RICK DANKO, RICHARD MANUEL & PAUL BUTTERFIELD
''LIVE AT THE LONE STAR, DISC TWO''
NOVEMBER 7 2011
RECORDING DATE SEPTEMBER 19 1984
103:13
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DISC ONE (47:42)
1 The Shape Im In 04:47
2 CC Rider 05:26
3 It Makes No Difference 07:11
4 Walking Blues 05:40
5 My Baby Left Me 04:33
6 You Don't Know Me 03:00
7 Im Just Your Fool 04:16
8 Long Black Veil 05:35
9 Chest Fever 04:32
10 Blaze Of Glory 02:38
*****
DISC TWO (55:31)
1 Crazy Mama 06:31
2 Across The Great Divide 03:49
3 Java Blues 04:50
4 Walking By Myself 04:20
5 Unfaithful Servant 05:40
6 She Knows 03:18
7 Got Me A Car 04:38
8 Stage Fright 04:31
9 Why Are People Like That 04:19
10 I Shall Be Released 03:34
11 Honest I Do 04:26
12 Mystery Train 05:30
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TWO REVIEWS
www.amazon.com
Misterian
"Live At The Lone Star" captures Rick and Richard in an intimate concert with the great Paul Butterfield. The arrangements are somewhat sparse, which allows each of them to shine (but especially Paul's harp). The vocals are really strong and harmonious. 'The Band' is of course well represented throughout, but there are some great blues numbers as well. For me, the highlights were -- forget it. Too many. It's two solid discs worth of music. They play a lot of great songs . It sounds good too, like you're there - you and a small handful of friends. Very honest performance. I really enjoyed it. Perhaps, you will too.
*****
Eric Schenk
The Rick Danko and Richard Manuel we hoped to hear more of after the Band.
Rick Danko was fabulous as a member of the Band. His bass playing was solid and vocals on songs like "It Makes No Difference" and "Across the Great Divide" were terrific. However, on most of his post-Band releases, there is a lack of energy that combined with his melancholy vocals just seem too dreary. However, on this release from the soundboard at the Lone Star in Manhattan, Danko and his "Band"-mate Richard Manuel combine with Paul Butterfield to produce a lively, joyous extended set that is a tribute to both former Band members who died far too soon. Obviously, Richard must have suffered mightily to take his own life and in his last years, Rick Danko, looked weighed down with pathos. So it is bittersweet to have a recording such as this to remind lovers of Americana-type music that these two were gifted and vital. Thanks to whoever arranged for the release of this album. We miss Rick D. and are glad to have these additional performances to warm our home.
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Editorial Review
www.amazon.com
Two CD live archive release from former Band members Rick Danko and Richard Manuel, who are joined by veteran Blues man Paul Butterfield. This set was recorded live at the famous Lone Star Cafe in New York. While not the greatest recordings in terms of sonic quality, these recordings capture a unique line up, from what must have been a truly amazing evening.
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BIOGRAPHY/RICK DANKO/AMG
Bruce Eder
Rick Danko was - and will forever be known as - one of the three singing members of the Band, as well as their bassist. Their principal lead singer on the first album, he was second of the members to join the group back in its days backing Ronnie Hawkins, and the second of its members to pass away.
He was born Richard Clare Danko on December 29, 1942, in Greens Corner, Ontario, Canada, near the town of Simcoe. The latter is in a part of Ontario populated by a large number of families descended from expatriate Southerners from the United States, and the echoes of Southern culture ran through the music and language in the area, with a special emphasis on country music. Danko's whole family played or sang, and he was playing banjo for his classmates as early as the first grade. As a boy, he listened to Hank Williams, among other country artists of the late '40s and early '50s, in addition to gospel and R&B, with Sam Cooke and Fats Domino both strong influences during his teen years. He gave up school to go into music full-time when he was in his mid-teens, and made the jump to the big time -- relatively speaking -- by joining Hawkins' backing band, the Hawks, at age 17. Guitarist Robbie Robertson was already a member of a couple of years' standing at that point, and Danko was initially the group's rhythm guitarist, but he soon learned to play bass and switched to the four-string instrument. He not only mastered the electric bass but also the upright acoustic bass, and became an amazingly accomplished player on both instruments at a very young age.
