Who: The Code Talkers featuring Colonel Bruce Hampton
When: Saturday, December 8 at 10 pm
Where: Stella Blue 236.2424)
How Much: $10

The audience totaled five. My friend and I had gotten there early in anticipation of a line snaked around the building. This was Colonel Bruce Hampton, for crying out loud, the anti-hero of southern music. We were elated when we got inside and discovered we were the first two people inside to see the Colonel’s new band, the Fiji Mariners. Three more lucky witnesses sauntered in before the lights went down.

The Colonel didn’t even seem to notice that the staff outnumbered the revelers. It could have been 10 million people and I don’t think it would have mattered. Soul and weirdness popped out of the little fellow in equal bucketfuls. Backed only by a keyboard (the fabulous Dr. Dan Matrazzo) and maybe a drummer (hey, it was seven years ago), the Colonel would sit on his stool one minute, and the next he would wander through the microscopic crowd, popping a few hot licks for each of us. It was almost like the five of us had intruded on a very private moment between a man and his imaginary world of Zambiland.

Zambiland? Well it’s an imaginary world the Colonel and his superband, Aquarium Rescue Unit, created back in the early ‘90s. ARU’s music was so ahead of everything else out at the time that the rationale was that it originated in a fantastical place known as Zambiland. In this land, The Colonel was free to lyricize about odd characters and uncanny stories. It was like seeing a fantasy novelist armed with a guitar and the best “back-up” band in the world. The Colonel’s blissful tirades allowed the band to delve into territories known as Jam.

“A lot of musicians give lip service to the idea of spontaneity and improvisation, but Bruce Hampton brought the concept to new heights,” wrote Rob Johnson of jambands.com. “In his vision, it wasn’t merely acceptable to change keys or scales in the middle of a jam: It was acceptable to speak in tongues, climb the walls, or walk right out of the building. There were literally NO WRONG NOTES ...”

Understanding the Colonel is like trying to put a labyrinth in linear perspective. Interviews with the Colonel can sometimes be frustrating (in an enlightening sort of way) as he’ll sidestep into the “normal” and back into the territories that exist within his mind.

“Little can be gained by trying to write him off as a lunatic,” wrote Jamband’s Jesse Jarnow in a past interview. “It is far better just to surrender to the cause and see what he has to say. His theories are disconnected from the everyday language of music .... For all of his circus barker acts and astrological con-man shenanigans, Col. Bruce Hampton is either a complete liar or a total genius. If he does think and exist in the terms expressed in this interview... then, go* ***n. If it’s all just an elaborate scam, then more power to him.”

The Colonel was one asked by Michael B. Smith what Zambi was. The answer was, well, one for books (fictional and non):

“Wow. If you can explain ‘life and jazz,’ I’ll explain it!” said Hampton. “In 1974, I met a gentleman who was a sound man, and his name was Zambi. It’s an actual person. And he went 250,000 miles an hour backwards on the Skylab program. 1300 g’s backwards, which is impossible. It broke every bone in his body. He’s the fastest man ever, backwards. In 1979-80, we tried to open a Zambiland theme park in Georgia. It was an absurdity, but I actually started getting some momentum. Then in 1980 we had a Zambiland Orchestra for one gig, dedicated to Zambi. Then Aquarium Rescue Unit came along later, in 1990 or so, and we always praised Zambi, he was our spiritual leader, our mascot you might say. He’s also the world’s fastest man, backwards.”

Is this true? Who knows. But it’s a hell of a story.

My musical hero used to gargle peanut butter onstage. Of course, he couldn’t do that one on one with a mirror. That would have been, almost ... normal. Hampton had to have an unsuspecting audience. Confused concertgoers of the time had never seen fellows quite like the Hampton Grease Band — Hampton’s first official band, spawned from the sextet group, The Four of Nines. In an interview, Hampton recalled the freak show that was first brought to fruition in the Four of Nines:

“I have memories, it was 37 years ago,” he told Jamband’s Rob Turner. “There were six people in it, and that’s where I started in the music business. We were wild and crazy teenagers, completely insane. We drove an unmarked police car with a painting on the side of it, and it was pulling a trailer with garbage cans nailed to it. We would nail band members to the back of it and they would ride in it. It had a thousand coats of paint on it. This is pre-Beatles and pre-hippies, and we wore eyepatches and orange Day-Glo jackets. Nobody knew quite what to think. It was the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test years before it happened. And there was no acid involved either.”

