“Don’t Tell the Band”
Widespread Panic
Psst ... don’t tell the band that I’m starting to become an old crabapple. Before I can control my voice, the sentences spurt out, “back when I was young [fill in the blank]” Yes, the days of seeing Widespread Panic with less than a hundred fanatics has drawn to a close. Also, the landmark albums, “Space Wrangler” (released in 1986) and “Mom’s Kitchen” (released in 1991) will never be replicated. Soul inside outers like “Driving Song” and “Barstools and Dreamers” showed Panic at their pioneering best — infusing lyrics into songs that defied the four-minute and out radio format. Eight minutes, 10 minutes and even 17 minutes marked the band’s penchant for searching until all six could find the correct wormhole. Every once in awhile, lead singer John Bell would growl a meaningful stanza, which lent a shot of vocal whiskey to an already volatile concoction.

Panic still tears it up live and their marathon forays are evident in every show. The albums, however, have gotten shorter. Songs have been trimmed down like a hippie succumbing to a corporation. This is the mark of a veteran band that is sure of themselves; they know what they want and they can get the point across in a more efficient matter. Panic also relies on communal input and nobody takes credit over the other (check any of the liner notes and they always simply state, “songs written by Widespread Panic”). The ultimate test is the road weary fans whose ears always pique up when a wayward note has found its way into Panic’s repertoire

“(The new songs have) been refined, either intentionally or unintentionally, while we’ve played them live over the better part of a year,” says singer-guitarist John Bell in the liner notes. “We’ll take any inspiration wherever it’s coming from. If something happens spontaneously on stage, we recapture it and challenge it to be a real song.”

There are 12 new challenges on their new release, “Don’t Tell the Band” (Sanctuary Records, Panic’s first record with this company) and it’s evident that the sextet has not backed down. The album was recorded at longtime producer (and friend) John Keane’s (R.E.M., Indigo Girls) studio in Athens, Ga.
To make sure the polish was buffed, the band enlisted engineer Doug Trantow (Tracy Chapman, Sugar Ray, Limp Bizkit) to create a studio album as impulsive as Panic’s live fireworks. Saxophonist Randall Bramlett (Sea Level and Traffic) even manifests his boogie power on Panic’s cover of a Firehouse song, “Sometimes.”

The most noticeable trait on the new (ninth overall, seventh studio) album is the attention to writing. The band has always overachieved in this area and it’s strangely taken till now for the world of fields, parking lots, and theaters to realize how good these six musicians are at lyrical content. It almost stopped my old crone (“ehhh, where are the jams?”) whining.

It’s also an album that lacks a theme. Each tune has a diverse personality, a kind of U.N. for genres. Ballads, cosmic country, jazz, Latin, psychedelia and rock all gather around the campfire, swapping stories about Asian good luck charms, extinction (man and animal), Kafka, poverty and even racehorses.
The tales begin with “Little Lilly,” a little ditty about the power of belief. This is vintage Panic — blossomy jams, elusive meanings, and downright nastiness. The decision to put “Lilly” at the beginning of the album was tactful. It moves and sways with a swampy vigilance, telling Lilly (and wary listeners) “it’s only real if you believe.” It slithers like a snake caught in the speakers and it doesn’t relent until the track number heroically moves on to song number two. There is no respite as the hard-rocking “Give” commands attention (and perhaps a downward twist of the volume). This is perhaps Panic’s most radio friendly song (they performed it on Letterman) and its 3 1/2-minute explosion fits snug on commercial formats. The ogre of the album, “Imitation Leather Shoes” comes bellowing next. The tip to Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis” is unmistakable, and the dark undertones of the tunes are unshakeable.