Danko was part of the split with Hawkins when the group broke away from their former employer, and he was along for the ride when they got picked up as Bob Dylan's backing band, and for the switch in name from the Hawks to the Band. And when they emerged to fame in their own right in 1968, it was as equals -- initially, at least, no member was more or less prominent than any other in terms of their sound; this changed somewhat as Robbie Robertson (also their in-house songwriter) began receiving greater exposure, but in the beginning and for the first few years, everyone had an equal part and was equally important in the eyes of the public. Danko's bass work was distinctive enough, but along with Levon Helm and Richard Manuel, he was also one of the three singing members of the group, and his lead vocals were all over their debut album, Music from Big Pink. But Danko was badly injured in an automobile accident soon after that album's release -- people write about Dylan's motorcycle accident from this era, but relatively few realize that the man who sang lead on most of Music from Big Pink broke his neck and back in nine places, and spent months in traction recovering. He was back for their second album, The Band, and he became one of the most memorable new vocalists in rock during this period, his performances on songs such as "When You Awake," "The Unfaithful Servant," and "It Makes No Difference" among the most searingly beautiful in '60s and '70s rock.
The group got through its prime years with some shifts in emphasis and changes in its dynamics -- Manuel and Helm became much more visible as singers after the debut album, and Robertson had what amounted to a lock on the songwriting as well; and eventually, amid the stresses of touring and performing, recording and meeting the obligations of their record label, all of the members decided it was time to move on to develop identities separate from the group. In 1977, less than a year after the Band played what was supposed to be its farewell concert, Danko was signed to Arista Records, and his self-titled debut solo album appeared in 1978, unfortunately a little too close to the release of the Band's swan song, The Last Waltz, as a movie and LP set. Danko got good reviews from those critics who could devote the time and space to it, but the Band's release eclipsed any chance he had to find an audience as a solo artist, and by 1980, Danko was without a recording contract. He subsequently rejoined Helm, Manuel, and keyboardist Garth Hudson in a re-formed version of the Band (sans Robbie Robertson) for a tour, which yielded a superb concert video (released on laser disc as well). It was to be the last time that the four members would work together -- in early March of 1986, pianist/singer Richard Manuel, succumbing to years of struggling with alcohol and drug problems, committed suicide.
Danko re-emerged in the mid-'80s in various musical ensembles and combinations, with other ex-Band members (including a film appearance with Helm, Hudson, and Manuel in the movie Man Outside), as well as working with Paul Butterfield and Jorma Kaukonen, among others. He and Helm became part of ex-Beatle Ringo Starr's All-Starr Band, and he also participated in such live events as the Roger Waters concert presentation of The Wall in Berlin, and -- with his fellow ex-members -- was part of a Band reunion in the Bob Dylan 30th-anniversary tribute concert at Madison Square Garden.
For all of this activity, Danko was not -- and had not been for some time -- a well man. He'd shown signs of having an addictive personality fairly early in his post-Ronnie Hawkins career, and as was later revealed, the car accident in 1968 had exacerbated a precarious psychotic condition. And although he'd kept matters under control, there was a price to be paid in terms of his health. Meanwhile, he kept busy musically, joining with American '60s folkie Eric Andersen and Norwegian singer/songwriter Jonas Fjeld for a project that was released as Danko/Fjeld/Andersen in 1993. That same year, he was part of the re-formed Band's Jericho album, a critical success that was followed three years later by High on the Hog. A year after that came Ridin' on the Blinds, a follow-up to Danko/Fjeld/Andersen, and in 1998 came the Band's Jubilation; it would be the last time that the three active original members worked together on a Band project. Danko toured occasionally during this period, but his physical condition made it difficult for him to go on the road; his weight increased dramatically as his health declined, and he was nowhere near his best at some shows. He was also arrested for an attempt to smuggle heroin into Japan, and during the trial he revealed that he had become addicted to the drug while seeking a relief from the constant pain he'd been in since the car accident in 1968.