It was guitarist Harold Kelly who discovered Hampton and brought him into the Four of Nine — “He’s the one that pulled me into this stuff,” he told Turner. “He saw me out playing basketball every day in a sport coat. It had a yellow sleeve painted. He just thought I was the weirdest guy he had ever seen. He just said, ‘Man you want to come sing?’ And it was like asking you if you want to go do brain surgery.

Sure, the 1960s had its share of freaks escaping from the woodwork, but no one had ever seen the likes of the fellow with the girth of a Hobbit and the weirdness of, well ... Bruce Hampton. His Grease band was classified cult the minute they stepped on stage and attracted followers from Duane Allman (who got them a gig with Bill Graham and the Fillmore East) to Frank Zappa (an oddity in his own right). Spin Magazine called the Hampton Grease Band’s album, “Music To Eat,” “one of the top five records to commit suicide to,” and was one of the worst selling albums in Columbia Records history. The band didn’t seem to notice because they were too caught up performing antics more random than events caught in a giant Cuisanart.

Stories of Hampton Grease Band shows are now in the annals of legendary. Perhaps the most notorious is when a riot almost broke out during one of the band’s opening performance for Zappa. Half the crowd absolutely loved the band, while the other half incessantly booed the strangeness that emanated from the stage. Another story recalls Hampton doing a karate kick in the air and kicking guitarist Glenn Phillips in the chest, sending him reeling into the speakers. People lucky (or odd) enough to know the band were sometimes allowed to bring their couch or chairs onstage and watch the band from the best seats in the house.

Hampton left the Grease Band in 1974 and became immersed in various projects. He did cameo appearances for Zappa on “We’re Only In it For the Money” and “Lumpy Gravy,” and Zappa returned the favor by coercing radio stations to play Bruce’s album, “One Ruined Life of a Bronze Tourist.”

It was the Colonel who created perhaps the most influential and talented band of the nineties, The Aquarium Rescue Unit. ARU defined the jamband era and their lineup made the word ‘marquee’ look generic. Names like bassist Oteil Burbridge (The Allman Brothers and his own band the Peacemakers), guitarist Jimmy Herring (Phil and Friends, Jazz is Dead), banjo Jeff Mosier (founder of Blueground Undergrass), and drummer Jeff Sipe (aka Apt.Q238, recently of Leftover Salmon) all defied the normal boundaries of time and space in regards to their playing. Each musician was free to explore his inner realms and somehow the individual pioneering led to a cohesive sound that parted the hair of many a concertgoer. In the middle was Hampton, guitarist, minimalist, and rant extraordinaire. The little man would be lucid one moment, and then an explosion from deep inside would bring him to life. His lyrics ranged from extraterrestrial visitors and fictional worlds to a Zen outlook on time (from the epic tune, “Time is Free”). It was a bonus when he brought his guitar to life, hard strumming a blues chord in the middle of a jazz (or other) frenzy.

The “Daddy of them all” is a common moniker down there in Atlanta. Musicians of the highest exponential order have claimed the Colonel as their respected elder. The lucky handful of times I’ve seen the Colonel grace the stage with Widespread Panic, guitarist and vocalist John Bell introduced Bruce as “my daddy.”

Bell, who happened upon Hampton by accident, was perhaps the first acolyte of Zambi. In the late ‘80s, he just happened to wander into the Little Five Points Pub one day and was flattened by a “weird old redneck dude who created powerful music” (from Jamband’s Rob Johnson). The spell hit the singer/songwriter and he was soon on the streets, spreading the gospel of the uncanny. Bell preached the word to Jeff Sipe, who then spread it to Jimmy Herring. Each of them talked about this little man who liberated them onstage. Chaos was a common rule and nothing was sacred. Eager musicians began to flock in and soon the Friday night jam sessions at the Little Five Points Pub became otherworldly.

