Concert review: Bobby Caldwell in Camarillo

Aug 18, 2004 17:59

“Only six more weeks,” I’d think to myself. “Just hold it together for 42 more days, and the rewards will be rich. Rich… beyond your wildest dreams.”

This self-coaching became a ritual throughout summer quarter at school. Every morning in the shower, I’d reassure myself that no matter what sort of drudge and drudgery1 the day might bring, my eyes would be kept on the prize: Bobby Caldwell’s free concert a mere week after the end of term.

Perhaps some background is in order. Caldwell, a well-respected “blue-eyed soul” 2 man whose 1978 track “What You Won’t Do for Love” 3 (among others) proved to be an enduring classic, is one of my favorite musicians of all time. (I hesitate to call him my absolute favorite musician of all time, but that might just be critical wimpishness on my part.) Countless are the times I’ve listened to his ten albums, committing every note and lyric to memory. If I someday release a lamp-bound genie who offers to turn me into the next Bobby Caldwell, I would have serious trouble saying no, assuming I even did. Needless to say, my viewpoint might not be the best from the standpoint of journalistic objectivity, but I’d like to think I make up for it in enthusiasm.

As you might have guessed, missing Bobby’s four-night engagement at Dimitriou’s Jazz Alley, Seattle’s finest venue, had the potential to fling me into a severe psychological episode. Fortunately, at about the same time, I read (on the official site) that, come August 7th, he was going to come to Camarillo - a mere forty minutes away from my school - and give a concert! The price? While I would likely pay anything, the event’s sponsorship by the Camarillo Arts Council meant that I - like everyone else who would attend -- had to pay, in fact, nothing.

Appearance by a personal hero or not, I have a love/hate relationship with free concerts. The lack of drain on my wallet is certainly pleasing, but entertainment that doesn’t cost any money has a definite cost in the form of the other attendees. There are many people who will come to anything free, simply because it doesn’t require any monetary loss. I call this phenomenon the “dawn of the cheapskates.” At 6:20 in the morning, dozens - maybe hundreds - of concertgoers were already setting up their tarps and plastic chairs 4 for the show that wouldn’t start for another thirteen hours.

Foolishly assuming that showing up three hours early would create enough of a buffer to ensure a decent seat, I had to resort to shifting existing pieces of lawn furniture. The way I figured it, the law was on my side: who says I can’t move stuff around when its owners aren’t there to stop me? It’s not like I was stealing it or anything. A nearby camped-out audience member saw things differently and started yelling at me, a pronouncement along the lines of “Hey! Hey! You don’t move other people’s chairs!”

Over my nineteen years in existence, I’ve made a few personal rules that I steadfastly adhere to. Rule number one, I never apologize for an action that someone has already yelled at me about. I don’t care what I did; if you get angry with me, you forfeit your rights to “sorry.” (I honestly can’t understand why more people don’t adopt this practice.) Second, if you tell me not to do something by saying I don’t do it, I will instantly ignore your commands. I don’t move other people’s chairs, do I? So tell me, what sort of universe-bending paradox is being created right this second by the fact that I just moved another person’s chair?

The guy taking a stand against me fell straight into what I call the CHMACJG (Career-Having Middle-Aged Contemporary Jazz Guy) type. Slicked-back hair, pricey sunglasses, khaki shorts (with braided belt), dress loafers. I don’t know what the underlying cause of this phenomenon is, but I see these dudes all the time at jazz concerts5. I think they’re what gives contemporary jazz a semi-bad name, owing mostly to their dorky appearance and the fact that they’re not always present because they truly love the music, but because it’s the most convenient (or, as they might think, fitting) genre for them to be listening to. The rock analog of the CHMACJG might be the 13-year-old poseur, trying his damndest to affect what he believes is the look of a fan when all he really wants is his Raffi record back.