Yet on a good night, or at a good recording session, he could still surprise fans by recapturing much of his past glory. His live album Rick Danko in Concert, recorded at two 1997 shows, is everything one could wish for in a live performance from the man, vocally and instrumentally; and Live on Breeze Hill, although more uneven, cut with the Band's Garth Hudson, has its transcendent and near-transcendent moments, most notably Danko's performance on "Crazy Mama," and even the band standards come off OK. A brief tour in late 1999 proved him closer to the end than anyone wanted to think -- on December 10, 1999, just under three weeks before what would have been his 56th birthday, Rick Danko died in his sleep of heart failure.
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BIOGRAPHY/RICHARD MANUEL/AMG
Erik Hage
In a group remembered for their vocal talent, the late Richard Manuel was often seen as the lead singer. His is the first voice you hear on the Band's legendary debut album, Music From Big Pink, a rich baritone so soulful and charged with pathos it's hard to believe it could come from the frail Canadian. His is also the last voice heard on that album, a lonesome, quavering falsetto on Bob Dylan's "I Shall Be Released" that raises the hair on the back of the listener's neck. Sadly, Manuel hanged himself in a motel room in Florida on March 4, 1986.
Manuel, the son of a Stratford, Ontario, mechanic, developed his vocal ability as a youth in the Baptist church choir. He grew up listening to country music, eventually discovering R&B, which would become a huge influence. (His voice would garner frequent comparisons to Ray Charles.) Manuel was the fourth future member of the Band to join the Hawks. In 1961, Levon Helm was the drummer for the Hawks and Robbie Robertson was on bass. Soon, however, Robertson took over as lead guitarist and Rick Danko was added as the new bass player. When Stan Szelest left the group that year, Richard Manuel was brought in as the piano player.
Throughout the legendary career of the Band, Manuel was troubled by drug and alcohol problems. It was only a few years after the Band had reunited in the '80s (without Robertson) -- and during an endless tour of much smaller clubs than the group was accustomed to -- that Manuel committed suicide. No other singer in the group was as admired, however. Even musical giants such as Eric Clapton (who has made no secret of his fascination with Manuel) were in awe of his vocal ability. Clapton would go on to record a tribute to Manuel, "Holy Mother," on his 1986 album August. Ex-bandmate Robbie Robertson would also eulogize Manuel on his 1987 solo debut with "Fallen Angel." Richard Manuel's grave is at the Avondale cemetery in Stratford, Ontario.
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BIOGRAPHY/PAUL BUTTERFIELD/AMG
Steve Huey
Paul Butterfield was the first white harmonica player to develop a style original and powerful enough to place him in the pantheon of true blues greats. It's impossible to overestimate the importance of the doors Butterfield opened: before he came to prominence, white American musicians treated the blues with cautious respect, afraid of coming off as inauthentic. Not only did Butterfield clear the way for white musicians to build upon blues tradition (instead of merely replicating it), but his storming sound was a major catalyst in bringing electric Chicago blues to white audiences who'd previously considered acoustic Delta blues the only really genuine article. His initial recordings from the mid-'60s -- featuring the legendary, racially integrated first edition of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band -- were eclectic, groundbreaking offerings that fused electric blues with rock & roll, psychedelia, jazz, and even (on the classic East-West) Indian classical music. As members of that band -- which included Michael Bloomfield and Elvin Bishop -- drifted away, the overall impact of Butterfield's music lessened, even if his amplified harp playing was still beyond reproach. He had largely faded from the scene by the mid-'70s, and fell prey to health problems and drug addiction that sadly claimed his life prematurely. Even so, the enormity of Butterfield's initial impact ensured that his legacy was already secure.
