Buddy Guy (w. Memphis Slim): Southside Reunion

BUDDY GUY: SOUTHSIDE REUNION (w. Memphis Slim) (1972)

1) When Buddy Comes To Town; 2) How Long Blues; 3) Good Time Charlie; 4) You Call Me At Last; 5) You're The One; 6) No; 7) Help Me Some; 8) Rolling And Tumbling; 9*) Jamming At The Castle; 10*) You're The One (alt. version).

Strictly speaking, this is more of a Memphis Slim record than a Buddy Guy one: he is listed first of the two, he sings most of the vocals, and he apparently dominates the track selection. But that does not formally prevent one from including it in Buddy Guy's discography, and besides, it's a nice record, so let us use Buddy's involvement in it as a pretext to give it a friendly mention that it totally deserves.

The session in question was recorded by Slim and Buddy when they happened to cross paths in Europe, when Buddy was touring with the Stones, and is marked as having taken place on Sep­tember 17-18, 1970. Subsequent information, as it always happens, in controversial: apparently, the album was released by Warner Bros. in 1972, but since then, there's been at least several official and unofficial re-releases, on different labels and with different track listings. My version is a 2004 CD reissue on the French specialized Maison de Blues label, with eight «main» and two «bonus» tracks, whatever that might mean in the present case. Yours might be different, and in time, we may hold an international symposium to sort it out and draw scientific conclusions.

In the meantime, what matters is that this is (predictably) not a very original or deeply inspired blues jam session, but (unpredictably) with a pretty high fun quotient. With Junior Wells joining the dynamic duo on harmonica, and a strong brass section in tow, much of the accent is placed on energetic boogie numbers, like the opening ʻWhen Buddy Comes To Townʼ, and there are few pianists in this world better suited to boogieing the hell out of their instrument than Memphis Slim, one of the few to not only perfectly feel the spirit of the pre-war jump blues of Pete Johnson and Amos Milburn, but to expand on it with more complex, but no less fun playing. On all these numbers, it is Slim, not Buddy, who is the real hero — but Buddy is also doing his best, playing "thin" jump blues guitar in the style of Chuck Berry or even T-Bone Walker rather than doing his Hendrix imitations.

Most of the songs here are credited to "Peter Chatman" — the name of Memphis Slim's (John Len Chatman's) father, to whom Slim respectfully credited all of his own compositions; but, also quite predictably, there is really not much here in terms of composition, since you can find all of these melodies on, say, a best-of compilation by T-Bone Walker or quite a few other old rhythm-and-bluesmen. Only ʻRolling And Tumblingʼ continues to be credited to Muddy Waters, even if that is actually the one song that has changed the most, being converted to a slow 12-bar blues and losing its distinctive melody — a rare case where old lyrics were transposed to a new arran­gement rather than vice versa.

I cannot insist that Memphis Slim and Buddy Guy are a perfect pair for each other, but I do know that two great players on a generic blues recording is always a better bet than one, and if you throw in Junior's harmonica, you get stuff like ʻJamming At The Castleʼ, three minutes of fast, intense blues-boogie that is well worth the price of the entire album. And it does include some of the best examples of Buddy's "traditional-restrained", but still mighty energetic guitar playing that would rarely, if ever, be heard in his late Seventies' / early Eighties' period, let alone the post-Damn Right revival — so a gentle thumbs up is perfectly justified.

Buddy Guy: Live At The Checkerboard Lounge

BUDDY GUY: LIVE AT THE CHECKERBOARD LOUNGE (1979/1988)

1) Buddy's Blues (part 1); 2) I've Got A Right To Love My Woman; 3) Tell Me What's Inside Of You; 4) Done Got Over You; 5) The Things I Used To Do; 6) You Don't Know How I Feel; 7) The Dollar Done Fell; 8) Buddy's Blues (part 2); 9) Don't Answer The Door; 10) Tell Me What's Inside Of You (version 2).

For somebody as prolific over the past twenty years as Buddy Guy, the amount of archival re­leases in his catalog is surprisingly small; apparently, he really spent most of his time in the six­ties, seventies, and eighties outside of the studio, and rarely had the opportunity or desire to bo­ther with professional recording equipment during his live shows at the time. Add to this the overall confusion with his pre-Damn Right discography — for this particular archival release, for instance, although all sources agree that it comes from a show at the Checkerboard Lounge in Chicago in 1979 (because that's essentially what the album cover tells you), different sources indicate different years of provenance, from 1979 itself to 1988 to 1995. I've also encountered no less than three different track sequencings, and I think my own copy has a fourth...

...anyway, let the specialists bother about trivia like these; my job is simply to tell people whether the music is any good. Overall, this seems to be typical fare for Buddy in that time period: he is not being too loud or cocky, he is not yet even close to building up his image of a «survivor» or a «blues saviour», he plays lots of «semi-originals» (i. e. generic 12-bar blues tunes with new lyrics made on the spot), and he sounds like a fun guy to hang around with, as he always does. Also, the sound quality, while not perfect, at least indicates a professional recording, although the engineer still deserves a good whipping for tampering too much with the controls; sometimes the rhythm section miraculously disappears, only to re-emerge a few seconds later as the control guy realises he must have overdone it with the volume level on Buddy's mike.

Minor points of interest include: (a) the main melody of Cream's ʻStrange Brewʼ remade into ʻTell Me What's Inside Of Youʼ (the man didn't even bother to change the phrase "inside of you"), which, for some reason, is featured here in two versions, indicating that there was probably more than one show taped after all; (b) Buddy's social conscience flashing in the form of ʻThe Dollar Done Fellʼ, a lengthy funky jam full of complaints against inflation and gasoline prices — essen­tially, though, it's just Buddy doing his clownish James Brown thing all over again; (c) the «ori­ginal» ʻDon't Answer The Doorʼ dropping all pretense and transforming back into ʻSweet Little Angelʼ, replete with loving how she spreads her little wings and all.

It is well possible that I missed a few particularly awesome guitar licks every now and then, but on the whole, this is just predictably solid all the way through — very straightforward blues solo­ing, all the note chains as familiar as your ten fingers. Very little stage banter, too, so maybe this is a better choice for those who love their Buddy as unpretentious and «un-patriarchal» as pos­sible. Otherwise, don't bother.

Buddy Guy: Born To Play Guitar

BUDDY GUY: BORN TO PLAY GUITAR (2015)

1) Born To Play Guitar; 2) Wear You Out; 3) Back Up Mama; 4) Too Late; 5) Whiskey, Beer & Wine; 6) Kiss Me Quick; 7) Crying Out Of One Eye; 8) (Baby) You Got What It Takes; 9) Turn Me Wild; 10) Crazy World; 11) Smarter Than I Was; 12) Thick Like Mississippi Mud; 13) Flesh & Bone; 14) Come Back Muddy.

I suppose that's Buddy playing his guitar with his teeth on the sleeve photo out there, but for what it's worth, one might also get the impression that he just keeled over his instrument and fell asleep in the middle of the session or concert. Perhaps it works both ways; in any case, I wouldn't call the photo particularly appropriate or inspiring, and the same judgement applies, more or less, to the entire album.

Here's how it starts: "I was bo-o-o-orn in Louisiana..." (how many times does he have to remind us?), followed by a standard introductory blues lick. The rest of the track explains how the very fact of his being born in Louisiana made it imminent and inavoidable that he would, in fact, be born to play guitar, along with some nice, quiet samples of said guitar playing. "A polka dot guitar will be resting (rusting?) on my grave". Sounds pretty convincing. The only problem is, how many of us still remain to be convinced? At least ʻLiving Proofʼ kicked ass, volume-wise; ʻBorn To Play Guitarʼ just says it, rather than screams it. And this applies to the album in gene­ral: there are very few, if any, outstanding guitar parts (one interesting exception are the wah-wah parts in ʻCrazy Worldʼ and ʻTurn Me Wildʼ, but they're kind of buried right in the middle of a long series of by-the-book 12 bar playing).

