Editor's Note: Not much in the way of photo or video evidence of Friday and Saturday's Black Crowes shows. Apparently security was so tight at the House of Blues over the weekend, the staff were even telling fans up front to stop texting, let alone attempt to take a pic, because it distracted the band. So hey, instead of running a press shot, we'll tip our cap to YouTube user: neosurfer08, who snagged some great video of a Crowes show last month down in Cougartown USA, Orlando, Florida. Even someone in the comments section marvels at his skillful dodging of security.
If this were 1972 at some eating establishment in the South, The Black Crowes would be harassed for their straggly facial scruff, greasier than diner spoon hair, bell bottoms, and burned-out nonchalance. But this is 2010, and it’s the House of Blues in Boston. And while the Crowes are allegedly on the way out the door, they’ll handle the heckling from here on out thank you.
“If we can’t hear ourselves because you’re talking too much... that’s fucked up,” said prickly frontman Chris Robinson early on in the two-part set, the first billed as an intimate acoustic gathering, the second plugged in.“Have a little respect for the music — you know? Go fuckin’ somewhere else and do it.”
Dressed up in a worn out grey t-shirt and beat up jeans looking like he was on a Sunday afternoon beer run, the hyperkinetic singer shook, rambled and scolded his way through the nearly three-hour show.
The early hits were there, “Jealous Again” and “Thorn in My Pride,” sounding brilliantly fresh acoustically despite their overplayed radio status. Alongside the lesser known “Hotel Illness” and “Girl from a Pawnshop,” it was clear that the Atlanta-bred rabble-rousers were no longer the Stones or Faces wannabes critics dubbed them back in the early ‘90s — despite a masterful take on the Exile on Main St. classic “Torn and Frayed.” Calling them next-generation hippies would be an easy but apt description, adorning the stager with both the flag of California, a state that may just legalize marijuana next week, and an American one with a peace sign in place of the stars. Born in the wrong decade, like back when The Allman Brothers still mattered, The Black Crowes still embrace their Marley-meets-Skynyrd roots unapologetically.
Speaking of brothers, the feuding Robinsons predictably kept a good distance between them, with each barely acknowledging the other. Instead, Chris hovered adoringly by newest guitarist and North Mississippi Allstars co-founder Luther Dickinson like he might a new girlfriend, one who brought depth and a harmonious Southern credibility to the proceedings. Rich played the role of nearly invisible sideman for the better part of the gig, finally getting a chance to shine during “Wiser Time” late in the electric set.
The only other original member besides Chris and Rich, drummer and unofficial third Robinson Steve Gorman, flailed about looking like a Keith Moon disciple or a quirky professor in a collared shirt and blazer with unkempt and curly shoulder length hair endlessly flopping about. A few instances he took to center stage pounding along on just a bass drum with timpani mallets; gloriously unaware he was pinching the spotlight.
The legacy that The Crowes will leave, if this is indeed the end and not simply the “indefinite hiatus” it’s being billed, is a messy, drug-fueled one, marred by squabbles, break-ups and half-hearted make-ups. Comparatively, that’s exactly how the live shows have gone over the years; one night it’s like seeing a bad Grateful Dead cover band, the next a healthy balance of radio favorites and artistic expression.
That electric portion of Friday’s performance was a mixed bag, jamtastic — even too much at points. Unless everyone was stoned, extended noodling, like before “Black Moon Creeping,” lost parts of the audience or gave reason for a bathroom break. The rollicking “P.25 London” and “Remedy” were quick to reel them back in and, on what might be the final tour, presented both the best and not so great The Black Crowes have to offer.
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