Blues musicians aren’t born old. The 60s-era “rediscovery” of aging blues greats gave birth to an enduring image of elderly gentlemen picking guitars on rural front porches or blowing harmonica in forsaken urban gin mills, wizened by years of anonymous hard living. But the wistful melancholy of Skip James or the haunted introspection of Lightnin’ Hopkins becomes even more remarkable when one listens to some of their early recordings and remembers that these songs were created by young men in their prime, abrim with youthful exuberance yet still capable of crafting sophisticated folk poetry.
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Judge “Lucky” Peterson, in his mid-20s, is the living embodiment of youth. Lithe and wiry, he dashes from electric keyboard to acoustic piano and then straps on his guitar, hands flailing joyously through the octaves, face split wide by a toothy grin. Even more impressive, he’s got the musical facility to back it up: his keyboard work combines fleet upper-register bursts with swinging boogie-woogie bass. On guitar he sometimes seems on the verge of getting carried away by his own still-developing technical expertise. His solos take on a life of their own and threaten to overwhelm the song they’re supposed to be enhancing.
Last weekend at B.L.U.E.S., Peterson thrilled the audience with his musicianship and his antics. As a crowd-pleasing display of technical wizardry and audacious showmanship, his performance was unassailable. As a continuation of an honored musical tradition, however, it fell short.
The most jarring interpretation, however, came on “Little Red Rooster.” Peterson opened it up with a series of string bends as the band churned out a riff that sounded like Little Milton’s well-known cover of Johnnie Taylor’s “Little Bluebird.” Whether the aviary musical pun was intentional is uncertain, but Peterson’s “Rooster” was definitely a bird of an entirely different color. At one point he dropped to his knees in front of the stage and played several measures almost squashed to the floor. When he finally regained his feet he strode through the crowd while continuing to play.
Perhaps Peterson’s interest wanes when he’s playing material other than his own. He seemed to take things more seriously when he delved into songs from his recent album, such as “Pounding of My Heart,” a harsh funk-blues that found the band kicking in enthusiastically behind his hot keyboard work. Peterson’s years as a sideman in bands such as Bobby Bland’s have served him well; he lays down a tight rhythmic pocket for the bass and drums, even as he soars ecstatically above and around the melody line with his jagged right-hand explorations. His smooth Jack McDuff-like swing toward the beginning soon gave way to a series of pounding blues-rock punches, and the Stepchild Blues Band responded with some of their most coherent comping of the night. Even this one, though, was marred by an overlong rave-up finale.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Marc PoKempner.