Later on down the line, you get ʻWear You Outʼ, a fun collaboration with Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top — and indeed, the song does sound a little ZZ Top-ish; the partnership is quite natural, too, considering how Buddy likes to rough it up every once in a while (more natural, in fact, than the Santana duet on Living Proof). The other guest appearances are not as successful — Kim Wilson plays Sonny Boy Williamson-style harmonica on ʻToo Lateʼ and ʻKiss Me Quickʼ (Sonny Boy played it better anyway); Joss Stone shares lead vocals on ʻYou Got What It Takesʼ (could have invited, oh, I dunno, Sheryl Crow with the same results); and Van Morrison is drafted to sing ʻFlesh & Boneʼ, a soul number dedicated to the memory of B. B. King — inevitably touching, yes, but still way too perfunctory. Neither Van, nor Buddy's guitar, nor the gospel backups manage to rise to any ecstatic heights here... although, who knows, in a hundred years from now people might look back on this fusion of great vocal and instrumental talent in their waning years and melt away in admiration.

Overall, there are no real highlights here, although at least there are no serious lowlights, either: best of all, there's no sign of Keith Urban or Kid Rock, and this is why this album gets no thumbs down from me. The guest stars are respectable, the songs try to be a tiny bit original, and Buddy Guy has never stopped being good, and I will personally defend his right to come out with a new album every two years: if ʻBorn To Play Guitarʼ and ʻCome Back Muddyʼ will be followed by ʻGuitar Playing Is My Businessʼ and ʻI Said Come Back, Muddy!ʼ in 2017, to me this will only signify that Buddy is still alive and well, and it will be nice to know that in an age when heroes are dropping around like flies. So you might even buy this thing to let the man know we still love him. You don't really have to listen to it. Just admire the karma.

Buddy Guy: Rhythm & Blues

BUDDY GUY: RHYTHM & BLUES (2013)

CD I: 1) Best In Town; 2) Justifyin'; 3) I Go By Feel; 4) Messin' With The Kid; 5) What's Up With That Woman; 6) One Day Away; 7) Well I Done Got Over It; 8) What You Gonna Do About Me; 9) The Devil's Daughter; 10) Whiskey Ghost; 11) Rhythm Inner Groove.

CD II: 1) Meet Me In Chicago; 2) Too Damn Bad; 3) Evil Twin; 4) I Could Die Happy; 5) Never Gonna Change; 6) All That Makes Me Happy Is The Blues; 7) My Mama Loved Me; 8) Blues Don't Care; 9) I Came Up Hard; 10) Poison Ivy.

Look, we all love Buddy Guy. He is one of the coolest blues players around — the coolest blues player still left alive from his generation, probably, and the world will never be the same when he's gone. But that doesn't mean that we just have to keep spending our time on every new album of his, and certainly not on a double album, unless that double album has anything specifically in­teresting to say. And the fact that this album is called Rhythm & Blues, and the first disc is supposed to be «rhythm» and the second is supposed to be «blues» is not a specifically interesting fact on its own. Not to mention that it's a fickle distinction anyway.

The worst news here is that the record, once again, is just too damn slick. On Living Proof, Guy at least sounded excited and eager to, well, prove that he can still outplay any new sucker in town. Here, that excitement seems largely dissipated, and the songs, most of them not-too-original ori­ginals co-written by Buddy with a pack of songwriting partners (Tom Hambridge, Richard Fle­ming, and others), are melodically boring and played by-the-book. You know something's not quite right when the record greets you with the opening riff and it's... uh... Miley Cyrus' ʻParty In The USAʼ. Well, okay, that one's probably a funny coincidence, but fact is, everything here is remade, sterile, safe, and dull.

It certainly does not help matters much that the new bunch of guest stars, in place of Derek Trucks or Santana, now includes bland singer-songwriters like Beth Hart, handsome sentimen­talists like Keith Urban, and evil scourges of humanity like Kid Rock, let alone three grizzled members of Aerosmith who really have no business on a Buddy Guy album. The only pleasant collaboration here is with rising blues star Gary Clark Jr., but his abilities seem wasted on an up­beat track like ʻBlues Don't Careʼ where he just gets a brief rip-it-up solo of speedy trills, choking on themselves (if you know nothing about him, he's usually much better on his own albums). I think these guests are quite indicative, really — and, with disgusting predictability, Kid Rock joins Buddy on nothing else than ʻMessin' With The Kidʼ. Dear Mr. American Bad Ass, could you please not pollute the production of your elders with your presence any more?

Not that the elimination of bad guest appearances would have saved the album anyway. Buddy plays okay throughout, but we know that he is capable of more than «okay», even at this old age, and the only reason why he is not rising to the occasion is that he is not trying to — the emphasis here is on crafting a slick, commercial piece of product. Every once in a while, there's a flash of raw greatness (ʻWhat's Up With That Womanʼ, on which he is backed by the Muscle Shoal Horns, is probably a good example), but for an album that runs well over eighty minutes, these flashes come all too rarely.

I understand that a thumbs down rating here may seem unnecessarily harsh, but see, at this time in history there is simply no need for Mr. Guy to come out with albums like this — I don't think he needs the money that bad, and if he wants to transmit his expertise to a younger generation of players, he can just do it in his basement and leave us out of it. (Not to mention that the only thing that needs to be transmitted to somebody like Kid Rock is a free one-way ticket to Saint Helena island). Basically, there's nothing good on this record that you haven't already heard a couple dozen times (usually better), and the bad stuff on this record is not something you ever need to hear, unless you really have the hots for a sexy hunk like Keith Urban.

Buddy Guy: Live At Legends

BUDDY GUY: LIVE AT LEGENDS (2012)

1) Intro; 2) Best Damn Fool; 3) Mannish Boy; 4) I Just Want To Make Love To You / Chicken Heads; 5) Skin Deep; 6) Damn Right I Got The Blues; 7) Boom Boom / Strange Brew; 8) Voodoo Chile / Sunshine Of Your Love / Keep On Truckin'; 9) Polka Dot Love; 10) Coming For You; 11) Country Boy.

A fairly typical live show from Buddy in his seventies, actually recorded in the same year as Living Proof and burning with the same aching desire to prove that the man still got it — like ʻ74 Years Youngʼ on the studio record, this one opens with a kill-'em-all version of ʻBest Damn Foolʼ that is supposed to whomp your ass once and for all, so that even if he gets mellower or sloppier later on, the initial impression lasts long enough to keep you going all the way. You've heard it all before, but it never hurts to get another set of those insane trills from the man.

The setlist is heavy on classic hits and oldies, some of which were picked from the classic rock repertoire to please the listeners — in one hilarious medley, Buddy gives his condensed readings of ʻVoodoo Chileʼ and ʻSunshine Of Your Loveʼ, and in another one, he juxtaposes John Lee Hooker's ʻBoom Boomʼ with Cream's ʻStrange Brewʼ as an illustration of what happened to the blues once it made the Transatlantic crossing (although, to be honest, his guitar on ʻStrange Brewʼ sounds far more like solo Clapton than Cream-era Clapton — for one thing, where's the woman tone? Bad illustration). In another creative fit, he merges Muddy Waters' ʻI Just Want To Make Love To Youʼ with the Bobby Rush tune ʻChicken Headsʼ, funkifying the former and bluesifying the latter in the process. "I'm gonna fuck up all these songs tonight", he admits with disarming honesty, much to the audience's delight.

