RADOKHere’s to you, Mrs. Robinson: Chris Robinson sings to his missus
Ah, Thanksgiving. Time for turkey (a bird which, strangely enough, tastes best as a burger), pro football (yes! The Detroit Lions and the Dallas Cowboys! What meaningful skirmishes!) and family. Oh, and parades. Charlotteans love a parade. And they love no parade like they love the Thanksgiving Carolinas Carrousel Parade. Tryon Street is closed off from, uh, UNCC to, I dunno, Rock Hill, mainly so people living uptown have no choice but to park their cars and watch the darn thing. At least that’s my theory. As parades go, this one was eminently watchable — lots of little high school beauty queens in their finest hour, plenty of floats tossing the kids candy, a few semi-celebrities (read: TV newsies), and marching bands. About those marching bands: a couple of them, both from predominantly African-American high schools, were told by the whitebread parade organizers to tone down their bumping and grinding a bit, supposedly in deference to the youngsters in the audience. The bands complied, although their performances still seemed very energetic (I could be biased: it’s fun to watch WASP-y banker types attempt to get down). That said, isn’t it better to have your kids see people dancing and enjoying themselves in the spirit of art and community rather than for the sake of MTV-influenced commerce? If people really want to protect impressionable kids, here’s a suggestion: axe the newscasters next year.Chris Robinson, formerly of the Black Crowes, played Tremont Music Hall Saturday night, and brought along plenty of instruments, incense — and maybe, just maybe, Big Hollywood Starlet Kate Hudson. The first two I’m certain of. Robinson brought a big new band with him, New Earth Mud, accomplished enough that one would be forgiven for thinking they played in the mud at Woodstock. Robinson came strapped with a guitar this time around, and, unlike most lead singers who decide to don an axe, actually knew how to play it! The sound was gloriously retro in such a way that it ought to make Lenny Kravitz start wearing Old Navy: all tube amps and vintage gear, but adorned with some rather trippy swashes that suggested dub and reggae at certain points. The atmosphere also worked. Big hunks of incense burned from the stage for hours on end, whether to set a mood or hide Robinson’s mid-show relaxation activities (Indeed, one person overheard said that, upon arriving early, all they could see from the bus was the spark of lighters. Gee, I didn’t know Chris Robinson smoked. Perhaps he likes aromatherapy candles. . . .) On that very bus, some surmised, sat a young blond movie actress known for her work in films like Almost Famous. Indeed, some were almost certain that they saw her — two people near me swore they saw the pixie enter at the beginning of the show along with the band, then disappear backstage. And perhaps it was the incense, but I think I almost had a brush with celebrity. At one point during the show, a lady with a dark-colored flowing dress passed, wearing a sort of southern belle hat pulled down over her brow. She was accompanied by a larger man, and left out the side door reserved for the band and club staffers. In fact, she appeared and disappeared so quickly it could have been freakin’ Great Garbo for all I know. Or, um, a staff aromatherapist.Speaking of “Feeling Groovy,” I decided to check out the Rock & Roll Graphics 1966-1970 show at the Main Library’s Gallery L. As a guy who collects handbills and flyers from shows that I alone (to read my mail) deem to be cool, I was excited about seeing the show. They’re perfect for a collectible: you can rip them off walls and telephone poles when you’re post-show tipsy, they’re free, and they fold nicely in a back pocket until you get home. The only problem lies in the fact that, like fine wine, they must age before they become cool enough to put on your wall, else you look like a kid with his or her bedroom plastered with White Lion and Warrant posters. Having waited the suitable 30 years, “Feeling Groovy” does a pretty decent job. First of all, it tells us that acid was pretty widespread in the 60s, as most of these posters are damn near unreadable without focusing intently (one imagines after a hit or two, the code is easily broken). There’s posters of shows by all the biggies – Hendrix, The Doors, Big Brother and the Holding Company — and the relatively unknown (Ballin’ Jack and Juicy Lucy, anyone?), all done in the fluid-like cultural swirl of the time. Perhaps, in some 20 years, I’ll have a show at the Main Library, showcasing the artwork and the artistry I’ve collected from Charlotte in the 90s and 00s. Then again, maybe not. You never know what to expect from a city that makes it illegal to post flyers on telephone poles but exhibits them as art in an uptown gallery.
This article appears in Dec 4-10, 2002.