The listener also gets treated to not one, but four different lead voices. John Bell has always been the vocal protagonist, but Michael Houser (lead guitarist), John Hermann (keyboards and other assorted toys), and Todd Nance (drums) all contribute lead duties on the new album. Nance’s “Down” shows that the drummer is being allowed up front because he is a fortified singer. John Bell provides a smidgen of back up netting on the song, but Nance’s rich baritone proves that the drummer can have a signature song. Michael Houser’s “This Part of Town” starts off with an elegant piano solo (thank you, Mr. Hermann), before delving into a discussion about unseen poverty (“Tell me brother, can you see the sun right where you’re standing/I’ve been up and I’ve been down but I’ve never been to this part of town”). John Keane shows off his pedal steel knowledge on this tune and lends a haunting landscape to Houser’s go-ahead guitar stylings.

Hermann’s “Big Wooly Mammoth” follows that same political vein, but he directs his barbs at perhaps our most endangered species  man. A little bit of Professor Long Hair (Hermann’s biggest influence) is evident on this hard-rocking piece. Imagine if heavy metal procreated with ragtime and the end result is “Big Wooly.” This cruncher lands just in time for “Tears of a Woman” — an instrumental courtesy of the backbone rhythm section, Dave Schools (bass), Todd Nance, and Domingo Sonny Ortiz (percussion). “Tears” is a juicy treat at shows and its inclusion here gives the listener an (all-too-brief) understanding how important the rhythm triumvirate is.

Sonny Ortiz’s vocals may not be heard, but his influence is unmistakable. His Latin background lends pico de gallo to “Casa Del Grillo” (“House of the Crickets”). Heavy percussion, lonesome guitars and sprinkles of Spanish lyrics all intrude into the abode of chirpers. The words are striking as Bell moves between English and Spanish like a stealthy two-timer. “Casa” is a new sound for the band and I’m curious about how this will unfold in the future.

Need something greasy? Try and down some indigestible funk on “Thought Sausage.” Craving a tender ballad? “Old Joe” who “moves slow” will make you want to “live long and lucky.” Looking for more animal odes? The rapid fire, “Action Man” praises the efforts of the equine divinity, Man-O-War.

The title track, “Don’t Tell the Band,” is the last of the “campfire yarns.” Houser once again comes forward to tell a tale of bands that played till the reaper applauded. Doomed performers in the Confederate Army and their regal counterparts on the Titanic are martyred for their willingness to celebrate music to the fiery end. Houser also looks to a future event (an oceanic disaster) at a “restaurant at the end of the universe” — a literary nod to Douglas Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series. The song’s poppy feel is an anticlimactic end to the album, but the story provides an interesting perspective on how intermingled life and death is with music.

Change is always inevitable and my cravings for songs with Plastic Man elasticity will subside (until the next live show). Yes, Panic’s songs are condensed, but they still are able to pack in a myriad of meanings in a four-minute slot. So after taking my Geritol and climbing through the snow barefoot to get the mail, I succumb to petite Panic.

Live Jams 2000
Dr. Didg:
What’s wooden, hollowed out in the middle, a throat extender and capable of danceable grooves? No, it’s not James Brown’s golem, nor is it a large flute created by George Clinton. The answer lays in Australia, where insects (for thousands of years) have hollowed out logs and inadvertently created one of the world’s oldest wind instruments the didgeridoo. The main members of these buzzing symphonies are Aboriginal settlements, who use the rhythmic drones in ceremonial and social settings.

Most people perceive the gangly instrument as a purveyor of background music, a mere sound effect.
Dr. Graham Wiggins, (Ph. D. physics, Oxford) aka Dr. Didg, is proving that the didgeridoo is in the same league as a bass, drum or rhythm guitar. In fact, he’s created rhythms around his instrument that make it impossible to stand still. Wiggins uses what is called sampling. In a live setting, he plays into a digital looping device to build layers of rhythm and texture with his three other band members, Todd Wright (guitarist), Scott Eisenberg (drummer), and Brad Shirmer (bass). Wiggins will blow a repeating riff on didgeridoo, then sample it to begin each loop. Adding to the swirling pandemonium, Wiggins then plays the keyboards (in addition to the didg), expanding the range of repeating loops with his band mates.