It's too bad the one song he didn't dare "fuck up" was ʻSkin Deepʼ, the pathetic equality anthem from the 2008 album — the only redeeming thing about which used to be Derek Trucks' weeping slide, but Derek ain't here, so there's nothing redeeming about it any more, and it just doesn't fit among all the rip-roaring blues-rock, not even as a «breather». Unless you do care about Buddy Guy as a soul singer, feel free to just skip it and enjoy the flamethrower rendition of ʻDamn Rightʼ instead.

Note that the last three songs here are attached studio recordings: ʻPolka Dot Loveʼ is a rather boring piece of slow blues, and ʻCountry Boyʼ is an even slower cover of the Muddy Waters song with another annoying attempt by Buddy to closely mimick his predecessor's vocals, but at least ʻComing For Youʼ has some cool wah-wah funk guitar (the song itself is an attempt to write something in the style of Sam & Dave's ʻHold On I'm Comingʼ). Honestly, though, it would have been nicer to get more live material instead — it's not as if the man were now limiting himself to playing short 40-minute sets, right? He's just 76 years young, after all.

Buddy Guy: Living Proof

BUDDY GUY: LIVING PROOF (2010)

1) 74 Years Young; 2) Thank Me Someday; 3) On The Road; 4) Stay Around A Little Longer; 5) Key Don't Fit; 6) Living Proof; 7) Where The Blues Begins; 8) Too Soon; 9) Everybody's Got To Go; 10) Let The Door Knob Hit Ya; 11) Guess What; 12) Skanky.

You can pretty much see from these titles — ʻ74 Years Youngʼ, ʻStay Around A Little Longerʼ, ʻEverybody's Got To Goʼ — that there is essentially one thing hanging heavy on Buddy Guy's mind these days, and it don't have much to do with his little red rooster, either (although a couple of the tunes here still raise that subject on an obligatory basis). Indeed, he has reached that crucial point where every new album, no matter how generic or predictable, is welcome as long as it serves as «living proof»: the man is still alive in body and in spirit. No other reasons are neces­sary: it is now a game of survival, of seeing just how long and how bright that old spirit, dating all the way back to what is like the Stone Age from a 2010 perspective, can still burn.

And yes, nothing particularly interesting can be said about these songs except for a general con­firmation — the man still got it. ʻ74 Years Youngʼ brings home the message once it's time for the guitar solo: as he takes a break from listing his achievements and memories ("drank wine with kings and the Rolling Stones", etc.), the man unleashes such a violent barrage of rapid-fire blues licks, punching the shit out of that poor guitar, that you almost get the urge to scream "enough already! we get the message, Mr. Guy, have pity on your 74-year young hands!"

But that "74 years young, gonna keep on having fun" bit is still braggadoccio, because later on we get either sentimental about it (ʻStay Around A Little Longerʼ is a duet with B. B. King where the two of them basically ask this of one another, confessing mutual admiration) or religious about it (ʻEverybody's Gotta Goʼ dips into gospel, as Buddy comes to personal terms with the Lord); the man understands everything about the power of hyperbole, and easily swaps songs that deny the possibility of a near end with songs that accept and make their peace with that possibility. And all three of these numbers are convincing and touching, each in its own way, even if their manipu­lative devices are in plain view — yet how could one not be moved at the sight of a friendly, emotional duet between two age-old patriarchs of the blues?

Next to that, the duet with Santana (ʻWhere The Blues Beginsʼ) can only sound like you'd ima­gine a duet with Santana should sound — pompous, pathetic, predictable, still theoretically cool like any duet between two guitar giants should be, but way too gloomy and serious. Apparently, whenever Santana crosses your threshold, you think you have to engage him in something Spiri­tual with a capital S, or else he'll think you unworthy or something; but Spiritual with a capital S can only be Successful with a capital S when it's Subtle with a capital S, and Buddy Guy has never been the master of subtle (unlike B. B. King, by the way, who could squeeze your soul out with his microtones). So they just blast away, and the pomp soon becomes overbearing.

The rest of the tracks are fun, but, as usual, rather non-descript, and too often fall upon the exact same groove (ʻSkankyʼ is essentially an instrumental re-run of the title track, and both just milk the ʻPride And Joyʼ groove until it runs completely dry). So, overall, you have to get in a some­what respectful or reverential mood to be able to say that Living Proof is better than average — although, to be fair, Buddy himself tries to avoid getting too serious about his age. He sure as hell ain't fearing no reaper — good for him.

Buddy Guy: Skin Deep

BUDDY GUY: SKIN DEEP (2008)

1) Best Damn Fool; 2) Too Many Tears; 3) Lyin' Like A Dog; 4) Show Me The Money; 5) Every Time I Sing The Blues; 6) Out In The Woods; 7) Hammer And A Nail; 8) That's My Home; 9) Skin Deep; 10) Who's Gonna Fill Those Shoes; 11) Smell The Funk; 12) I Found Happiness.

Okay, this time, believe it or not, the guests make a good difference. There's Clapton on one of the tracks, singing and playing a little, but much more important is the presence of the Derek Trucks / Susan Tedeschi pair — not just because of the extra playing and singing, but because of a virtual «quality boost» that Derek's presence in the studio usually gives to his peers and even his elders. With a guy like that, you either have to give it your all, or step back — and since Derek's work aesthetics rejects «flash» and «showmanship» completely, your response has to be adequate. No monkeying around — just get to the point.

Maybe this is why the album opener, ʻBest Damn Foolʼ, despite not even featuring Derek, and despite being essentially based upon the age-old ʻBorn Under A Bad Signʼ groove, once again sounds sharper and livelier than anything on Buddy's last two records — not quite up to the level of Sweet Tea, because everything except Buddy's guitar is fairly routine, but up to Buddy's own personal highest standards, as he delivers barrages of shrill, simple, glass-cutting licks that have a whiff of «garage» attitude to them (and, in some ways, remind me of John Fogerty's classic soloing style — the way he could get the best out of the blues idiom with minimal means on stuff like ʻPenthouse Paperʼ or ʻNinety-Nine And A Halfʼ). Basically, the song just kicks ass.

Most of the material here is «original» (as usual, in Buddy's case this normally means setting old blues tunes to new lyrics), sometimes co-written with Tedeschi's producer Tom Hambridge (and occasionally just written by Hambridge on his own), but the topics remain the same — either bitchin' about the ten billionth woman in his imaginary life, or reminiscing about his real, but long gone life in the swamps of Louisiana (ʻOut In The Woodsʼ, ʻThat's My Homeʼ). At least once he hits upon a sensitive theme — ʻWho's Gonna Fill Those Shoesʼ namechecks a boatload of deceased bluesmen and leaves the question unanswered. Of course, it is hardly a coincidence that the song was contributed by Susan Tedeschi's associate, and that the young and promising Mr. Trucks was hovering somewhere in the neighborhood, but still there are no direct hints here that Mr. Trucks is in any way worthy of filling the shoes of Son House and Muddy Waters, so we might as well suppose that Buddy answers this to himself in the negative (Buddy himself, be­longing to the same old breed, does not count, of course — and he was a whoppin' 72 years old when this platter was recorded, for that matter; but then again, for a 72-year old he really swings that axe on the track, acknowledging his guitar as an equal partner in the righteous indignation over the fact that the shoes are not gonna be filled by just anyone).

Stuff like ʻToo Many Tearsʼ, on which the old man duets with Tedeschi, is the kind of unexciting contemporary smooth-blues-rock fodder that usually goes in one ear and out the other — and, honestly, Susan Tedeschi is a very nice lady and a respectable promoter of the blues, but she is very, very ordinary and unexciting (sort of like a sandpapered Bonnie Raitt). Her husband, how­ever, is a different matter, and his trademark slide wailings make a great counterpoint for Buddy's style — too bad that they don't really get to properly «spar» on any of these songs; in fact, every time Derek is in, Buddy slyly (coyly?) steps back as a player and concentrates on the singing.

