Tag Archives: Gregg Allman

Low Country Blues


It’s been 38 years since I last bought a Gregg Allman album. Back in ‘73, when I purchased his solo debut, ‘Laid Back’, Gregg Allman was riding a wave of popularity, coming from the album, ‘Brothers And Sisters’, as a member of The Allman Brothers Band.

Back then, the single, “Ramblin’ Man” was all over the radio, along with, “Jessica”, one of the greatest guitar Rock instrumentals, ever. Actually, both of those tunes were largely attributable to Dickey Betts, the band’s new guitarist, but in the wake of the deaths of both Duane Allman and Berry Oakley, there was still a lot of love in the room for Gregg.

In ’73, he was still a poster boy for what had been dubbed, Southern Rock, that quasi genre which nobody takes seriously anymore. All my friends were fans of The Allman Brothers back then but none seemed to share my near obsession with that first solo album. I remember hearing Gregg’s spooky reworking of, “Midnight Rider”, a song he’d already done with The Allman Brothers Band and resolving to buy the album at the first opportunity. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yojZ-Ksr8AE

There would be times in my future when that album would be something akin to a close friend. It was a cathartic exercise for Gregg Allman, filled with loneliness and empathy in songs like “Queen Of Hearts” and “Multi-Colored Lady”, and in the wake of his brother’s recent death, his versions of songs like, “All My Friends”, Jackson Browne’s, “These Days” and an elegiac, “Will The Circle Be Unbroken”, resonated as being particularly bruised and heartfelt.

Sounds weird, but it seemed there was something beautiful in all that sadness. There was a hint of levity, with a rock-house version of the Bobby McClure and Fontella Bass song, “Don’t Mess Up A Good Thing”, but mostly, the mood of the album was in keeping with it’s title.

Wailing, electric slide guitars may epitomise The Allman Brothers Band sound, but also among its trump cards has always been Gregg Allman’s vocals. From the very outset, on songs like, “Whipping Post”, Gregg Allman has proven his skills as a credible white Blues singer. On ‘Low Country Blues’, his first solo album in 14 years, Gregg Allman is still in fine voice, and completely at home.

Yesterday morning, I was reading the latest evaluation of Rock Music’s present state of health. The diagnosis was that Rock music is, finally, dead. It’s an assertion people have been intermittently voicing since the day Elvis quit recording for Sun.

Gregg Allman’s new album then, is a small but shining beacon on Rock’s apparently, terminal horizon. Most of the songs on ‘Low Country Blues’ are versions of vintage Blues songs from the likes of Muddy Waters, Junior Wells, Amos Milburn and ‘Magic’ Sam Maghett. Employing the production bona fides of T-Bone Burnett, ‘Low Country Blues’ revisits these songs of the old masters in a manner that is both faithful and real. After repeated listens, little nuances begin to emerge. It’s the difference between the many shades of Blues, from the rural acoustic style of the Skip James standard, “Devil Got My Woman”, to the elastic groove of Muddy Waters’ classic, “I Can’t Be Satisfied”, to the unmistakable Chicago riffing of Magic Sam on, “My Love Is Your Love”. (ie. Sam Maghett’s “magic” can largely be attributed to his first hit, “All Your Love”. On just about everything he recorded thereafter, he continually reinvented that song’s famous riff.)

The music on ‘Low Country Blues’, performed by guests including the likes of Mac Rebennack (Dr. John), and Doyle Bramhall II, is mature, unobtrusively precise, and reassuringly honest. And rolling above it, Gregg Allman broods, growls, testifies, and swings, over the album’s dozen songs. One original composition, “Just Another Rider”, sits comfortably in the middle, between songs by Bobby Bland and B.B. King. I imagine this album would sound great in a small bar or pool hall. It sure as hell sounds good through the headphones right now, with a thimble of Irish whiskey.

So, allay that handful of dirt you’re about to throw over Rock’s coffin.

I think there’s still a faint pulse.

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