Allman Brothers Band

From the sunny town of Macon came two brothers, both lovers of blues and jazz: Duane Allman on (extreme) slide guitar, and Gregg Allman on Hammond and vocals above all, with a voice that couldn't have been blacker for a white man - and a blond one at that. They roamed far and wide, lending their talents to and picking up secrets from already-established artists and newcomers alike, including Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Boz Scaggs, Laura Nyro and others. They formed their first band, The Hourglass, but it was too rough a trial run for the explosive potential that would soon detonate through the legendary Allman brothers' outfit. They joined forces with two other brothers, Butch Trucks and Jay "Jaimoe" Johanson, who went on to form one of the first multifaceted and varied rhythm sections ever heard: the double drums. The rhythm section was further enriched by a virtuoso of the electric bass named Berry Oakley; the whole thing was completed with the addition of a second guitar that served as both rhythm and lead, Mr. Richard "Dickey" Betts.

The music of this group of instrumental virtuosos was a concentrate that ranged across a multitude of genres: there was blues, with its expressive charge, boogie, for its frenetic rhythm, jazz for a new way of conceiving live music and for a free-form attitude - meaning improvisation and experimentation without boundaries in concert; country peeked through here and there, if only to avoid disowning their own past and out of a certain reverence for nearby (to them) Nashville. This country influence stood out especially when the band's themes turned more melancholy and romantic, fit to create the atmosphere and soundtrack of an open-air campfire gathering, possibly on a prairie or in a desert, all in keeping with a "southern" way of life.

Out of this whole mix of sounds that flowed together to form the musical makeup of the Allman Brothers Band, a branch emerged that would soon explode in its own right: southern rock. Calling the Allman Bros. "a southern rock band," as you'll read in plenty of rock encyclopedias, is rather limiting. The Allman Bros. have many different faces: they can be "southern" through the most furious and virile dances, but they can also be fusion in their urge to break down the narrow boundaries of certain music, they can be romantically country, or emphatically gospel, just as they can touch the most intimate strings of feeling through bluesy ballads.

The stage was their favorite terrain, or battlefield: a 3-minute song could explode on stage, be born and reborn under multiple lights, be distorted and examined from any angle. In the period straddling the late '60s and early '70s, the Allman Bros. had to rival and compete with another great jam band: the Grateful Dead. But the two bands never stepped on each other's toes because they had different ways of engaging with an audience; the Dead were more spiritual and hypnotic - at their shows you could see endless crowds of young people in a trance, swept up by their enveloping psychedelic sound; as for the Allman Bros., on the other hand, movement and frenzy were the right habitat for what you might call musical assimilation.

Live, the Allman Bros. were more virile and visceral; theirs were genuine tests of strength, marathons built on a physical, bodily approach; the solo sections didn't spring from colorful lysergic ballads, but from a more primordial and less noble emotional charge, yet equally gripping for its sinuous, wild force. The slide guitar pulled notes out of the neck that seemed unknown, the percussion alternated between sudden stops and quick restarts, a second electric guitar took over the scene to create a musical script entirely different from what came before, when suddenly a Hammond organ would step in to smooth out the rough edges of the preceding sound. In short, live, the Allman Bros. were a labyrinth of interwoven textures, drawing their vital force precisely from the shifting and integration of all those instruments, so virtuosically caressed and tortured at the same time.

Like every band, The Allman Brothers had their leaders too, namely the two brothers themselves. Duane, the greatest slide guitarist of any era, redefined that particular guitar style built on feeling and a simple metal (sometimes even glass) cylinder, carving out genuine highways among the stars along a spectacular, moving melodic trail. Gregg, the younger brother, deserves credit for more than just his role as keyboardist, boasting a voice that - without exaggeration - ranks among the finest in all of rock, a deep, warm black voice, capable of adapting to any sound and caressing every inch of the human soul like a gentle gust of wind.

After the explosive vinyl debuts with "The Allman Brothers Band" (1969) and "Idlewild South" (1970), the band's consecration came with the double live album "The Fillmore Concerts" (1971). It opens with "Statesboro Blues": Duane unleashes a fluid, polished intro through his slide sound, Gregg is no less impressive, delivering a warm, inspired bluesy vocal, and the rest of the band backs it all up, creating a sound rich in imagination, cohesion, precision and tightness. A double bass-drum attack kicks off "Trouble No More," an R&B number where the slide guitar spills out everywhere, Berry's bass is more alive than ever, so much so that his low notes make the whole band's sonic scaffolding bounce. It's a track with a mischievous riff and chorus that gets into your head and never leaves.

Offbeats and countertimes unusually open "Don't Keep Me Wonderin'"; the song's structure is held tight by fixed sonic anchors, and only in Duane's solo section do all the instruments break free from those constraints - the guitar weeps tears of pain in its agonizing moan, and never have so many tears of such cruel musical torture been so well spent and laid bare. "In Memory Of Elizabeth Reed," on the other hand, is a track written by Dickey Betts, around whose curious and peculiar title strange legends have grown; some say the name Elizabeth Reed was the pseudonym of an Italian girl, read by Betts on a cemetery gravestone, while other legends claim it was nothing more than the metaphorical name of a girl who had stolen Betts' heart. In honor of all this, the track is an absolute masterpiece: a rarefied, fusion-tinged intro with faint echoes of tex-mex sounds, a wholly instrumental riff/chorus that repeats for 3 minutes, until the rhythm picks up through the usual masterful soloing, where Duane and Dickey converse and duel at the same time, in that particular language of theirs made of mystical devotion and sublime emotional transport.

