Van Hunt, formerly part of Atlanta’s rich neo-soul scene, briefly bowed in Charlotte at a recent Ovens show. His new CD, On the Jungle Floor (Capitol; **1/2), is uneven and his essence fares much better live. But Jungle Floor’s primary interest lies in its display of alternative artists’ ongoing struggle with limited horizons. Alt-soul has become a catchall bin for “outmoded” forms of black vernacular styles revived by retronuevo artists as different as Van Hunt and British duo Floetry.
Due to his relative youth and evident admiration of Prince and the Kinks, Hunt tends to be labeled as “alternative soul.” Cassandra Wilson, on the other hand, is considered a jazz artist due to her smoky voice and signs of swing in her discs’ arrangements. Her oft-professed love of Joni Mitchell and turn as video ‘ho for Tracy Chapman have only contributed to Wilson’s classification problems. And her great new CD, Thunderbird (Blue Note; ***1/2), continues the difficult streak.
Wilson’s key collaborators on Thunderbird are producer-musicians Keefus Ciancia and T-Bone Burnett. They take her beyond her career-long fusion of Delta blues and gentle pop into more provocative Americana territory, and the results are mostly brilliant. Such premier players as drummer Jim Keltner and guitarist Marc Ribot guest, but Wilson’s ace boon is keyboardist Ciancia, a founding member of LA black rock group Weapon of Choice, film composer and perennial support on a host of neo-soul projects.
The disc is familiar and alien simultaneously, as Wilson liberates her aesthetic from the jazz cloister by theorizing Delta roots in a different way. This is clearest on a cover of Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “Easy Rider” (aka “C.C. Rider”), which pays epic homage to Jimi Hendrix. Burnett’s sparse approach, reminiscent of Buddy Guy’s Sweet Tea, is tempered by an unfettered sensuality in Wilson’s writing. Traditionally, in some Native American cultures, the thunderbird brought calm and growth; for Wilson, it’s a herald of growth and divine trouble.
Soul is in the details, not necessarily race or region. So it should be easily applied to both Wilson and the Dutch singer-songwriter Nicolai Dunger. Male songbird Dunger mostly sounds like Ryan Adams produced by LA popmeister Jon Brion — and sometimes like Jeff Buckley channeled through Adams. Yet if one can make the leap to hear the tracks of Here’s My Song … (Zoe/Rounder; ***1/2) re-done by such black music mavericks as Bobby Womack and Glen Scott, the soul tag for Dunger’s sound ain’t hard. Grown ass man songs like “The Year of Love and Hurt Cycle” adhere to classic soul format, but the greatest is “Tell Me” with its gritty, folksy underpinnings.
Cleveland’s raw Black Keys are mostly considered “blues” because the genre has ceased to be the preserve of fabled African men from the Miss’sippi Delta who either a) chopped cotton prewar or b) once did time at Parchman’s Farm prison. Yet the formalist style popular in the wake of the White Stripes is more academic than felt — certainly not lived. However, the Black Keys take a good turn at circumventing this problem by paying homage to North Mississippi legend Junior Kimbrough on Chulahoma (Fat Possum; **1/2).
Etta James is viewed by many as the sitting Queen of the Blues, of course, and is primarily revered for her interpretive gift. Two new discs — All The Way (RCA Victor; ***) and the compilation The Definitive Collection — Etta James (Geffen; ***1/2) — reframe her legend. On All The Way, James is not merely slimmed down but has returned with renewed vigor 53 years into her recording career, as the 11 cuts co-produced by sons Donto and Sametto reveal. See fearless approaches to: Prince (“Purple Rain”), Marvin Gaye (“What’s Going On”), Bobby Womack (“Stop On By”), Leonard Bernstein (“Somewhere”) and John Lennon (“Imagine”). Collection includes “At Last,” of course; but my favorite, the recording of “All the Way Down,” spotlights all of James’ wildness and unfettered power, as well as the swan song of ’70s big band funk-jazz. What is surprising, and underscores her gift, is a country-meets-gospel cover of the Eagles’ “Take It to the Limit.” It’s a throwaway curio, but still intriguing.
This article appears in Apr 19-25, 2006.
