11:00 PM
The parking lot wasn’t exactly begging for activity, but the night, the weak light, the weather all combined to make it look …hunkered down. The predicted sleet and ice didn’t show. In their place, a cold rain fell, sometimes driven by the wind and made even colder, sometimes heavy, sometimes light or moderate but always wet. The weatherman missed only the form the precipitation took. He nailed the volume. Given the weather, I wondered who would show. I parked and got soaked on the way in.
A set was in progress. The volume was good; the sounds had life, a feel. A quick scan of the dim, small room, the bar, the tables and a few patrons shrouded in smoke told me enough people were here. Despite the weather, this could be a good night.
The place is Darwin’s, located about a mile east of Marietta’s
“Big Chicken” on
Roswell Road. Their motto, “Darwin’s, where the evolution of blues
began.” The occasion was Wednesday night’s open blues jam.
Three or four steps later, I was to a vacant stool at the bar. The stage, the current set’s participants, the action, fifteen feet to my left
“Anyone sittin’ here?” I asked of the person to my right. Combined gestures, an opened palm, a head nod, told me the spot was mine for the evening. Giving the stool a quarter turn to face the stage, I sat down and lit a Salem.
Not more than a minute passed before Teresa approached, all smiles, the definition of energy. Despite the conditions, or in defiance of them, as an affront to them, she wore shorts, tennis shoes and a black Bailey’s Irish Cream tee shirt. On the back, in a bold block font, it said: Frost me…Cream me… Dew me…
Her eyes large, outlined and bright, her smile impish, mischievous, her hair
in a loose clump with a mind of it’s own, she asked, all in one word,
leaning on her elbows over the bar, “What’llyahaveSweetie?”
Pulling out my credit card, I ordered a Jack straight up with water on the side.
I’d nurse it. “No. That’s ok. You’re not a runner,”
she said, and was gone. Replacing the card, I looked around again. Posters hawking
bands or events, pictures of musicians – some famous – and bumper
stickers cover every square inch of available space. They’re on the ceiling,
the walls, the ice machine, the doors, just everywhere, all with their own little
story.
My eyes turned to the stage. It’s outlined by tiny, clear Christmas tree
lights.
A silver drape, used as a backdrop and outlined by the same clear lights, shimmers
under their glow. Red, green and clear spots, housed in cheap aluminum clamp-on
fixtures, add emphasis. The fixtures are unimportant. Mirrors that line the
side and back walls reflect the whole scene.
On stage, finishing a set, singing and playing drums was Larry Griffith. His
is one of the few last names anyone knows. Last names don’t have much
meaning at Darwin’s on Wednesday nights. A Lou Rawls without the sandpaper,
Larry gives “Oh Baby, You Don’t Have to Go” a mellow, sultry
sound. He is supported by a bass guitar player, name unknown, with cantilevered
eyebrows, TJ on lead guitar with his left foot in a cast and Morris on harp.
They gave the piece body and depth.
The set ends to appropriate applause, a few whistles.
The musicians mingle. Cokes ordered, water glasses refilled. Their conversations,
the pieces I overheard, and their actions centered on music. How to play this
cord, or how someone’s guitar “feels.”
It’s Wednesday night at Darwin’s and it’s all about music.
11:30 PM
The next set starts shaping up.
It featured JT, (not TJ), singing and playing lead guitar. He’s young with curly black hair, large black eyes, and an easy, quick smile.
He begins with a foreboding “Hey Joe. I Heard You Shot Your Woman Down,” then moves right into the anxious, rapid and high “One Way Out, Baby.” With lines like, I can’t go out that door / Might be your lover man there, his guitar and the keyboard, even on the off beat, are shrill and dangerous.
After playing, “There’s A Red House Over Yonder,” a selection with haunting lines and a Delta feel, the players end the set with an instrumental number, the best of the evening.
It opens with a crying alto sax, played by a small young guy in a red beret, a cross dangling from one pierced ear. His sax jumps with a life, a beat. JT joins in, swiping, whipping his guitar to build intensity. The keyboard comes in and solos with a movement reminiscent of The Doors. And all the while, the drums and bass guitar under pinned the effort with a dark, rumbling beat. After five or six minutes of alternating instruments, intense crescendos and shadowy lows, the alto sax, the opener, closes out the number, and set, with a primal anguish.
Appreciation explodes from the listeners.
The place is heatin’ up.
12:30 AM
I watched again as other musicians take the stage.
The lead number features John on drums singing “I’ve Been Tied
to the Whipping
Post.” He’s big man with a shaved head and eighth notes tattooed
on the back of his neck. In a voice reminiscent of a masculine Carol King with
a Stevie Nix edge, he delivers the song with ample portions of first remorse,
then suspicion, and finally vengeance. He is into it.
And so, the evening continued; different singers, guitar players, drummers, with different styles, feels and influences, but all with an intense, genuine effort to deliver good, real music just for the sake of the music.
Like Morris said at one point during the evening, “ It’s Wednesday night. This is Darwin’s. This is an ‘A’ place.”
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Copyright © 2002 by Rodney Vickery. All rights reserved.
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