I love this guy’s musical aesthetics. Walked into an auditorium at the student center one wintry night, first year of university. It was just him and his bear of a stand-up bass player. Authentic self-taught American blues, which I’d not previously cared for. But this guy was the real deal…

When a person decides — well I should say “decided, mid 20th century” cause God knows what it is like trying to devote a life to traditional music at the present moment — to go for it full bore as a folk musician or Americana blues performer, they of necessity develop an amazingly wide repertoire. They collect tunes, versions of tunes, regional variations, stories and folklore going back decades. The great ones evince their own unique style, blended from millions of influences. They cannot help themselves. It bursts forth from them. Folk music becomes something like their lens for perceiving history and the current zeitgesit. They become adept at “singing the old songs new”, and many also excel at composing their own new material within the genre, but with such a faithfulness to the unarticulated rules that you are certain upon hearing it that the song originated somewhere in central Alabama before the world wars, and circulated via hobos and freight trains all across the country since then.

Last Song For Shelby Jean is like that. A version of it appeared on David Bromberg‘s mostly live first album from 1971. I don’t recall hearing it that night in the auditorium, but its impact on me was stunning a few months later when I heard it as the new album’s opener. I wasn’t big on romantic relationships at 18, but I could recognize emotional and artistic authenticity when I heard it. I mean this guy was a wizard on his instrument, executing incredibly expressive note bending and able to command the room into silence with the awesome quietness of his playing. Plus he seemed able to entirely abandon orthodox ideas about vocal quality, instead just singing out of a heart melting reality, and daring the listener to not find it lovely, or compelling. The version above has a stridency to it, but I often like to listen to differing versions of the same tune, revealing its richness. The one I’ve added here includes live video, from about five years later, and showcases a vulnerable tenderness. (It’s an amazing amateur video by the way, shot live with questionable lighting at the old Capitol Theater in Passaic, NJ, which I’m told was later demolished. I like the way he waits and waits on the opening bar till the audience quiets down their screaming requests enough for him to begin at his desired volume.)

A Bromberg show is nothing if not funny. I do not recall any specific jokes from that first show, but he had the audience in stitches with his bawdy humor in between numbers, while his bass player altered the angle of his instrument such that a reflected glare would ray onto the prettiest girls in their seats. Lots of his songs were pretty funny as well, like the next example, Suffer To Sing The Blues, in which he switches gears to a small electric backing band with a horn section.

I went and bought myself a lottery ticket // just to change my luck
Figured I wouldn’t mind the losin’ // if it only cost a buck
I won an electric toaster // and a baritone sax
But I had to pawn my clothes // just to pay off the tax

For these next two, not alot that I have to say; they are just pithy favorites. Just listen to them with half the attention and depth he puts into rendering them, and you will receive a poignant reward. Diamond Lil is a soft kind of morality tale, with a female chorus cooked in as a pleasant touch. Some gorgeous piano accompaniment in this one near the end too. And Spanish Johnny is a haunting remembrance of a rogue mandolin virtuoso from Mexico who lived on the margins of lawful amicable society but played with a lover’s heart. These are both from a bit later in Bromberg’s career.

And his talk with men was vicious talk // when he was drunk on gin
But those were golden things he said // when he talked to his mandolin

Still here? Bromberg is a northeast kid, like me. I think he hailed from Philadelphia originally. Like many talents within his genre and generation, he perforce reinvented himself at intervals during a full life to keep on keeping on. One such interlude was when he switched gears to take training at a well-known luthier’s school in Chicago to learn the art of making a violin. And he had his own shop for awhile and became quite skilled at evaluating and refurbishing old instruments, especially American fiddles. He was still performing as of ten years ago though also, when last I chacked on him. I’d mentioned that a figure like this will naturally acquire a large vocabulary of songs from many sources encountered along his path. This reflects in Bromberg’s ability to beautifully interpret old classics while also becoming deeply versed in their what-you-might-call provenance. I end with one such example, the famous Mr. Bojangles brought to popular attention by Bob Dylan. It was one long-wandering minstrel Jerry Jeff Walker who actually sourced this song however. That’s where Dylan got it. I love the way David breaks off singing to tell the story of how this tune arose, an historical morsel he knows because he spent a healthy chunk of time tramping and playing with Jerry Jeff back in the day. Delightful irreplaceable stuff. Let your ears luxuriate in the extended finger-picking confection Bromberg closes this beautiful song with.

If you made it this far, my warmest thanks for listening!

_______RS

► Handy INDEX — scan through all available ||SWR|| articles