Despite brushes with extinction in the form of lineup changes, accidents, booze, drugs and a shrinking market for blues-rock, the Allman Brothers remain a powerhouse after three decades of off-and-on togetherness. Laugh if you must at a band that still insists on making room for drum solos by its three–count ’em, three–percussionists, but such indulgences aside, the Brothers still burn while most improvising jam bands prefer to meander.
Contemporaries of the Grateful Dead, the Brothers are often lumped in with the brigade of post-hippie jam bands. But whereas outfits such as Phish, the Dave Matthews Band and Blues Traveler have inherited the Dead’s mellow playfulness, the Allmans’ music continues to wield a switchblade and a broken whiskey bottle. At their best, the Allmans leave some blood on the floor.
Yet the Allmans aren’t above giving the Dead their due, as they did over the weekend at the New World Music Theatre. As Gregg Allman barked one of his band’s trademark odes to burly gypsies and ramblin’ men, “No One to Run With,” a video screen flashed pictures of rock ‘n’ roll’s dearly departed. Cheers greeted the images of Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon and Duane Allman. But the biggest applause was generated by portraits of the Dead’s Ron “Pigpen” McKernan and, of course, Jerry Garica.
No wonder the Brothers have taken to working the Dead’s material into their shows; on Saturday, it was an instrumental version of “Franklin’s Tower,” which segued into “Blue Sky.” Both tunes showcased the extravagantly lyrical, be-bop-like guitar playing of Dickey Betts, the virtuoso in the cowboy hat. With Gregg Allman and drummers Butch Trucks and Jaimoe, Betts remains a link to the band’s glory days.
Fresh inspiration arrived in 1989 with the addition of Warren Haynes on guitar and Allen Woody on bass, and later Marc Quinones on percussion, but Haynes and Woody left to pursue their own band last year. Haynes and Woody fit in perfectly–they played with a fire that rejuvenated Betts, and they had the look of long-haired, mutton-chopped, beer-bellied Harley hellions. There was nothing mellow about the early ’90s Allmans.
Their replacements, Jack Pearson and Oteil Burbridge, are dextrous musicians but quite a bit more self-effacing, and they looked and sounded like hired hands instead of fellow gang members at the World. The music was expertly performed, but rarely soared. The blood was missing.
So the old warhorses–“Dreams,” a tantalizing snippet of the epic “Mountain Jam,” T-Bone Walker’s “Stormy Monday”–lacked the requisite recklessness. More recent, tightly structured tunes such as Betts’ “Back Where It All Begins” and a tender unrecorded song, “Those Eyes Again,” were a better fit for the newcomers. It was here–free of the shadow of Duane Allman and Haynes–that Pearson made his strongest statement as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Betts and coaxed sweet anguish from his instrument. It was as good a place as any to start the Allmans’ next era.
