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The Flatville Aces meet Mo and Arnie and Hamish
ST CECELIA'S DAY, TALKING HEADS, SOUTHAMPTON, NOVEMBER 22nd, 1998
'Saint Cecelia, I'm down on my knees . . .'
Sunday was St. Cecelia 's day. She's the patron saint of music. Her blessing is all over town tonight. The Swamp Things are at the Platform near Town Quay. A Cajun blues trio with belt. Bob Pearce's excellent blues flyer says they are the biz. Martin Stephenson is at the Brook. The word is he is playing to a good crowd. Excellent as these two might be there is only one place for me tonight. The Talking Heads.
Tonight, in my favourite Southampton hangout, eight local musicians are onstage to end off a day of music at the Talking Heads. I use the word local to define these guys as being from around here rather than any slight on their musical ability. They had that in spades.
You might have billed these guys as the Flatville Aces meets Arnie and Mo plus Hamish on electric guitar. Somehow in a tangled life I've managed, till now, to miss the cajun kicking stomp of the Flatville's. Similarly Arnie Cottrell and Mo Thomas have evaded my haphazard musical time schedule. Not so Hamish Rattrey. Often seen him at the Candle Club fitting his Robbie Robertson inspired guitar play into some blues or a Dylan tune. If you know that Hamish wishes he was Levon Helm's son you can guess where this young Scot is coming from.
So short of a lottery win to take me to Austin for Jimmy LaFave's Native Indian Benefit tonight there is only one other place to be. Right here in the best hangout for music this side of the Brazos river. You know when a gig is going to be good just looking at the instruments laid all over the stage. Into the back corner is a small drum set. In front of that lays a big double bass. At the far end are a couple of Fender guitars against the amps. A mandolin hangs from a mic stand. Two acoustic guitars and a National Steel are racked at my side of the stage.
Eventually after nine the band assemble on stage. Apologies if I get some of these names wrong . . . Mo Thomas has that jocular grin stretched across his face. He's bending his knees, holding hard onto a chord, with his picking fingers curled and poised over an acoustic guitar.
Flatville Ace, Jock Tyldesley cups the violin under his chin before idly pulling a bow acoss the strings. John Taylor, alto saxophone hung around his neck just waits. The big guy next to him with the glasses is announcing they are nearly ready. "Hello Mo" he calls. This is Johnny Wands, I think. Mo answers as does Arnie Cottrell who has completed fine tuning a mandolin. The drummer, from the Flatville's is leaning forward ready to go. The bass player, Rick Foot, I think is obscured from me by the front line but I'll hear every tightly pulled line all night.
They start like somebody dropping a needle onto vinyl. A few crackles, scuffed chords before the whole thing starts to roll. Somebody just took the brake off an eighteen wheel truck on a slope. Picked guitars, plucked mandolin, snatches of Fender chords, a calico curtain of fiddle, soulful horn and bass and drums loping into gear. Arnie Cottrell, the big, bear of a man bends his head into the mic to sing Bourgoise Town (Must be a Cooder song). Blinding start.
The whole continuous set teemed with the spirit of The Basement Tapes, Music From the Big Pink and Paradise and Lunch. It had the lot. Blues, r'n'b, Tex Mex, Appalacian country and more. All that was missing was some Moonshine whiskey. The juke joint was jumping.
The big guy Johnny Wands sang a couple of r'n'b classics. Bright Lights, Big City and the Stones Dead Flowers. Did an unabashed love song by the Carter family. Then headed south for a hacienda toe tapping Tex Mex song. Midway through he excused the band a beer break. Just him and and John Taylor on stage "leaving the old farts to carry on" he laughed into the mic. Said he'd do a JJ Cale song. Didn't catch the name of it. Knew it soon as it started:
"Whipporwill's singing, soft summer breeze;
Makes me think of my baby left down in New Orleans
I left down in New Orleans
Magnolia, you sweet thing, you're driving me mad;
Got to get back to you baby;
You're the best I ever had;
You're the best I ever had;
You whisper good morning so gently in my ear;
I'm coming to you baby;
I'll soon be there
I'll soon be there"
(Copyright JJ Cale)Johnny Wands scratched chord guitar playing and John Taylor's saxophone were absolutely spot on. Wands voice as gritty as charcoal. An aching rendition of a classic song. Phew froze the blood. Made the version I've got by Poco sound positively anemic.
Arnie Cottrell and Mo Thomas followed it with a duet. Another cracking song. Arnie on mandolin again, Mo playing bottleneck on an acoustic. Don't know what it was but it was one for a back porch and a jar of of something good.
Arnie would switch between electric guitar and mandolin all night. He took up the electric for a song that steamed the walls. "We're going to do a train song," announed Mo. It was called something like Going Down to Memphis. And they rolled all the way. Band just steamed it. Saxophone playing like Booker Ervin on Mingus Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting, drums pitching up at the front line, the double bass just right there in the groove, Wands scratched rhythm chords, Hamish squeezing in tight electric guitar licks, Mo on National guitar, whanging bottleneck, Arnie cooking on electric, and the fiddle like some engineer's whistle as she ran across the switches.
Arnie was having trouble tuning the mandolin and stood head bent in the corner trying to hear it. Mo took a growl when he leaned over and played a run on the guitar. Patiently everyone waited until some bloke in the audience shouted "Come on". Personally he could have taken all night. The sheer quality of everything tonight was too good to hurry.
Then Arnie turned to the mic. Began to pick out a dead familiar intro, band came rocking in behind him. I had Fort Sumner, New Mexico in a flash. "I wanna tell you a story about Billy the Kid" sang Arnie whilst he and the band rollicked at breakneck speed through that great tune from Ry Cooder's Into the Purple Valley.
This whole band was a delight to hear. They might have only had one rehearsal but the rough edges, like raising the hand for the last chorus to let the drummer and bass know the tune was kicking to a close were all part of this magic, dusty bar room set of tunes. Music for the wooden floorboards of this place. Beautiful sax all over the place, great fiddle, the guitars shone and that corking drum and bass had 'em chock to the barricades with rhythm.
I take my hat off to the drummer, whatever his name was. Shuffle king, whack wham, let's fly, drove the beat spot on. On the final song Will The Circle Be Unbroken he had me about ready for a strong drink.
The Talking Heads audience erupted, everyone there. Wouldn't let 'em go without one more. Arnie put down his mandolin and strapped on a Fender. Put a bottleneck on his pinkie and they drove it to the end. Proceeded to shake the foundations with a corking Crossroads.
St. Cecelia is the patron saint of music. The Talking Heads is my favourite venue. Next week the Okeh Wranglers are down here. Can life be this good?
Mike Plumbley
Note and unashamed plug: Mo Thomas's National guitar turned up on the cover of Isle of Wight Rock. Never met the guy. Finally ran into him this year at Olsen/Grayling gig at Talking Heads and finally caught up with his great playing and that National guitar tonight. Mo and Arnie play regular gigs at the Bent Brief in Portswood. Get me a taxi to the terminal zone.
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