It doesn't nearly manage to save the title track, though, which is just too preachy and weepy: yes, most of us know that "underneath we're all the same", and okay, some of us should probably be reminded of that from time to time, but just a little more complexity couldn't hurt, and besides, Buddy Guy is not a friggin' soul singer — he does not quite have the voice or the phrasing right for this. But fortunately, ʻSkin Deepʼ is just one such track here, probably designed to boost sales a little bit as middle-class sentimentalists battle racism by shedding tears over how we should "treat everybody just the way you want them to treat you" (Confucius™). The other songs do not exactly supercede ʻSkin Deepʼ in terms of non-banality, but they tend to kick ass, and you usually tend to forget about how banal something is when it kicks your ass on a relentless basis.

Anyway, more highlights: ʻOut In The Woodsʼ has a great swampy solo, with Buddy impersona­ting a hungry alligator from his childhood nightmares; ʻLyin' Like A Dogʼ is seven and a half minutes of slow angry ʻFive Long Yearsʼ-style blues, perfectly played and produced (not sure what else to say); ʻShow Me The Moneyʼ and ʻHammer And Nailʼ display Buddy's sense of humour, and ʻSmell The Funkʼ displays his, um, well... pretty strong vibe there for a 72-year old, maybe even a little too strong. Sure puts some of these youngsters to shame — ah, who's gonna fill those shoes?

Do not get me wrong: Skin Deep is fairly generic and conventional, there's not a single thread of exploration here as there seemed to be on Sweet Tea. But it is a good kind of generic, brought on by people who just want to make a little difference by throwing in a little bit of sheer spirit. This, at least according to my cherished gut feeling, is not just a record made out of the need to make another record — and for that, given that the key player is Buddy and the supporting force is Derek, it automatically deserves a thumbs up. Just sort of ignore the title track. There are much more efficient ways in which you can fight racism, believe me.

Buddy Guy: Bring 'Em In

BUDDY GUY: BRING 'EM IN (2005)

1) Now You're Gone; 2) Ninety Nine And One Half; 3) What Kind Of Woman Is This; 4) Somebody's Sleeping In My Bed; 5) I Put A Spell On You; 6) On A Saturday Night; 7) Ain't No Sunshine; 8) I've Got Dreams To Remember; 9) Lay Lady Lay; 10) Cheaper To Keep Her/Blues In The Night; 11) Cut You Loose; 12) The Price You Gotta Pay; 13) Do Your Thing.

Despite the revealing title, not all of these songs, as could have been thought (and easily been done), feature outside guest stars; in fact, more than half of the album is just Buddy and his regu­lar band, whatever it was at the time. However, guest-studded sessions, no matter how much time is actually being spent with the guests, tend not to work too well for Buddy: there's too much emphasis on having collective fun and not enough emphasis on giving the listener a real good musical reason to buy the album. And in that respect, Bring 'Em In is no exception — once again, here is a «merely okay» record that never shows that one extra spark to bring it over the top, like Sweet Tea or even Slippin' In.

The collaborations themselves at least merit some discussion. ʽI Put A Spell On Youʼ is set to a Latin, Santana-esque rhythm, and sure enough, Carlos is here in person, forming quite an incendi­ary duet with Mr. Guy; perhaps they could have chosen some less obvious material to cover, but they do bring out the best (or, perhaps, simply the most buoyant and arrogant) in each other, and there are a couple moments here when their thunder-and-lightning soloing styles cross paths and you seem caught up in a one-of-a-kind Chicago-Mexican blizzard. Next to this, a duet with John Mayer could seem a total disaster; fortunately, they avoid it, instead making Mayer add some relatively inoffensive and quiet lead lines to Buddy's cover of Otis Redding's ʽI've Got Dreams To Rememberʼ (which is like any other Buddy cover of any classic soul number: technically com­petent, but completely expendable in the long run).

Elsewhere, Robert Randolph adds a pleasant pedal steel part to ʽLay Lady Layʼ, but that song tends to always sound cheesy and sleazy in anybody's hands but its author's, and this version is no exception — Buddy's duet with Anthony Hamilton just ends up being generic soul fodder. Finally, there's a weakly advertised Keith Richards on Keb' Mo's ʽThe Price You Gotta Payʼ, but he neither sings nor plays lead guitar. Actually, both of these may be good things, but there ain't a Keith-worthy riff here, either, so ultimately, I guess, the point of having him here was merely for the most advanced of Stones fanatics to buy the record (I suppose that there are more people out there, anyway, vowing to own every recording Keef has ever played on, than there are people out there ready to go out and regularly buy up every new Buddy Guy release).

Of the other tracks, with a little effort, I'd single out Curtis Mayfield's ʽNow You're Goneʼ, which Buddy tries to sing like a true falsetto crooner (not too bad) and crowns with some cool wah-wah work; his own ʽWhat Kind Of Woman Is Thisʼ, a rare case of a riff-based Buddy original that's sharp and swaggerish at the same time; and the lengthy epic ʽCut You Looseʼ, musically based on the old ʽCatfish Blues / Rollin' Stoneʼ groove and gradually putting itself in guitar overdrive — along the lines of Hendrix's ʽVoodoo Chileʼ, which must have been Buddy's main inspiration for this stuff. None of these songs have the unique aura of a ʽBaby Please Don't Leave Meʼ, though: they are simply more powerful and decisive than everything else.

For the record, the reason why John Mayer is here is probably because the album was produced by Steve Jordan, who was at the time a member of the John Mayer Trio (and who earlier drum­med for Keith Richards' X-Pensive Winos, so here's anouther connection); the backing band in­cludes Danny Kortchmar on guitar and Bernie Worrell on keyboards, all well-known professional musicians, but without too much rapport between each other, if you know what I mean. All in all, a classic case of "let's make working conditions so cozy and polished for our superstar that he suffocates in them", sort of.

Buddy Guy: Blues Singer

BUDDY GUY: BLUES SINGER (2003)

1) Hard Time Killing Floor; 2) Crawlin' Kingsnake; 3) Lucy Mae Blues; 4) Can't See Baby; 5) I Love The Life I Live; 6) Louise McGhee; 7) Moanin' And Groanin'; 8) Black Cat Blues; 9) Bad Life Blues; 10) Sally Mae; 11) Anna Lee; 12) Lonesome Home Blues.

Okay, so apparently «Sweet Tea» is the name of the recording studio in Oxford, Mississippi, where Buddy made that album — and also its follow-up two years later: an «other-side-of-me» companion piece, all quiet and acoustic as opposed to Sweet Tea's ferociously electric thunder­storms. On paper, this sounds like a promising idea that could work: in fact, it does seem like a much better proposition to replace the older sequence of «one kick-ass hard-rocking album, one boring commercial album» with a more basic «one electric, one acoustic» approach. Reality, however, turns out to be disappointing.

The thing is, Buddy Guy is not a great acoustic guitar player — much like his late buddy Hendrix, his «native» sphere is the electric guitar, where he experiments with tones, effects, feedback, and dissonance. Switching to acoustic, he just plays it: plays the blues, that is, like any averagely com­petent blues guitarist does (okay, make it «more than average», but still, there's literally hun­dreds of guys who have the same kind of acoustic technique and versatility as Buddy). Granted, the album is named Blues Singer, not Blues Player; but that hardly resolves the problem, since as a singer, Mr. Guy is also competent and convincing, yet not exceptional.

And even that is not the worst problem here. No, the worst is that for this record, Buddy chooses a varied selection of old classics typically associated with specific idols of the past — Skip James (ʽHard Time Killing Floorʼ), John Lee Hooker (ʽCrawling King Snakeʼ), Frankie Lee Sims (ʽLucy Mae Bluesʼ), Muddy Waters (ʽI Love The Life I Liveʼ), Son House (ʽLouise McGheeʼ), Lightnin' Hopkins (ʽBlack Cat Bluesʼ), and a few other, somewhat lesser names; and instead of offering the «Buddy Guy perspective» on all these guys, he pretty much tries to emulate every one of them. Excuse me, but this is just stupid — as if he were some kind of Shang Tsung-like sorcerer, having devoured all of their souls and exploiting them one at a time. He'd committed such errors before, plenty of times, but never, as of yet, had any of his records sounded like One Huge Error, stretched across fifty minutes' worth of wasted time.

