“It may seem like we take a lot of time between songs. That’s because there’s no time in our dimension…and we have the passports to prove it.”
And so a bearded and barefoot Chris Robinson addressed the crowd Thursday before the Black Crowes frontman’s solo band kicked into their fifth song of the night. The ensuing tune, a spirited cover of the Grateful Dead’s “Bertha,” ignited a roomful of noodle-dancing inside Birmingham, Ala.'s Workplay Theatre.
Robinson, 44, still has those soulful pipes. However, the bolt onto which they are woven in Chris Robinson Brotherhood, his newest side-project, is a different hue than The Crowes’ loud, Faces-meets-Allmans boogie. CRB is more akin to the sticky, blue-eyed R&B of Delanie & Bonnie. There’s a half-ounce of ’60s Marin County-style jamming in there, too.
Of the three or so configurations of Robinson’s solo bands, this one seems the most in-tune with the music he’s gravitated toward as he’s gotten older.
That said, the Workplay show was slow out of the gate. “Tomorrow Blues” is pretty woozy for an opening song, although the spaceship-like noise Adam MacDougall conjured from his bunker of vintage keyboards did not go unappreciated.
A strolling “Roll On Jeremiah,” a bluegrass-y track from the Crowes 2009 double-LP “Before the Frost...Until the Freeze,” followed.
By the third number, “Tough Mama,” CRB settled into its wheelhouse. A tight, stoned amalgamation, punctuated by hirsute guitarist Neal Casal’s spidery Jerry Garcia licks, plucked on a crimson Gibson SG. MacDougall’s wah-wah blurts greased the wheel.
Later in the first set, CRB delivered a new, standout gospel-tinged ballad, “Star or Stone.” Yes, the first set. After an hour-plus run through eight songs, the California-based quintet took a 30-minute or so break – How many bong hits do you need, bros? - returning to play for another 90 minutes or so.
The second set belonged to drummer George Sluppick and bassist Mark Dutton. The duo’s trance-y yet rootsy groove was unrelenting, with Sluppick working his blue kit from underneath a 10-gallon cowboy hat while the afro-ed Dutton laid down thick lines on a vintage cheapo bass. The rhythm section’s acumen was particularly evident on “Ride,” an absolute booty shaker.
In addition to belting out his trademark vocals, Robinson, clad in faded tie-dye and jeans, played crystalline-toned, chicken-scratch rhythm guitar on every song. He even pulled off a few solid-if-simple blues solos on his orange Vox guitars.
The striding “Sunday Sound,” which like “Ride” is from Robinson’s otherwise mellow 2002 solo debut “New Earth Mud,” drifted on a mid-tempo river. “Girl on the Mountain,” from the singer’s underrated 2004 “This Magnificent Distance” LP, was a druggy mist.
The band’s encore, a roll through Willie Dixon’s “Seventh Son,” was more chill than thrill.
But Robinson is clearly in his own skin playing psychedelic soul music. It’s an age-appropriate vocation. I can't imagine Robinson in his 40s crawling around the stage with his shirt half-unbuttoned and pretending to be Mick Jagger, like he was the first time I saw the Crowes live, at a 1990 show opening for Robert Plant in a Birmingham arena.
Chris Robinson looks a lot happier now.
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