Sound checkin’.
In any case, I wasn’t there to battle aging yuppies. While he got up from his chair to, I suspect, report me to the lethargic park authorities, I sat back and basked in the reflected glory of Bobby and his ten-piece band, currently in mid-sound check. I might knock free concertdom now and again, but one of its perks is that, if you arrive at the right time, you can see the equipment and musicians being calibrated. Sure, sometimes you lose the gamble and end up watching roadies test volume levels for forty minutes, but this time around the check was a de facto mini-concert for the early birds. The full band played no less than four songs, and I was able to catch a rare glimpse of the usually dressy Bobby Caldwell in the sort of outfit I might normally wear, Adidases and all.

I spent the interim hours between sound check and the show proper indulging in two of my favorite pastimes: peoplewatching and reading Douglas Hofstadter’s Gödel, Escher, Bach. Raising my gaze from the recursive dialogues between Achilles and the tortoise, I saw hundreds, nay, thousands of Caldwell buffs and unfamiliar tightwads alike gradually overtake the hillside. This raises another point about free concerts: no matter what the quality of the artist, the madding crowds will make the pilgrimage, usually armed with fanny packs and the ultra-flimsy “sunglasses” handed out at the optometrist’s office.

The previous concert in the venue’s series having been a mediocre bluegrass band, I suspected the rest of the audience had no idea of the tour de force they were in for. From many directions, I heard similar flummoxed remarks: “Now, Bobby Caldwell.. I’m not quite sure. I know I’ve heard the name, but damned if I can’t place him!” Lucky bastards; they were about to experience Bobby for the very first time. I don’t look down on them for not being familiar with the man’s body of work - hell, five years ago, I would have asked who he was - but I’m plenty glad I discovered him in my mid-teens, regardless of the treat that these benighted fortysomethings were about to receive.

Opening for the main act was a local mariachi band, about which the less said the better. I’m all for keeping tradition alive, but these eight-odd guitar-wielding siblings could have used more time in the practice room before hitting the stage. As a developing musician, I know half-baked talent - like my own -- when I hear it. Give this white-uniformed familia a few years or so to work out the kinks in the act, maybe convince them to quit playing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,” and you’ve got yourself a performance troupe. At present, it can only hurt to trot out acts that are still in the development stages.



After the final note of “La Bamba” rang out, it was time to get down to business. Bobby and band took the stage immediately, wasting no time launching into “Call Me Up,” a brand new track from the yet-to-be-released new album6, its powerful liveliness standing in sharp contrast to all of the slow standards Bobby’s been covering as of late. Overcome with excitement, I grabbed the trusty digital camera and rushed up to the stage, snapping as many shots as I could. I wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way of my enjoyment.

The set list7 turned out to be a delightful mixture of old, new and covers. In the interest of not having this paragraph turn into shameless gushing, I will say that I would have like to have heard more material from his first four albums, originally released in 1978-1984. It’s an era of his career that he tends to ignore (certain hits aside) in live performance, and, aside from some very slight disco leanings in the sound - hey, it was the style of the times - the songs would still hold up today.



Women want to be with him. Men want to be him.
There are a number of “must play” (for example, Van Halen’s8 is “Jump”) songs in Bobby’s canon: the addictive “Heart of Mine” and “All or Nothing at All,” both of which he originally penned for other artists (Boz Scaggs and Al Jarreau, respectively), Dionne Warwick’s timeless “Walk on By” and, of course, “What You Won’t Do for Love,” to name but a few. They all sounded as terrific as their album counterparts, and, in some cases, better; this is a welcome change from bands who feel that threadbare, slipshod, but recognizable versions of their hits are acceptable for live shows. (“Dude, you just can’t sound as good live as on the CD! It’s a scientific fact! Besides, you got to jam!”)

Somewhere over the course of the evening, Bobby Caldwell and his band did the impossible. When they started playing, the crowd didn’t change much from their standard event demeanor, chatting amongst themselves, distracting themselves with their possessions9, stuffing their mouths with brie and cheap (though, with the glut in the market, isn’t it all?) wine. However, a gradual change came over them as Bobby and his crew worked their magic. One by one, each of the several thousand audience members slowly came to the realization that this wasn’t typical free concert fare; no, this was something excellent. Eventually, the entire audience - some sugar-flooded tots aside - was enraptured. People were clapping, singing along, demanding encores. The uninitiated were converted into believers as if by divine intervention. Demands for albums were made. “Oh my god, why have we never heard of this man before?” asked of a group of women sitting next to me.