Butterfield was born December 17, 1942, in Chicago and grew up in Hyde Park, a liberal, integrated area on the city's South Side. His father, a lawyer, and mother, a painter, encouraged Butterfield's musical studies from a young age, and he took flute lessons up through high school, with the first-chair flutist in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra serving as his private tutor for a time. By this time, however, Butterfield was growing interested in the blues music that permeated the South Side; he and college-age friend Nick Gravenites (a future singer, guitarist, and songwriter in his own right) began hitting the area blues clubs in 1957. Butterfield was inspired to take up guitar and harmonica, and he and Gravenites began playing together on college campuses around the Midwest. After being forced to turn down a track scholarship to Brown University because of a knee injury, Butterfield entered the University of Chicago, where he met a fellow white blues fan in guitarist Elvin Bishop. Butterfield was evolving into a decent singer, and not long after meeting Bishop, he focused all his musical energy on the harmonica, developing his technique (mostly on diatonic harp, not chromatic) and tone; he soon dropped out of college to pursue music full-time.
After some intense woodshedding, Butterfield and Bishop began making the rounds of the South Side's blues clubs, sitting in whenever they could. They were often the only whites present, but were quickly accepted because of their enthusiasm and skill. In 1963, the North Side club Big John's offered Butterfield's band a residency; he'd already recruited Howlin' Wolf's rhythm section -- bassist Jerome Arnold and drummer Sam Lay -- by offering more money, and replaced original guitarist Smokey Smothers with his friend Bishop. The new quartet made an instant splash with their hard-driving versions of Chicago blues standards. In late 1964, the Paul Butterfield Blues Band was discovered by producer Paul Rothchild, and after adding lead guitarist Michael Bloomfield, they signed to Elektra and recorded several sessions for a debut album, the results of which were later scrapped.
At first, there was friction between Butterfield and Bloomfield, since the harmonica man patterned his bandleading style after taskmasters like Howlin' Wolf and Little Walter; after a few months, though, their respect for each other's musical skills won out, and they began sitting in together at blues clubs around the city. A song from their aborted first session, the Nick Gravenites-penned "Born in Chicago," was included on the Elektra sampler Folksong '65 and created a strong buzz about the band. In the summer of 1965, they re-entered the studio for a second crack at their debut album, adding organist Mark Naftalin as a permanent sixth member during the sessions. In the meantime, they were booked to play that year's Newport Folk Festival. When Bob Dylan witnessed their well-received performance at an urban blues workshop during the festival, he recruited Butterfield's band to back him for part of his own set later that evening. Roundly booed by acoustic purists, Dylan's plugged-in performance with the Butterfield Band ultimately shook the folk world to its foundations, kickstarting an electric folk-rock movement that effectively spelled the end of the traditionalist folk revival.
On the heels of their historic performance at Newport, the Paul Butterfield Blues Band released their self-titled debut album later in 1965. Now regarded as a classic, the LP caused quite a stir among white blues fans who had never heard electric Chicago-style blues performed by anyone besides British blues-rock groups. Not only did it sow the seeds of a thousand bar bands, but it also helped introduce more white listeners to the band's influences, especially Muddy Waters and B.B. King. Toward the end of 1965, drummer Sam Lay fell ill and was replaced by the jazz-trained Billy Davenport, whose rhythmic agility and sophistication soon made him a permanent member. He was particularly useful since Butterfield was pushing to expand the band's sound, aided by Bloomfield's growing interest in Eastern music, especially Ravi Shankar. Their growing eclecticism manifested itself on their second album, 1966's East-West, which remains their greatest achievement. The title cut was a lengthy instrumental suite incorporating blues, jazz, rock, psychedelia, and raga; although it became their signature statement, the rest of the album was equally inspired, perhaps due in part to Butterfield's more relaxed, democratic approach to bandleading.
