On my way home from the gym just now, the local college radio station played “Summer Breeze,” and it was everything I could do not to flatten the accelerator and run my car straight into a tree. Which naturally got me to thinking about the Allman Brothers Band, and how they lost not one but two members to motorcycle accidents, making the them (in my opinion) the second most unlucky band in rock history, right behind Lynyrd Skynyrd. I say second because while the Allmans managed to turn out some great LPs after the death of founder and legendary guitarist Duane Allman, Lynyrd Skynyrd was more or less dead in the water after their 1977 plane crash, although they’ve carried on and continue to sully poor Ronnie Van Zant’s legacy by producing meat and potatoes rock that omits the meat.
I’m probably talking out of my ass here, but I have always been of the opinion that there are two schools of Allman Brothers Band fans. The first totally dug the interminable blues songs, as personified by the long-stemmers on 1971’s At Fillmore East, that showed off Duane’s chops in all their brilliance but left souls with short attention spans like yours truly cold, while the second dug the Allman’s fine collection of shorter and less bluesy originals, which showed more country and boogie influences, as exemplified by the exquisitely beautiful tunes on 1973’s Brothers and Sisters.
Because I fall into the second category, this “best of” compilation more or less satisfies all of my Allmans’ needs. It’s tilted just slightly towards the post-Duane Allman Brothers Band, and doesn’t include a single long blues jam—even the frequently interminable “Whipping Post” is from the band’s 1969 studio debut and only five plus minutes here—which means if what you want is to hear Duane lay down the law at length you’re better looking elsewhere, namely to one of the several live recordings of the band in 1971. No, this one emphasizes the more melodic and “pretty” (for lack of a better word) side of the band, which includes such lovely standards as “Melissa,” “Blue Sky,” and “Jessica,” as well as the countrified Dickey Betts’ standard “Ramblin’ Man.”
The LP opens with “Whipping Post,” that old warhorse that I can tolerate on this LP only because the band doesn’t ride it for 20 plus minutes. Need I add I’ve heard it to death over the years? Its opening is cool, and Gregg Allman’s vocals are great, as is Duane Allman’s guitar solo. But it doesn’t hold a candle to the haunting “Midnight Rider,” with its great acoustic guitars and Gregg’s distant vocals and its feeling of imminent doom. I personally think this is Gregg Allman’s finest moment, and the guitars of Duane Allman and Dickey Betts conspire to play one very fine instrumental midsection as well. “Dreams,” which like “Whipping Post” was off the band’s eponymous 1969 debut, is haunting as well, and features one great Duane Allman solo. And once again brother Gregg is in fine fettle, growling the blues in his inimitable way.
As for “Revival,” off of 1970’s Idlewild South, it’s a jaunty Dickey Betts number that presages the lovely songs he would turn out after Duane Allman’s death the following year. The hippie sentiment is a bit forced (“Love is everywhere,” sure, except for Altamont and the Manson Family) but the song wins you over with its sheer gospel-flavored exuberance. Meanwhile, “Hot ‘Lanta” is off At Fillmore East, the live LP that finally launched the band into star status. It’s a perky, almost jazz rock, instrumental featuring stellar performances both by Gregg Allman on organ and his brother on guitar, and it demonstrated the band’s incredible range. As for ballad “Melissa,” it’s one of the loveliest songs I know. Written by Gregg Allman way back in 1967, it was recorded just three weeks after brother Duane’s death, and appeared on 1972’s Eat a Peach, that mix of studio and live performances that, so far as I’m concerned, is ruined as a commodity I might want to purchase by “Mountain Jam,” which squats like a fat toad on sides two and four, testing the patience of anybody who finds the idea of a 34-minute song the epitome of self-indulgence. But hey, Dickey Betts’ guitar work (both acoustic and electric) is lovely on “Melissa,” as is Gregg Allman’s performance on the organ.
That said, brother Duane was still around to record the punchy “Stand Back” for Eat a Peach, and his slide guitar is very much in evidence. Berry Oakley plays a miniature bass solo, Gregg Allman is pure soul on the vocals, and Butch Trucks tosses in some fantastic drumming. As for “Blue Sky,” it’s a joy, written and sung by Betts, and if it doesn’t make you happy I suggest ECT. While Betts and Duane Allman alternate playing lead guitar—it was one of Duane’s final performances with the band—“Blue Sky” marked the beginnings of Betts’ gradual takeover of the band, as well as the Allman’s movement away from the blues towards a more countrified sound, and I can’t hear it without playing air guitar along with Betts’ and Allman’s extended guitar solos, which flow, both of ‘em, like a clear mountain stream.
And almost the same can be said for the band’s enormously successful “Ramblin’ Man,” a country-rock number that trucks like the Greyhound Betts, who handles vocals, claims to have been born in. Betts and temporary band fill-in Les Dudek both play lead, and their guitar lines are clean and linear and exquisitely beautiful, like quicksilver. It’s no wonder, listening to that pure country sound, that critic Robert Christgau dubbed it “miraculous.” Also exquisitely lovely is the band’s extended instrumental “Jessica,” a song credited to Betts although there would long be bad feelings about the matter, as both Dudek (whose acoustic guitar opening is timeless) and new band keyboardist Chuck Leavell would argue that they deserved co-songwriting credits. They may be right, but regardless the song is as unrelentingly cheerful as a Charlie Brown ditty, bouncing along in a way inspired, according to Betts, by watching his daughter, the song’s namesake, bounce along to the tune’s melody. This is country jazz rock, or some such crazy hybrid, and its uniqueness is only increased by the fact that Betts wrote it in tribute to Django Reinhardt, and set himself the task of imitating the great gypsy guitarist’s use of only two fingers on his left hand, as a result of severe burns. Betts played lead, and what a lead; his playing is a revelation, as is Leavell’s work on the electric and acoustic pianos. This is one sophisticated piece of handiwork, people, and what set the Allman Brothers Band apart from Southern Rock counterparts such as Lynyrd Skynyrd.
Closer “Crazy Love” is the odd man out, as it was not released until 1979 on the band’s reunion LP, Enlightened Rogues. By this time a lot of water had flowed under the bridge; Gregg Allman had basically caused the breakup of the band by turning state’s evidence on security man Scooter Herring in a cocaine trial that led to a 75-year prison sentence, after which nobody in the Allman’s organization wanted anything to do with him, the damn snitch. But the band finally reformed to produce the frenetic “Crazy Love,” which was a hit although I’m no fan; to me it sounds like second-rate Lynyrd Skynyrd. Suffice it to say that whatever musical alchemy made the Allman Brothers Band who they were just isn’t on evidence in this song. It’s a real bringdown after the great songs that precede it, and whoever slapped it on this LP deserves a slap or two in return. “Wasted Words” or “Southbound” or “One Way Out” most certainly would have better filled this slot, but hey, that’s the chief problem in this world; nobody ever asks me how to produce the perfect compilation album.
Me, I’ll always be a Skynyrd guy, if only because I’m no big fan of the blues and hence no big fan of the early Allman Brothers Band, the guitar genius of Duane Allman notwithstanding. I just don’t have it in me to listen to a 25-minute version of “Whipping Post.” I don’t even think a 25-minute version of “Whipping Post” should be legal. People who say “Free Bird” is too long don’t know shit. It’s a trifle compared to the monumental tunes the Allman Brothers Band inflicted on their live audiences. Sure, Duane Allman was an exciting guitarist, but even his best solos had their peaks and valleys, and I don’t know if there were enough drugs in the world back then to enable me to survive the latter.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A-
