check. I knew that from this point on I was in for something completely different.

When the show began, things did not start with everyone out on stage. Only the band was present, blasting out an eight-minute plus rave-up that featured solos from everyone and led to King’s introduction.

As the blues legend sauntered on stage in his finest suit, I was taken aback. With the rock shows that I’m used to the musicians on-stage appear almost equal in importance to the crowd. In this case it was like seeing an immortal arrive, someone that was miles away from being a mere human. Once he picked up his famed guitar, the Gibson ES-355 named “Lucille” that waited for him onstage, King kicked the show into gear with singing and guitar playing that shook my skin with its raw power.

Being in that seat, I couldn’t help but compare this experience to concerts I’ve seen in the past. For one thing, my hoodie wasn’t at risk of being torn apart by raging thrashers like the time I saw Thrice at Northern Lights in Albany. Instead, a middle-aged woman just sat there, admiring Mr. King’s playing. Then there was the musicianship; the drummer didn’t just blast away on a double-bass drum pedal and hit cymbals. Instead, he just stayed in the pocket making fills when appropriate. But the biggest difference between a rager in a friend’s basement and a concert of this magnitude, is respect. People were quiet during B.B. King’s stories, entranced by his presence and magical personality and when he both entered and left the stage, the crowd delivered a grand applause with everyone on their feet. It was certainly nothing like the time a lead singer of a no-name punk band got nailed with a beer bottle two songs into a set.

This god-like figure told lengthy stories of women and fishing, communicated with the enthusiastic crowd (many of them shouting the name of his beloved guitar) and entertained with a charisma that is often hard to find in musicians, filling 90 minutes with absolute substance and no boredom. I didn’t know the names of the songs that he played or what albums they were from, yet I danced in my seat as if I knew them all. The show was an experience that a basement punk show could never deliver on its best night.