It almost goes without saying that outside of context — that is, if you are not familiar with any of the originals — Blues Singer sounds quite nice. It's not as if Buddy showed no understanding of these tunes, or wasn't able to get a good grip on the melodies. It's even got a few enticing bonuses, like both B. B. King and Clapton offering guest solos on ʽCrawling King Snakeʼ (and it's not every day that you get to hear B. B. play acoustic guitar, either, though you can probably under­stand why upon witnessing his performance here). But why on Earth should one settle for an imitation of the real thing rather than the real thing itself? Unless your ears are completely insen­sitive for old mono production, crackles and pops, or unless you have made a vow never to listen to music that is more than 10 years old (in which case, as of 2016, this album is already obsolete as well), Skip James still does a better ʽHard Time Killing Floorʼ, because Skip James singing like Skip James... well, I dunno, sounds a little more authentic, for some reason, than Buddy Guy singing like Skip James.

The only reason why I do not think the album deserves a «thumbs down» in the end is that, on the whole, it shows good vibes and good will. Propagating the old classics is always worthwhile, and properly crediting the songs to their creators (or, at least, their classic interpreters) is a sign of honesty. Besides, an album that is competently performed, well produced, and consists of mostly good songs should not be called «bad» just because it is so utterly superfluous; and, after all, Buddy is one of the last surviving «original carriers» of the tradition, so at least it makes much more sense than if somebody like John Mayer came out with a record like this. However, it is also a sign that «being an original carrier» never guarantees top quality; and that being an old black bluesman from Louisiana does not automatically place you on the same level of spirituality and sensitivity as any other old black (dead) bluesman from Louisiana.

Buddy Guy: Sweet Tea

BUDDY GUY: SWEET TEA (2001)

1) Done Got Old; 2) Baby Please Don't Leave Me; 3) Look What All You Got; 4) Stay All Night; 5) Tramp; 6) She Got The Devil In Her; 7) I Gotta Try You Girl; 8) Who's Been Fooling You; 9) It's A Jungle Out There.

I have no idea what the title is supposed to symbolize (was "sweet tea" the finest taste to be tasted by a young Buddy during his early Louisiana days?), but the album is indeed Buddy's finest in a long, long while. It continues the strange pattern of alternating a rougher-edged, more aggressive and inventive record with a softer, calmer, more commercial one — but there's something extra special here that was not seen either in Damn Right or in Slippin' In, the two real good 'uns. Perhaps it's his new band, now including Davey Faragher of Cracker on bass and Jimbo Mathus of Squirrel Nut Zippers on second guitar, that gives Sweet Tea its edge — at the very least, I can definitely vouch for Faragher as far as the bass goes, because this is the first time we have such a deep, echoey, rumbling bass sound on a Buddy Guy album, and I love it.

More generally, though, Sweet Tea sounds like it's out there to say something, not just to show the world that Buddy Guy is still playing the blues. The first track is a consciously laid trap — an acoustic moanin' blues, courtesy of the then-recently deceased Junior Kimbrough, on which Buddy laments that he "done got old" and that he can't look, walk, or love "like I used to do", in the general fashion of an old Negro spiritual. Of course, that's a ruse — already the second track, the lengthy, slow, threatening ʽBaby Please Don't Leave Meʼ shows that getting old sure don't prevent Mr. Guy from playing God of Thunder if he sets his heart to it. That great psychedelic distorted tone is back, and coupled with Faragher's doom-laden bass sound, it gets the old mojo workin' — the entire seven minutes seem like a voodooistic ritual performed by the man to ensure that his baby don't leave him. And who could, after such a performance?

A few tracks down the line, he tries to repeat the exact same ritual with the even longer, but less effective ʽI Gotta Try You Girlʼ — same bass, same tempo, same style of vocal incantation, but a little less fury and a little more plodding with the solos; also, in this modern age endless repetition of the lines "I gotta try you girl, we gotta make love baby, no matter what you say girl" could get you arrested in some parts of the country, but I guess this could probably never stop a real man like Mr. Guy. Still, for about five or six minutes the ceremony can be just as breathtaking as its shorter and angrier predecessor.

I am not going to launch into a detailed explanation of the other tunes, of course — suffice it to say that there are many more covers of the late Junior Kimbrough here, as well as some other blues pals of Buddy's (CeDell Davis, Lowell Fulson, etc.), and only one «original» (ʽIt's A Jungle Out Thereʼ, yet another bit of socially-conscious preaching on Buddy's part that sounds like an imagination-less sequel to ʽCities Need Helpʼ). The important thing are not the individual tunes, but the overall sound of the album — that bass, that echo, that renewed ferociousness on those sharply tuned guitars, well, it's not exactly a revolution, but it is the hugest and brutal-est update of the Buddy Guy sound ever since the underrated Breaking Out experiment in 1980. And, funniest of all, it is a huge f*ck-you to all those new generations of blues players. Who would be the very first blues musician to come out with a solid update of the blues idiom in the 21st century? A 65-year old native of Lettsworth, Louisiana, that's who. Now let us see you top this, Mr. John Mayer. Thumbs up.

Buddy Guy: Heavy Love

BUDDY GUY: HEAVY LOVE (1998)

1) Heavy Love; 2) Midnight Train; 3) I Got A Problem; 4) I Need You Tonight; 5) Saturday Night Fish Fry; 6) Had A Bad Night; 7) Are You Lonely For Me Baby; 8) I Just Want To Make Love To You; 9) Did Somebody Make A Fool Out Of You; 10) When The Time Is Right; 11) Let Me Show You.

In the never-ending series of the clinkers and clunkers triggered by more and more demand for Buddy Guy records, Heavy Love is more of a clunker. Not because it was produced by David Z. or because it featured a duet with rising star Jonny Lang (rising at the time, perhaps, but never truly arisen) — just because it's kinda lazy, and on none of these songs do I get the feeling that Mr. Guy is giving us the best he can.

Some of the covers are downright odd. Would you think it a good idea for Buddy Guy to cover Louis Jordan? I wouldn't, but he does anyway, throwing on a five-and-a-half minute long rendi­tion of ʽSaturday Night Fish Fryʼ (without even a single guitar solo!) that has none of the jivin' excitement of the original. Maybe might have worked on a tribute album to Louis, but as an inde­pendent artistic interpretation, that's one stinky fish fry. ZZ Top's ʽI Need You Tonightʼ? The whole point of that generic blues ballad was to do it Eliminator-style. Throw away the ZZ Top­pishness, and it reverts back to a generic blues ballad. ʽI Just Want To Make Love To Youʼ, remade as a modern funk number, becomes totally lifeless. ʽAre You Lonely For Me, Baby?ʼ makes a valiant effort to keep Buddy astride that Classic Soul branch, but he never ever held a position of honor on that branch, and this performance does not change much about it.

Neither these nor the rest of the tracks offer us any particularly stellar guitar parts, either. The title track, the ʽMidnight Trainʼ duet with Lang, and ʽHad A Bad Nightʼ are macho blues rockers that could kick ass if kicking ass were on anybody's scheduled list, but apparently it wasn't, so they don't: Buddy's playing is consistently restrained here. He does manage to throw in a head-spin­ning vibrato or one of his trademark "going somewhere completely different, but don't worry, I'll be back in time to save this from falling apart" lead phrases from time to time, but you really have to wait for it — on the whole, he seems fairly disinterested. He is still mildly interested in writing new lyrics for old tunes and re-crediting them to himself, though: ʽLet Me Show Youʼ, from head to toe, is really Jimmy Reed's ʽHonest I Doʼ (although, to be fair, this song probably contains the album's most interesting bit of guitar, with Buddy playing slightly out of tune with the rest of the instruments and sometimes «de-tuning» his licks in mid-air).