The instrument first consumed Wiggins when he was an undergrad at Boston University. One night, he saw a local musician demonstrating the mechanics of the didgeridoo by using a cardboard mailing tube. Wiggins was imprinted for life. He dashed home, took the tube out of a roll of Christmas wrapping paper and began searching for the elusive blow.

The triad marriage of lips, throat and mystic wood carried overseas to Oxford University where the name, Dr. Didg, duct-taped to his persona. As a doctorate physics student, Graham studied the instrument in both research laboratories and on the pavements of England. This is where he learned the ancient art of circular breathing (a technique that horn players use to extend notes).

“You drive the rhythm with your breath, and create the tone around the basic pitch, so it’s kind of musically similar to a Jew’s harp, but in fact, the didgeridoo is quite unique,” Wiggins told the Boston Globe. “Unlike most wind instruments, where music is shaped between a narrow mouthpiece and finger valves, the didgeridoo is almost an extension of your throat.”

Try not to think of Dr. Didg as some side show attraction picked up by wayward carnies (“ladies and gentlemen come see the mild-mannered musician triumph over the wooden beast from Down Under!”). He is considered the foremost didgeridoo player outside Australia, and in 1992 he spent three months in a remote Aboriginal settlement studying traditional playing techniques. His first band, Outback, released two albums, which topped the Billboard’s music chart. Other musicians slake their curiosity with his presence  Tony Levin, the String Cheese Incident, The Slip, Keller Williams, Taj Mahal, and the Radiators have all requested the “hollowed” presence of the doctor; he was featured on Mickey Hart’s latest release, Planet Drum “Supralingua;” and in 1993, at the Oakland Coliseum, the Grateful Dead invited him on stage to play alongside drummers Hart and Bill Kreutzmann.

After living in England for 15 years, Graham moved back to Boston and put together the lineup that’s featured on the live album, “Dr. Didg: Live Jams 2000.” The kind of publicity he enjoyed in Europe (as well as earning other musician’s perpetual respect) has allowed Wiggins to finally use his “funk physician’s moniker” in the marquee. The present band has lassoed in listeners who enjoy a whipped concoction of dub, jam and trance music. This Lego connection between techno and (what critics have defined as) “neo-hippie groove” music has been called “Organica.” Its attraction also rests on the fact that it is very tribal in nature.

“With the didgeridoo, it’s the breathing, in and out, that drives the rhythm,” Wiggins explained to the Boston Globe. “I think maybe it resonates with other people who also breathe and have heartbeats. It’s rooted in a naturalistic kind of groove.”

The new album is like one big live show. The music takes off before the starting gun even cracks, and it doesn’t land until the final track. “Mike Gordon Stole My Girl”, comes to a blistering finale. The didgeridoo is the star here, and its voice penetrates the body’s defenses before sitting quite lovely on the soul. The supporting cast (bass, drums, keyboards, and lead guitar) is like having netting two feet under the tightrope. Each musician is secure in his intentions and their instrumentals are confident alongside the strong personality of the didgeridoo.

It’s also quite funky. When Wiggins isn’t summoning breaths on his destined instrument, he’s lacing the didg grooves with the keyboard (an instrument he’s also quite good at). Guitarist Wright understands Wiggins’s circular wanderings and he fills the gaps with banshee solos and swirling reverberations. There’s so many sounds to deal with — blasts of psychedelia, bubbles of house music, teases of jazz, tufts of Middle Eastern — that one listen is laughable. Pay special heed to “Soundcheque,” “The Bunny” and “Mike Gordon Stole My Girl.” Don’t play these tracks before work (unless your employer likes the stench of BO), if you’re injured (crutches could be accidentally used for pole-dancing), or if you’re just, well ... scared. Learning that the didgeridoo is vessel of the funk is a heavy thing to filter. However, I implore all willing ears not to be timid. The buzz of the Australian Outback meshed with the deviated bleeps of the computer age is a grand thing to hear. Besides, Dr. Graham Wiggins is professionally trained in his field. When has a doctor ever been wrong?

 

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