Tim Barnes of Sabrosa Red
Strange Daze at the St. Matthews Peak Summit Groove and Dance Festival
It's a little after eight o' clock, and I'm starting to worry. There's no band, and worse, there are no people. I'm sitting in Ye Old Dutch's Tavern, across from the BBC on Shelbyville Rd., waiting on a long and twisted thing called the St. Matthews Peak Summit Groove and Dance Festival.
Earlier, Myron Koch, the event's organizer, gave me a special bracelet for bands and media-types and such. Unlike the plain blue bracelets of regular concertgoers, mine is a mighty white with powerful stars on it. I flash it in the face of every doorman and authority-type in my way. My mighty, mighty bracelet, it saves the day.
Lavos says the place smells like Stinkor, the action figure from the `80s He-Man cartoon. He's right. Patchouli does smell a little like Stinkor - either that, or it's the Big Diesel smelling up the place. I don't think it's him, though. Not this time. It seems he had said something earlier about a "shower." Either way, I'm sure the truth will rear its ugly head later. The Big Diesel is beating us by two beers as Sabrosa Red takes the stage. The bar is full and my pitcher is empty. I guess I'll take my chances on waiting.
During my drunken tenure at Harry's House of Brews last summer, before starting school, I came across a band called Sabrosa Red. I don't remember much, other than they played on a weekday - I think a Monday - and the first time I watched them set up, they hauled in a blitzkrieg of effects pedals.
"Man, that's a lot of pedals for a guitar," I remember saying.
"Those aren't for guitar; those are for my bass."
Damn, Sabrosa has a vicious bass player. That is, if one could play bass viciously, like a Les Claypool, they may hold water to Sabrosa. But holding water near a flame is ill advised, and if you're trying to hold a candle to Sabrosa, that little pail of water you call your bass guitar might just put your candle out.
Tonight, Sabrosa's set, the opening act of the Peak Summit Festival, is welcomed by Lavos and me. Big Diesel welcomes anything, especially another pitcher of beer. I couldn't agree more.
The hops and spirits filtering in, I swivel my head, glancing about the room, surveying the scene. Dutch's, once filled with maybe 40 people, is now crammed with more than 100. And Sabrosa is laying it on them heavily.
I remember somebody saying something about me meeting a photographer. I see a man up near the stage with a digi-cam of some sort, seemingly making a documentary of the happenings of the stage. I approach him.
His name is Alex Raitz, a.k.a. DJ Free Agent. He's taping the show for his web site and is doing a drum and bass set later on in the night. Nonetheless, he is not my photographer. I decide to try another of the four bars hosting Peak Summit for cheaper pitchers.
Anyone wound up too much by Sabrosa's set could walk across the street to Maier's and mellow out to the sound of Gladstone, which includes former members of Emily's Garden
The first part of the band's set is blues-dominated. This impression is later made evident when they cover Clapton and the Dead.
The singer sounds familiar - eerily reminiscent of Shannon Horn, the late Blind Melon vocalist. After the bluesy start, Gladstone returns to its roots, belting out original tunes comparable to Widespread Panic.
In Maier's there's a back room where an empty bar sits with debris piled upon it. The room is the only place on the whole block that isn't packed with people, so I decide to make it our headquarters. Ah-ha, H.Q. to the rescue!
A security-type gives me hassle about the rules of the rear room. I flash my envious star bracelet at him and he never says another word. Headquarters does the trick for us. Beers start disappearing like David Copperfield is in the house. But it's hard to fight through the crowd to get up front, to the real bar, for beer. Sadly, Me, nor Lavos, nor Diesel will return to headquarters ever again once we leave.
After a brief stop at Gerstle's for the end of the Merry Pranksters' set and checking out the DJ spinning afterward, we return to Dutch's for Sativa Gumbo. Heads in full effect, dancing up a sweat, energetically feeding off the band. A full house packs the bar, bending and swaying to the Gumbo's grooves. This moment is an epitome of what the Peak Summit Festival is supposed to represent: People smiling, dancing and moving to the beat.
"There're no spinners," the Toledo girl writes in my holy notebook. "But plenty of dancing - dancin' free!"
Sativa Gumbo's set is so good I have to momentarily quit being a journalist. I put my notebook away, sit back and enjoy the show.
I speak with Gumbo guitarist Tommy Potts after his set. He tells me that his band's performance varies, depending on crowd response.