Basically, this isn't embarrassing enough to earn a proper thumbs down, but that is simply be­cause Buddy has a certain strictly observed quality standard that safeguards him almost 100% from total cringeworthy failure (well, used to have, at least, before he went completely out of his mind and started messin' with Kid Rock). As it is, I would not recommend this one to anybody but the starkest fans, mad-crazy about every lick the man ever played.

Buddy Guy: Live: The Real Deal

BUDDY GUY: LIVE: THE REAL DEAL (1996)

1) I've Got My Eyes On You; 2) Sweet Black Angel; 3) Talk To Me Baby; 4) My Time After Awhile; 5) I've Got News For You; 6) Damn Right I've Got The Blues; 7) First Time I Met The Blues; 8) Ain't That Lovin' You; 9) Let Me Love You Baby.

Buddy's first live album of the «comeback» era — recorded at Buddy Guy's Legends in Chicago with, would you believe it, the Saturday Night Live band itself backing the man. That is no mock irony, though, since the SNL band at the time included George Edward Smith, a first-rate guita­rist with an impressive pedigree; additionally, Buddy is joined by Johnnie Johnson, who had al­ready stuck with him on the latest studio album. On the whole, the backing band is top notch, the audience is responding wildly, and good vibes are flying all around the place.

The most interesting part here is probably the setlist which, with the exception of the man's come­back anthem (ʽDamn Right I've Got The Bluesʼ), consists completely and entirely of old classics; not a single new tune from the last two records anywhere in sight. He even does ʽFirst Time I Met The Bluesʼ, his first single from way back — which shows that he is not particularly impressed by his own new material, or, more accurately, that he probably recognizes how it's mostly just variations on the old themes, and when we're in concert, why not just stick to the old themes in person? Instead of trying to create the illusion of coming up with something new, it works better for him when he is just pouring his heart into the old.

That said, this is a pretty awesome guitar battle between Buddy and Smith that they get going on ʽDamn Right I've Got The Bluesʼ, as the backing horns goad them into brutal action against each other — almost putting the original to shame. ʽLet Me Love You Babyʼ is also reprised in the Damn Right version, with horns and stuff and those guitar wails occasionally getting out of har­mony with the rhythm section for reasons of an ecstatic character. Much of the album, however, is given over to the slow and subtle — such as a 13-minute version of ʽI've Got News For Youʼ, with a lengthy Johnnie Johnson solo and other members of the band taking their turns as well (I'm assuming it's G. E. Smith responsible for the short, but classy slide guitar solo, since Buddy does not play the slide much — to which Buddy then answers with one of his sexiest vibratos). I do not know why he feels such a pressing need to steal ʽSweet Black Angelʼ from under B. B. King's nose — that's one of King's greatest trademarks, and even though Buddy does a very good job mimicking the man's silky-sweet Lucille tone, Buddy is Buddy, and B. B. is B. B.

Other than the purist attitude, I'd say the biggest advantage of The Real Deal is the party attitude: thankfully, Buddy does not go for a lot of audience interaction, but every once in a while, the people out there make sure to let us know they love him, and he makes sure to let us know that he loves them, and it's all cool. There's definitely more fun in the air than at an Eric Clapton concert, even if that does not necessarily mean that there's more going on than at an Eric Clapton concert, if you know what I mean.

Buddy Guy: Slippin' In

BUDDY GUY: SLIPPIN' IN (1994)

1) I Smell Trouble; 2) Please Don't Drive Me Away; 3) 7-11; 4) Shame, Shame, Shame; 5) Love Her With A Feeling; 6) Little Dab-A-Doo; 7) Someone Else Is Steppin' In; 8) Trouble Blues; 9) Man Of Many Words; 10) Don't Tell Me About The Blues; 11) Cities Need Help.

This is as straightahead as it ever gets: nothing but pure electric blues, eleven heads in a row, and not a single guest star in sight — an impeccable experiment in the «can I do it alone?» genre. Of course, this also makes it twice as hard to say anything uniquely meaningful about this album, un­less it is in the comparative genre... and it's not that difficult to slip into the comparative genre here, considering how few originals there are. The choice of covers is actually not all that trivial: for instance, there are two songs by Charles Brown, both of which were covered in 1963 by Sam Cooke on his Night Beat album. Coincidence, or the result of some fortuitous nighttime listen? There's Freddie King's ʽLove Her With The Feelingʼ redone in the style of ʽHoochie Coochie Manʼ, because Buddy loves ʽHoochie Coochie Manʼ, but he can't play ʽHoochie Coochie Manʼ on all his albums, so a little strategic thought is in order here. There's Denise LaSalle, there's Fenton Robinson... all sorts of interesting blues people that rarely appear on the first pages of blues encyclopaedias. But, of course, it's still just the blues.

Points worth mentioning, in addition to Buddy's reliable vocals and guitar escapades, are: (a) a sweet appearance by legendary Johnnie Johnson, Chuck Berry's pianist of choice, contributing a feather-light (in the good sense of the word) solo on ʽ7-11ʼ; (b) a suitably comic arrangement of ʽSomeone Else Is Steppin' Inʼ, with ridiculous «party noises» in the background and a drunken choir joining in for the final line of the chorus — but thanks, Mr. Guy, for reminding me where the Stones stole their ʽBlack Limousineʼ from; (c) ʽTrouble Bluesʼ features a lo-fi production style, with plenty of hissing and crackling to artificially age the song — see Mr. Guy flirt around with indie aesthetics!; (d) ʽCities Need Helpʼ, one of the two originals, is Buddy adopting a soci­al­ly responsible posture — kind of like Bobby Bland on his moody, smoky early 1970s records. He still cannot resist from the temptation to turn it into a guitar pyrotechnics feast midway through, though, and I concur. Are we going to become more socially conscious if Buddy Guy tells us that our cities need help? No. But if he goes on beating the crap out of that guitar, who knows what changes that might eventually bring about in our social consciousness.

In terms of beating the crap out, I would probably single out ʽPlease Don't Drive Me Awayʼ, where the man brushes the dust off the wah-wah pedal for a speedy, destroy-everything-in-its-path type of solo, sometimes bordering on the psychedelic; and ʽSomeone Elseʼ, for such an essentially comic number, also boasts a fairly mean tone, with each note threatening to snap you in half. Beyond that, it's Buddy Guy and his predictably ecstatic blues guitar — lots of impro­vising, not a lot of artistic invention that could be correlated with words. Which means it is time to award this album its well-deserved, if unexceptional, thumbs up and move on.

Buddy Guy: Feels Like Rain

BUDDY GUY: FEELS LIKE RAIN (1993)

1) She's A Superstar; 2) I Go Crazy; 3) Feels Like Rain; 4) She's Nineteen Years Old; 5) Some Kind Of Wonderful; 6) Sufferin' Mind; 7) Change In The Weather; 8) I Could Cry; 9) Mary Ann; 10) Trouble Man; 11) Country Man.

The success of Damn Right, I've Got The Blues gave birth to a prolific pattern to which Buddy has more or less conformed ever since, releasing a steady stream of records with one or two year intervals that are pretty much interchangeable, some being slightly more and some slightly less interesting, of course — essentially, though, lovers of Buddy will want to savor them all, while those who are largely indifferent to modern electric blues might just pay a little attention to those few tracks on which Buddy's guitar playing occasionally transcends the genre's limitations.