The only thing missing was the name. Somewhere along the way, the pub began to be looked at as aquarium and all the lucky patrons as fish. It was up to the band to rescue these listeners from music of the stale variety. Henceforth, The Aquarium Rescue Unit.

Oteil and Sipe joined the cerebral fracas fulltime in 1988 and were followed by Herring and Matt Mundy (mandolin) in 1990. Their debut live album was a monster. Guests like Chuck Leavell (keyboardist for the Allman Brothers and the Rolling Stones) splintered sounds with the other members, creating perhaps the best live album of the nineties (Audiophile Magazine called the CD, “the finest live recording since the Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore East”). Their reputation ivied, and in 1992, The Colonel (along with Phish’s Trey Anastasio, John Bell, and Blues Traveler’s John Popper) formed the traveling music show, H.O.R.D.E. The festival was dedicated to exposing roots music from all over the country. First year members included ARU, Bela Fleck, Blues Traveler, Phish, and Widespread Panic. The tour was highly successful as fans were treated to all-star jams as one band meshed into another for impromptu sessions.

Health concerns mounted for the Colonel, and by 1994 he had to call it quits as the front (mad) man for ARU.

I didn’t leave (ARU),” Hampton told Smith. “I was told by the doctor to take a long break. My blood pressure was like three-million over three-million. It was pretty exhausting. I took about a four-month hiatus. Then I had to do something, so (the Fiji Mariners) was thrown together. I never wanted to leave the ARU. We played two gigs together last year [one being at the Warren Haynes’s Christmas Jam] and maybe we’ll play some more this year.”

The Colonel’s next project was the Fiji Mariners and featured Dr. Dan Matrazzo and the percussion shaman, Count Mbutu. The Fijis stayed together until 1999 and their live prowess was whispered in the same breath as ARUs. Their style was more funky and primal than the former, and followers began to flock to the weekend gatherings at the Brandyhouse in Atlanta. Strangely, at the band’s apex of popularity, they split up.

The Code Talkers (formed in 1999) is perhaps the Colonel’s most accessible band to date. Equal attention is given to Bobby Lee Rogers (guitar, banjo, mandolin, and other assorted fretted instruments), who writes and produces all of the recorded material for the Code Talkers. Bobby — a graduate of Berklee School of Music — is a wunderkind on anything his fingers meld to. He has toured or recorded with the likes of McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Heath, and Sting; and he even did a touring stint with the ‘80s techno band Missing Persons.

It was actually Bobby who formed the Code Talkers with drummer Nick Buda “Zeato” (drummer), who originally hails from Capetown, South Africa. Bobby decided to move back to hometown Atlanta to build a fan base for his band, The Herd. One night, at the Brandyhouse, Bobby and the band hooked up with the Colonel, who lent his internal wizardry to the set. A couple of weeks later, the Code Talkers popped out of the womb.

Rounding out the new band was Ted Pecchio “Trombetta” (bass). Also known as Trombetta the Coconut Man, Ted has played with mercurial bands, including a stint with Bernie Worrell (of Parliament Funkadelic fame).

The Colonel once again can deliver his hellfire sermons to a crowd that soaks in every word, no matter if they comprehend or not. More likely not.

Hampton has even taken a liking to the world of the thespian. He appeared in friend Billy Bob Thornton’s “Sling Blade”and in “Outside Out,” a movie by Phish’s Mike Gordon, which features Bruce as a guitar instructor who teaches “how to play out.” The latter film won best picture at SXSW 2000 and can be bought on Phish’s website.

Has Zambi finally become a figment? Not in this world. Every Christmas (on Dec. 18 this year), Jeff Sipe gathers the forces of nuttiness for an annual benefit concert, appropriately named The Zambiland Orchestra. Members of (to name a smattering few) Leftover Salmon, Phish, and Widespread Panic come together to jam with the man who made them stretch their rationality noodle into the Zambi realm. Joe Zambi, the namesake of this mythical world, is usually in attendance, and presides over the buffet of sounds that swirl, expand and congregate until 4 a.m. Normality is slung around like an anger management rag doll, and it’s tossed out the door before it can utter a complaint. The Colonel wouldn’t have it any other way.

(Hunter Pope can be reached at w.h.pope@worldnet.att.net)

 

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