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Show Review
It was with this enigma in mind that a solution struck me. Staring at 8-string guitarist Charlie Hunter’s magically agile fingers, I had an idea that would solve all my problems at once: I could simply have my friend Sam write my reviews! This would not only solve the whole viewpoint question; it would effectively eliminate the need for me to do any work at all. Sam is a great writer and could certainly turn in a few paragraphs equal or even superior to my own work. My only chore would then be to contact the artist in question and get the two of us on the guest list as press representatives. The idea kept sounding better and better, and at the end of the show, I presented it to Sam. Before I had the chance for an in-depth explanation of the genius of my strategy, however, he shattered my brilliant slacker intentions into so many shards. Apparently right around the same time I was concocting my plan and watching the unbelievably talented Hunter simultaneously tear through both guitar and bass lines, Sam had fallen asleep in the balcony. He was not overly tired. Nor, do I think, had the two Grey Goose Vodkas-on-the-rocks seriously impaired his listening abilities. According to Sam, he fell asleep because this was simply one of the most boring concerts he had ever seen. I myself was busy on the front lines with my pen and camera, and having spent half an hour standing in front of Mr. Hunter, I can say with no hesitation that he is undoubtedly one of the most technically talented guitar players I have ever seen. Both hands and all ten fingers move with a dexterity that one must see to believe, but therein lies the problem: in order to enjoy Charlie Hunter, you have to watch him. Once you close your eyes and listen, the magic fades away in a fog of generic jazz and heartless technicality.Throughout the night, Hunter was so intently focused on playing his ass off that he forgot to have any fun with it. He saw it as his job to be the best guitar player on earth and forgot that his job was actually to put on the best show on earth. He was constantly biting his lip, apparently lost in concentration. Unfortunately, his concentration was focused on his own playing instead of that of the band as a whole. His own lines and fills were so intense he just couldn’t play them straight-faced, but halfway through the show, one was left wondering what was so intense about it all. There were occasional forceful moments when Hunter finally stepped out of his own head and actually connected with his drummer and saxophonist Derrick Philips and John Ellis, but the scarcity of these moments only served to point out Hunter’s shortcomings as a bandleader and band member. Watching Hunter play is akin to watching a Buddhist master effortlessly levitate. Watching his band play is more like being a seventeen year-old sitting next to your parents for an hour of church.Many of the songs did start off with promise: dark, back alley blues gave way to flamenco-flavored shuffles, and Glenn Miller’s presence mingled nicely with Charles Mingus’, but a touch of everything amounts to a bunch of nothing if no one is there to tie it all together, and Hunter is either too egocentric or too misanthropic to take charge. Finally, it was up to opening act Skerik’s Syncopated Septet to really get the energy up. Their funky waltz through the crowd conjured enthusiastic whoops and yelps which only accentuated the half-hearted claps that dominated the rest of the night. I had heard the rumors that the Charlie Hunter Trio was no longer playing “dance” music, but I never expected they’d be playing lounge music. When I had finally gotten all the photos I wanted, I myself settled back into the balcony to chill out and listen for a while. It was only then that I realized that this truly was boring music. This was the new-agey jazz my father played that put me to sleep when I was thirteen, not the high-powered stuff of Coltrane and Montgomery.If Hunter wants to play jazz instead of funk, I’m not one to argue, but as Sam said at the end of the night, “If you’re that good, you might as well have a little fun with it.” There was nothing fun about this show, and if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in capturing the moment on film and paper, I might have taken a hint from Sam and curled up in the balcony for a nice, relaxing, $21 nap. If I couldn’t take advantage of his friendship to further my own career ambitions, at least I could learn something from him. So the next time you want to take a shot at a self-righteous rock critic, just remember: we’re just following orders—just because we’re the only ones that say it publicly doesn’t mean it’s not true. Photo by ND Koster. |
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Journalistic tradition dictates that writers refrain from the first person viewpoint, but with editorials, reviews and critiques, some flexibility comes into play. Rock critics, in particular, are not simply telling the story, they are letting us know whether the story was really worth telling in the first place. I’m told, however, that a good critic should be able to write a concert review without taking advantage of this stylistic flexibility. 