Feels Like Rain, unfortunately, has no such tracks. Like its predecessor, it is a mish-mash of some really old blues tunes, some comparably old R&B hits, and a few contemporary, but still retro-oriented compositions — all of them impeccably played and produced, and featuring some guest stars to boost up sales; this time, though, Buddy goes with some lesser profiles, the most notable of the lot probably being Bonnie Raitt and Paul Rodgers, and with John Mayall and Travis Tritt in tow. Accusations of «pandering to mainstream tastes», which sometimes accom­pany descriptions of this record, are a little misguided: with or without all these people, Feels Like Rain would still feel exactly like Buddy Guy — if he choked the arrangements up with solemn synthesizer parts, or started studying Madchester beats, that'd be a whole other story, but these guys are just following the boss' directions, 'sall.

What is actually much worse than abstract «pandering to the mainstream» is the inclusion of all those covers. What business does Buddy really have in trying to not just cover Muddy Waters' ʽShe's Nineteen Years Oldʼ, but to actually imitate Muddy, both in his vocals and his guitar play­ing? It's one thing to adapt the song to his own style, but have we all lost access to the old records or something? Is the intended target audience of the cover supposed to consist of people who'd never ever want to listen to a song from 1958 because it's, like, all mono and shit? It's not very likely that those same people would be interested in investing their money in a record by an old geezer who was 22 himself in 1958. Likewise, it is not very uplifting when he tries to appeal to the James Brown fanbase (ʽI Go Crazyʼ) or, God help us, the Grand Funk Railroad fanbase (ʽSome Kind Of Wonderfulʼ — which most people certainly associate with GFR rather than Soul Brothers Six) instead.

My own favorite tracks here are the two blues-rock rave-ups that bookmark the album and are credited to Buddy himself — ʽShe's A Superstarʼ and ʽCountry Manʼ (not that he had much to compose on either one, except for some new lyrical lines). Totally generic in basic form, they are simply used by Buddy as launchpads for some major master soloing, with heavy wah-wah sup­port and a speedy, guitar-throttling approach where his note sequences cover each other like rippling waves, rather than jagged, broken, dissonant patterns that he favors more often. The words of ʽCountry Manʼ, which he delivers like a passionate defense speech in court ("I'm a country man, baby, you know I ain't ashamed / That's why I'm crazy 'bout my guitar, that's why I surely will keep on playing"), ring a little strange, seeing as how Buddy was always professional­ly associated with «urban» Chicago blues — but then again, he did spend all of his childhood in Lettsworth, Louisiana, and if he means that it is precisely this rustic pedigree that gives him the strength and the stubborness to push on in his «conservatively innovative» manner, more power to the man, I say. He certainly plays the hell out of his guitar on that track as if each new verse he delivers on the subject provides him with extra strength to do it.

If you are in the mood to relax a little, the title track, written by John Hiatt and sung and played by Buddy in a duet with Bonnie Raitt, will do a reasonably good job as well. Nothing particularly special on the hook / riff / arrangement front, but Bonnie's slide playing is always welcome, and her raspy vocal support in the background feels... well, suffice it to say that there's a pleasantly optimistic vibe to all of this, and that Buddy's singing is almost unusually sensitive and vulne­rable, compared to his usual standards.

That said, three songs to salvage out of eleven is not a particularly awesome quota; and the rest, ranging from the puzzling (dueting with Paul Rodgers on ʽSome Kind Of Wonderfulʼ? How gauche!) to the unremarkable (dueting with John Mayall on ʽI Could Cryʼ? How... nostalgic...), are nothing to write home about. Of course, that did not stop the man from scooping up yet another Grammy here for «best contemporary blues album» — for almost total lack of competition, I suppose — but honestly, it does not seem as if the guy was trying too hard here. Fortunately, he would begin pinching himself way hard for the next release, just in the nick of time to escape being pegged down as a particularly smelly dinosaur.

Buddy Guy: Damn Right, I've Got The Blues

BUDDY GUY: DAMN RIGHT, I'VE GOT THE BLUES (1991)

1) Damn Right, I've Got The Blues; 2) Where Is The Next One Coming From; 3) Five Long Years; 4) Mustang Sally; 5) There Is Something On Your Mind; 6) Early In The Morning; 7) Too Broke To Spend The Night; 8) Black Night; 9) Let Me Love You Baby; 10) Rememberin' Stevie; 11*) Doin' What I Like Best; 12*) Trouble Don't Last.

A quarter century later, it is a little hard to understand what all the hoopla was about, but back in 1991, Buddy Guy's «comeback» album (or «breakthrough» album, to be more accurate, since he didn't exactly have a ton of hit records to be eclipsed) caused quite a bit of excitement. The entire music industry was rolling backwards a bit, after the oversaturated futurism and technocracy of the previous decade, and in a way, Buddy here became one of the symbols, or maybe even the sym­bol for the revival of raw electric blues. After all, most of the pioneers were dead, and those that were still alive didn't give much of a damn, or were way too prone to selling out whenever their record labels dropped a hint (B. B. King, for instance, had quite a few smelly duds through­out the Eighties). And here was a guy of stark integrity, who'd rather record on a minor label with no promotion, or not record at all, than go for pop choruses and electronic drums.

That said, Damn Right, I've Got The Blues still had to come out in England, on the small Sil­vertone Records label, where Buddy got signed up after having luckily partnered up with Eric Clapton for the latter's 24 Nights engagement at the Albert Hall (and some of Eric's backup team, including backing vocalists Tessa Niles and Katie Kissoon, are also playing here). The album was produced by John Porter, who was before then mostly known for working with The Smiths — which really meant that nobody would be truly getting in Buddy's way. And, just so that the sales could be boosted a bit and proper respect be paid, the man procures guest appearances not only from Eric himself, but from Jeff Beck and Mark Knopfler as well.

The result was... well, not exactly a smash hit, but the record did sell far more assuredly than any of Buddy's previous work, and attracted quite a bit of critical attention, going as far as to win the Grammy for best blues album. Finally, after all those years, the blues paid off, and the best thing about it was no need to compromise — well, maybe only a little bit, if «overproduction» counts as «compromise». Other than the backup girls and the guest stars, the sound is considerably beefed up by The Memphis Horns, and then there are two additional keyboardists and two more guitar players. But that is really not that different from the early records: Buddy always favored a big band sound, and he was always a «better with horns» kind of person. It's not his fault he was put on such a tight budget in the early Eighties.

Of course, the music here is not significantly better or worse than anything he recorded in the lean-hungry years. The songs are mostly old blues standards, occasionally interrupted by some contemporary writing (John Hiatt's ʽWhere Is The Next One Coming Fromʼ) or an old R&B cover or two (the inescapable ʽMustang Sallyʼ). The playing has plenty of energy and feeling, but not a lot of creativity — clearly, this here is not a man searching for new sounds, but a man un­loading his precious baggage, accumulated over the years, all in one place. Too many songs sound the same, and the arrangements never focus on outlining potential hooks: in just a few years, Clapton — who was quite likely motivated himself to do a straightahead blues album by Buddy's success — would really show the world how this thing can be done right with From The Cradle, where the inidividual touches on the songs and their sequencing made for an involving, surprise-filled journey. Damn Right, I've Got The Blues is not that kind of record.

And yet, it is a damn right good record all the same. It's as if this man here were given this one chance to do it right and succeed, and he totally throws himself in on that, throttling his guitar on every song and throwing a desperate vocal fit on the title track: "I can't win, cause I don't have a thing to lose" — just change that can't to a can and that's what it all is about. He is still being the hooligan of the blues, changing his tone from «clean» to «dirty» at will, embracing dissonance and off-rhythm playing when the heart calls for this, sending catcalls and wolf whistles from his six-string whenever his brain begins smouldering from too much excitement and complex, finger-flashing strings of notes become hard to concentrate upon. And he can be sentimental, throwing in a lengthy vocal-free serenade called ʽRememberin' Stevieʼ — of course, the best way to re­member Stevie is not through sheer sadness and melancholy, but through a mix of sadness with ferociously ass-kicking blueswailing of the ʽHave You Ever Loved A Womanʼ variety. (In fact, come to think of it, ʽRememberin' Stevieʼ is ʽHave You Ever Loved A Womanʼ with all the vo­cals safely stored over in the closet).