You might well ask, girls. You might well ask.

1 Okay, so I actually sort of enjoyed school during the summer, something that my ten-year-old self would be enraged to hear me saying. The real drudge and drudgery is provided by the harsh sense of loneliness and alienation provided by the college environment, which I choose to tune out with Bobby Caldwell’s music.

2 Ugh, I hate that term. Do we really need to racially bisect this fine genre of music? It seems, more or less, to be direct catering to those who incorrectly believe that “real soul can only be made by the black man,” regardless of the fact that it’s been disproved repeatedly over the last four decades.



3 A great song, to be sure, but I think he’s recorded better in the last 26 years. The fact that it was originally released on red heart-shaped vinyl is delightful, though. If a girl showed up with one as a Valentine’s Day present, I would marry her then and there, no questions asked.

4 My favorite trick: someone had pre-staked out a 10’x10’ area with yellow “CAUTION - DO NOT CROSS” emergency tape. I actually thought it was some official thing (a controlled fire, maybe?) until the chunky suburban family physically returned to claim their patch of grass.

5 Overheard conversation between two CHMACJGs behind me in line at a 2001 jazz festival:
CHMACJG #1: Man, there are some fine ass women here.
CHMACJG #2: I hear that.
CHMACJG #1: Here’s the thing: with these concerts, more sophisticated women are attracted. They look better, they dress better, they’re better educated. The whole deal.
CHMACJG #2: I hear that.
CHMACJG #1: Because, y’know, at other concerts, you never know what you’re gonna get. Women at other concerts are usually just a mess, y’know what I’m saying?
CHMACJG #2: Mmm-hmm.
CHMACJG #1: Man, there are some fine ass women here.

Picture #1 as a scrawnier Paul Hogan, and #2 as squatter and blacker. (It’s an erroneous belief that CHMACJGs are all white - they aren’t. The black ones usually dress better, though, and I’ve picked up countless sartorial tips from casual conversation with them. My Sam Jack-esque Kangol cap usually serves as an “in.”)

6 Ah, the promised New Album. It’s been five years since Bobby’s last record, Come Rain or Come Shine, and it’s been almost ten since his last collection of mostly original material (it’s actually half Motown-ish standards), Soul Survivor. The long-touted next release has certainly taken its time coming, the fans having had to read and re-read miniature blurbs about it for the last few years. Reportedly, it’s going to be a back-to-basics, “jazz, pop and urban-influenced” set, a description that sounds damn promising to me. I actually asked Bobby himself about it once, and he responded that it’d be out in “a few months.”

That was August 2002. I will not be denied, Bobby. I will not be denied.

7 In full:
1. Call Me Up (new album)
2. One Love (Where is Love)
3. Walk on By (Soul Survivor)
4. Our Day Will Come (new album)
5. I Need Your Love (new album)
6. Good to Me (Timeline)
7. What You Won’t Do for Love (Bobby Caldwell)
8. Come Rain or Come Shine (Come Rain or Come Shine)
9. Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me
10. Heart of Mine (Heart of Mine)
11. Where is Love (Where is Love)
12. Don’t Ask My Neighbor (Soul Survivor)
13. All or Nothing at All (Heart of Mine)
14. Tell it Like it Is
15. Janet (Stuck on You)
16. Encore: At Last (Soul Survivor)

8 I realize it makes very little sense to bring up Van Halen in this context, but they’ve been on my mind recently as one of the only outfits of their ilk that I can listen to for extended periods.

9 One sixtyish woman was reading - I crap you negative -- The Idiot’s Guide to the Bible. That alone gives me enough material for the next six months.
Previous post Next post
Up