Unfortunately, Mike Bloomfield left the band at the height of its success in 1967, and formed a new group called the Electric Flag with Nick Gravenites, which aspired to take East-West's eclecticism even further. Bishop moved into the lead guitar slot for the band's third album, 1967's The Resurrection of Pigboy Crabshaw (a reference to Bishop's nickname). Displaying a greater soul influence, the album also featured a new rhythm section in bassist Bugsy Maugh and drummer Phil Wilson, plus a horn section that included a young David Sanborn. Pigboy Crabshaw proved to be the closing point of the Butterfield Band's glory days; the 1968 follow-up, In My Own Dream, was uneven in its songwriting and focus, and both Elvin Bishop and Mark Naftalin left the band before year's end. Still hoping for a breakout commercial hit, Elektra brought in producer/songwriter Jerry Ragovoy, a longtime R&B professional, which marked the first time they'd asserted control over a Butterfield recording. That didn't sit well with Butterfield, who wanted to move in a jazzier direction than Ragovoy's radio-friendly style allowed; the result, 1969's Keep on Moving, was another inconsistent outing, despite the return of Billy Davenport and an injection of energy from the band's new guitarist, 19-year-old Buzzy Feiten. 1969 wasn't a washout for Butterfield, though; his band was still popular enough to make the bill at Woodstock, and he also took part in an all-star Muddy Waters session dubbed Fathers and Sons, which showcased the Chicago giant's influence on the new generation of bluesmen and greatly broadened his audience.
After 1970's Live and the following year's studio effort Sometimes I Just Feel Like Smilin', Butterfield broke up his band and parted ways with Elektra. Tired of all the touring and personnel turnover, he retreated to the communal atmosphere of Woodstock, still a musicians' haven in the early '70s, and in 1971 formed a new group eventually dubbed Better Days. Guitarist Amos Garrett and drummer Chris Parker were the first to join, and with folk duo Geoff and Maria Muldaur in tow, the band was initially fleshed out by organist Merl Saunders and bassist John Kahn, both from San Francisco. Sans Geoff Muldaur, this aggregation worked on the soundtrack of the film Steelyard Blues, but Saunders and Kahn soon returned to the Bay Area, and were replaced by New Orleans pianist Ronnie Barron and Taj Mahal bassist Billy Rich. This lineup -- with Geoff Muldaur back, plus contributions from singer/songwriter Bobby Charles -- released the group's first album, Better Days, in 1972 on Butterfield manager Albert Grossman's new Bearsville label. While it didn't quite match up to Butterfield's earliest efforts, it did return him to critical favor. A follow-up, It All Comes Back, was released in 1973 to positive response, and in 1975 he backed Muddy Waters once again on The Woodstock Album, the last LP release ever on Chess.
Butterfield subsequently pursued a solo career, with diminishing returns. His Henry Glover-produced solo debut, Put It in Your Ear, appeared in 1976, but failed to impress many: his harmonica playing was pushed away from the spotlight, and the material was erratic at best. The same year, he appeared in the Band's farewell concert film, The Last Waltz. Over the next few years, Butterfield mostly confined himself to session work; he attempted a comeback in 1981 with legendary Memphis soul producer Willie Mitchell, but the sessions -- released as North-South -- were burdened by synthesizers and weak material. By this time, Butterfield's health was in decline; years of heavy drinking were beginning to catch up to him, and he also contracted peritonitis, a painful intestinal condition. At some point -- none of his friends knew quite when -- Butterfield also developed an addiction to heroin; he'd been stridently opposed to it as a bandleader, leading to speculation that he was trying to ease his peritonitis symptoms. He began to play more gigs in Los Angeles during the early '80s, and eventually relocated there permanently; he also toured on a limited basis during the mid-'80s, and in 1986 released his final album, The Legendary Paul Butterfield Rides Again. However, his addiction was bankrupting him, and in the past half-decade he'd seen Mike Bloomfield, Muddy Waters, and manager Albert Grossman pass away, each loss leaving him shaken. On May 4, 1987, Butterfield himself died of a drug overdose; he was not quite 45 years old.
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