"It depends on where we play," he says. "Last week we played at BBC, and it was on fire. We play better when people give us energy."
He gives me a bootleg copy of the BBC show. We listen to it on our journey home, later. Tommy is right. The BBC was on fire, with flames flickering high enough to compete with Sabrosa Red.
I get the fear at one point during Sativa's set. Singer Jared Williams tells the crowd, "And by the way, we are NOT from Louisville."
I'm expecting Rick Pitino to rush in and strike the man dead with a folding chair. Fortunately it never happens. I ask Potts afterwards just what the hell was his vocalist talking about.
He says the band actually originates from just across the river in New Albany. I ask Potts where he'd consider their home city, then:
"Kentuckiana. From Louisville to Bloomington is where we call home."
Potts says Sativa Gumbo sings proudly of its relationship with the Bluegrass state. There's "The Gorge" - a Gumbo song entitled about "a long, strange trip" while in Red River Gorge, in the eastern part of the state. While the lyrics to "Lonesome Country," go, "High on the trail/ Lonesome Country/ Bound for town/ To groove tonight/ I love the smell of old Kentucky/ Everything's gonna be all right."
Okay, Potts. You're good to go for now, but the second I hear some high-ballin' corporate "record exec" talking about this, "great band from Louisville called Sativa Gumbo," I will remind you of the time: "We are NOT from Louisville." Then I'll go to your shows anyway. Good jams are good jams, regardless of which side of the river you reside on.
Sativa's homegrown jam ends. DJ Brandon Johnson spins records, almost unobtrusively in the background. The Big Diesel likes. He runs around, doing what Big Diesels do, going way over the speed limit, crashing and trashing everything in sight.
In short, what Brandon is doing with the turntables is subtle. Drop on a funk record that 90% of white America has never heard of, filter in a techno bass beat, and wait for the people to groove. Once again, comparing local musicians to national acts, I'd say Brandon is partly the Beastie Boys' Paul's Boutique, and partly Fat Boy Slim's Better Living through Chemistry.
Initially, it doesn't make sense why one would be out there spinning such an electronic mix, but this is Peak Summit and anything goes. Besides, once Bloom Street takes the stage, it all comes together.
It's getting late, and the Big Diesel is getting out of control. We consider taking the mother ship back home. I thank the good Lord that we don't. Bloom Street wakes us up with pure funk fury.
Bloom Street's up-tempo funk-rock fusion has our heads nodding and feet tapping. Lavos smiles big when they start their cover of Pink Floyd's "Have a Cigar." Nobody loves Pink Floyd as much as Lavos. Nobody. We sing along, as the Big Diesel dances. Everyone in the whole joint is watching the stage, and no one is having a bummer.
The Big Diesel asks me for a cigarette. My eyes glance over to an unguarded pack of Camels sitting in an empty chair beside us. Diesel notices them and grabs one. I'm alarmed and tell the owner of the Camels what has happened. She smiles and seems to okay the Diesel's theft.
Big Diesel screams. "I would never do that to you. NEVER!"
Bloom Street's set winds down with a spaced-out cover of the Trammps' "Disco Inferno." No song could be more drunken fun. Now it's time to sleep? Not quite, buddy. It's 3 a.m. and time to boogie.
We go in to the BBC to watch Chitara Rhythm Section. Later a few cop cars and an ambulance show up. Apparently somebody had a little too much fun. The emergency vehicles block in my car, so we watch a little more Chitara.
Their singer asks the crowd if they've enjoyed the peak. We cry out with a loud, "Hell Yeah."
The Grateful Dead. Both The Merry Pranksters and Gladstone closed their sets with covers. Numerous more included covers in their sets. Pre-dating Phish, String Cheese or Widespread, these are the guys who started the whole jam band thing.
I realize, going home, that the bands at Peak Summit symbolize the color in the Louisville music scene. Although Harry's House of Brews on Baxter Avenue was dead the night of Peak Summit, it was a sponsor of the event. Koch said that he and participating band members had impromptu meetings there, organizing the event - every man lends a helping hand.
Surely, the Highlands would be a lot less colorful without this scene, and St. Matthews would be a lot less rich. It's great to know that smooth blends of blues and bluegrass, disco funk and acid rock still saturate the amplifiers of Louisville bands.
Perhaps, with the right marketing, Peak Summit could mean to Louisville music what the Kentucky Derby means to Louisville springs- an annual event that draws people into the city. It sure would be a lot less colorful without it.