Although this is not the best album of Buddy's «comeback» period — more like a taste of even more exciting things to come — its sheer historic importance, in addition to general enjoyability, demands a thumbs up. I must say that I am somewhat dismayed by the guest star talents largely being wasted (unless you listen very hard, you won't even suspect that Knopfler, Clapton, and Beck are in the same building), but then it would certainly be impolite to subconsciously wish for them stealing the mat from under the guy's feet: they are quite expressly here to add to the mar­ket value, not to steal the black man's blues for the white man's gain one more time. Other than that, I couldn't complain of any unpredictable disappointments.

Buddy Guy: D.J. Play My Blues

BUDDY GUY: D.J. PLAY MY BLUES (1982)

1) Girl You're Nice And Clean; 2) Dedication To The Late T-Bone Walker; 3) Good News; 4) Blues At My Baby's House; 5) She Suits Me To A T; 6) D.J. Play My Blues; 7) Just Teasin'; 8) All Your Love; 9) The Garbage Man Blues; 10) Mellow Down.

The last of these semi-obscure Buddy Guy albums before he once again went into hiatus is usual­ly listed as having been recorded in Chicago in December 1981 and released on the JSP label in 1982; the 10-track edition is a 1987 CD reissue that originally went under the title of Complete DJ Play My Blues Sessions. Featuring Mike Morrison on bass, Ray Allison on drums, and se­cond guitarist Doug Williams, this is once again a stark, uncompromising affair that completely refuses to recognize or respect the progressive advancement of the musical world — in fact, if anything, it's a «regressive» album on Buddy's own terms, since it pretty much abandons the cool-tone-based personality of Breaking Out and returns to a far more standard, conservative electric blues paradigm.

The title track is a good indication of what's at stake — searching for a good pretext to enter one of his blue moods, Buddy finds a suitable one in the fact that blues went out of fashion, so the song, instead of pleading for baby to come home, as it normally should, pleads for Mr. D.J. to play some T-Bone Walker (instead of all that New Wave crap, one has to assume). Of course, the D.J. has no answer to that, so there's nothing left to do but to play some T-Bone Walker on one's own (ʽDedicationʼ, which is indeed played very much in classic T-Bone Walker style, even if Buddy never attaches as much importance to each individual note as the late T-Bone did — the speed curse hits the man even in slow mode).

A somewhat shadier side of said conservatism is the sheer amount of «mutated» songs by classic artists that Buddy includes here in only very slightly modified versions — most likely, so that he can get his own songwriting credits (on an album that wouldn't sell anyway, but I guess that when you're so down on your luck, every penny counts). For instance, Otis Rush' ʽAll Your Love (I Miss Loving)ʼ becomes simply ʽAll Your Loveʼ; Little Walter's ʽMellow Down Easyʼ becomes simply ʽMellow Downʼ; ʽShe Suits Me To A Tʼ is an Elmore James number with new lyrics; and ʽGood Newsʼ is a strange hybrid of ʽMemphis Tennesseeʼ (melody), ʽGood Rockin' Tonightʼ (lyrics) and an ad-libbed mish-mash of old rock'n'roll clichés.

People interested in musical family ties should check out ʽThe Garbage Man Bluesʼ, a duet be­tween Buddy and his brother Phil Guy, who takes lead vocals and adds his own guitar leads — as a singer, his talents are quite comparable to Buddy's, but as a guitarist, this is just nepotism in action. Overall, there's nothing here to make the record stand out from the average pool of pro­fessional electric blues-rock, and while I fully concur with Buddy's pleading on the whole, he does not exactly build as much of a strong case for himself here as he provides a good pretext for brushing the dust off all those T-Bone, Elmore, Otis, and Little Walter records to which D.J. Play My Blues is nothing but a humble, uninventive tribute.

Buddy Guy: Breaking Out

BUDDY GUY: BREAKING OUT (1980)

1) Have You Ever Been Lonesome; 2) You Can Make It If You Try; 3) Break Out All Over You; 4) She Winked Her Eye; 5) I Didn't Know My Mother Had A Son Like Me; 6) Boogie Family Style; 7) You Called Me In My Dream; 8) Me & My Guitar.

Apparently, this period in Buddy Guy's career is so ridiculously understudied and underapprecia­ted that not even the Internet, our most trustworthy and loyal counselor in all things (especially when it comes to the latest pop crap single that sold 100,000 copies in three digital minutes), can be relied upon for cohesive information. The (current) Wikipedia page for this album states, for instance, that it was issued in 1988, and it probably was (still other sources say 1996 and/or 2008), but it was actually a late reissue — the original date seems to be 1980 or 1981 at best. The All-Music Guide review of the album, other than listing some of the credits, gets away with one or two vague phrases that could be equally well applied to 99% of Buddy's output ("raw but applied talent and showmanship" — what the hell does "raw but applied" even mean?), and gives no clue as to whether the reviewer has even heard the songs. Who do you turn to for comfort?

Well, at least the good old Only Solitaire is here to tell you that Breaking Out sounds nothing like anything that Buddy had put out prior to that — and only partially like anything that he would put out after that. The oddity of the record is that, while remaining firmly grounded in standard blues territory, this time it's all about the tone. Yes, this is where Buddy falls upon a new, rich, not totally unique or innovative, but seriously idiosyncratic electric guitar tone — thick, trebly, distorted, echoey, crackling but melodic — and proceeds to explore it on every single song on the album. You might suspect it makes things monotonous and boring, but it does not: since there is enough formal diversity (slow 12-bar, fast 12-bar, boogie, ballad, R&B), all it does is make every single song kick major ass.

ʽHave You Ever Been Lonesomeʼ, presented here as an «original» number, is really just ʽFive Long Yearsʼ (var.: ʽHave You Ever Loved A Womanʼ) with new lyrics, but you could argue that the presence of this tone is really the thing that makes it original, particularly when the man shuts up and just plays his guitar — fast, passionate, thunderstormy, irreverent, and with the guitar assuming the language of a raging bull. I would still insist that when Clapton did the same thing on his From The Cradle fifteen years later (and seriously influenced by Buddy), he would be able to come up with more inventive phrasing... but he never had this kind of tone, and whatever be the case, Buddy got there first.

When he experiments with the same tone on softer numbers, such as ʽYou Can Make It If You Tryʼ, the results are tasteful but not quite as exciting — Breaking Out is really all about «brea­king out» on such rip-roaring tracks as the funky ʽI Didn't Know My Mother Had A Son Like Meʼ, or the breathlessly fast ʽBoogie Family Styleʼ, or the totally instrumental showcase ʽMe & My Guitarʼ that closes the album with five minutes of fretboard assassination that seems to be de­livered in one uninterrupted blast, as if the player's brain were operating on a single powerful charge/impulse that took that long to discharge: normally, these blues jams tend to run out of steam pretty fast, but this here is just one uninterrupted gulp, like watching somebody pick up a wine barrel and drain it off in one go. Listening to this in headphones could indeed make one dizzy and delirious, especially considering the potential psychedelic effects of that treated tone, so be careful about this.

Little can be said about the virtues of individual songs, melodies, or supporting instrumentation — and little needs to be said, since it is all about that tone and the power to use it. Buddy would go on using it in the future, but, strangely enough, never again would he make an album of such stubborn consistency: Breaking Out is indeed a stylistic oddity in his catalog, and a very wel­come one, I'd say. Definitely a thumbs up if you're in the mood for some serious whiplashing.