"One Way Out" dishes out a riff played on muted, sobbing notes in solitude; just a few moments later, the slide joins the opening riff, and the vocal delivers a heartfelt invocation. Trucks and Jaimoe's double drums are perfect and powerful, filling out the sound, tightening it up, laying the groundwork for a lyrical solo first from Betts and then from Duane, who in technique and feeling leaves the already excellent Betts light years behind. The dusty, typically "southern" tones take shape in "Done Somebody Wrong," and on this foundation bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd, Marshall Tucker Band and others would build their careers. The tempos are Saturday-night dance-hall boogie, the harmonica shifts the scene and makes us swallow so much whiskey that we end up drunk on pure euphoric bliss. The vocal alternates between sharp, high tones and a more sly, laid-back delivery, and in both cases Gregg is completely at ease; the Hammond here works explicitly as a rhythm instrument, because here rhythm is everything: a song that plays and thrives on nervous energy without ever letting its guard down. A masterful exercise in style.

The blues is "Stormy Monday," and "Stormy Monday" is the truest blues there is, period. Nostalgic melodies that warm the heart, a distant Hammond weaves its spiritual patterns, and Gregg's voice, celestial, rises like a blond angel, singing, scratching, whispering words that lose all meaning next to such melodic beauty. And what to say about the central guitar solo? Every word is superfluous in the face of such majestic intensity...

Another essential classic from the band is the lengthy “You Don’t Love Me”. The shy opening of guitar and keyboard shamelessly morphs into a tribal dance at the crossroads of blues, boogie and swing; Duane's guitar quickly muscles its way in, landing straight at the heart of the melody, and for a few moments the spotlight is stolen by Betts, with his more classical, disciplined style, but it's only a fleeting moment, and the Allman Brothers' teamwork passes into Gregg's hands, slipping through his fingers in a perfectly judged keyboard solo. It's the song the band used to close their shows with: it had no rules or fixed length, but back then it usually never ran under fifteen minutes, bringing to a close concerts that never wrapped up before 6 in the morning!

“Hot'lanta” is a scorching-hot Atlanta, and it's certainly not cooled down by Oakley's torrid opening notes on bass, which then venture into fusion territory, proving just how versatile the band was across every musical discipline. The song is enriched by a keyboard/guitar solo courtesy of the Allman brothers in a jazz-inflected style, but naturally what strikes the collective imagination most is Duane's contribution, never satisfied with producing anything less than such a massive wealth of emotion. Special mention goes to the double drums, which, between rolls and odd time signatures, still find room to probe the roots of rhythm in a small but excellent solo of remarkable cohesion and rhythmic harmony.

In “Whipping Post” the riff is entrusted to Oakley's circular melodic bassline, which immediately brings in Gregg's vocals, never heard singing in such high, strangled tones, yet without losing an ounce of his vocal shine.

Since this is a guitar-driven album, it's only natural that such a long track should host a prominent solo section: Duane indeed indulges in an endless array of stylistic exercises, weaving riff upon riff, alternating meditative solo passages - only distantly related to his usual technical fury - with wild forays that lay bare his rocker's soul, his way of conceiving music as nothing but blood and sweat, spared for nothing. A track whose primary roots lie in the most experimental jazz, but which also blends the visceral pull of blues with a certain psychedelic streak and more liquid, flowing sounds.

By this point, the Allman Brothers' performance has become a river in full flood, in the grip of complete artistic trance: mind wiped clean of everything, unconditional freedom, dictated solely by the urge to jam endlessly. “Mountain Jam” too breathes fusion atmospheres, the soloing is more disciplined and, at times, more dissonant, and one senses a tight, cohesive band sound mindful of certain structures, at least in the introductory notes - the first 5-6 minutes - which have the merit of laying the groundwork and paving the way for each member's performance as it drifts toward increasingly undisciplined territory and ever more whirling sonic paths.

The sound returns to its roots in “Drunken Hearted Boy”, revisiting the most classic form of blues, and the band settles back into this context, as ever superbly, showing off here and there fast, high-class flourishes on both guitars, while a piano weaves drowsy saloon melodies in the background. The band reclaims a primitive, archetypal blues, conceding nothing to its usual effervescent, experimental drive: the melody flows drowsily, lulling the listener and reminding them that, as this song ends, they have just had the privilege of witnessing/hearing an event that rock music would only rarely match again. Right after these performances, the band's story turns tragic: Duane Allman dies in October 1971 in a motorcycle accident, followed soon after by Oakley (also the victim of a motorcycle accident, in November 1972, at almost the very same spot).

Note: For those wishing to approach the Allman Brothers' music, and this album in particular, it's worth remembering that numerous editions exist. The one examined here is the “Deluxe Edition” released as a double CD by Mercury in 2003, which offers a far more comprehensive account than the original vinyl release of everything that happened during the shows of March 12 and 13, '71, and the concert of June 27, also from '71.

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26/10/2006