Marc Ribot at Le Poisson Rouge

For a long time, I wasn't sure if I would go to the show. Finally, on the day of the show, I decided I would go. I made the right decision. Marc Ribot, celebrating his 55th birthday at Le Poisson Rouge, was something to remember. Little did I know he had played every night of the week, performing old and new material with several different bands at various venues throughout New York City.

Now I'm kicking myself for not attending the Wednesday night show with Spiritual Unity, a group named after Albert Ayler's magnificent album and "dedicated to re-creating and re-imagining the music of the great saxophonist." Seriously, I am embarrassed and upset. My skin is going hot and I can feel my face turning colors. (Incidentally, I have lately been in love with Spiritual Unity which features the classic trio of Ayler on sax with Sunny Murray on percussion and Gary Peacock on bass.) But I didn't even know that Ribot had a band dedicated to Ayler. Why should I get all worked up over missing a performance by a group whose existence I was not even aware of?

I am mad at myself for not knowing. I should have known.

Marc Ribot is one of those musicians who truly defy categorization, who play and exist as if musical genres and boundaries do not exist. He was born in Newark, New Jersey. Perhaps that is why. He played in garage bands throughout his teenage years, and studied with Haitian classical guitarist and composer Frantz Casseus. I am taking this information directly from Marc Ribot's bio. You could do the same. It's an interesting read. Did you know: Marc Ribot also played with Wilson Pickett? Rufus Thomas? Chuck Berry?

You probably know him best for his work with Tom Waits, or maybe you've heard him on the recent, award-winning Alison Krauss and Robert Plant album, Raising Sand. His solo albums have been released by John Zorn's Tzadik label, as well as DIW, a Japanese label specializing in avant-garde jazz. Meanwhile, Ribot's Latin backing band, Los Cubanos Postizos, were assembled in part to celebrate the work of the great Cuban tres player, Aresenio Rodriguez. Los Cubanos Postizos. The False Cubans? The Detachable Cubans? The Prosthetic Cubans. They're who I got to see at Le Poisson Rouge.

My memories are clouded by the heat and the beer, or maybe by the Kobe Sloppy Joe sliders. Or maybe by the young women who are standing directly in front of the stage. I am standing only five feet from the far left of the stage. Farthest from me, at stage right, we see a wild-haired percussionist, then a bass player, then a guitarist. Seated at the rear of the stage, a handsome drummer twirls his sticks between his fingers, first the left and then the right, over and over, and he smiles. The timbalero is seated closest to me. He has a trunk full of cymbals and sticks and pill bottles and other percussion instruments propped up on a stool. To his right, near the center of the stage, is Marc Ribot.

Marc Ribot doesn't play the guitar as much as he wrings it, manhandles it, seduces it. He is seated. Hunched back, head down, his face only an inch or two from the worn, golden neck of his old guitar. A thin black strap wraps around the back of his head to hold his simple eyeglasses in place. And in his seat he rocks and he rocks—a quick, short, jerking motion—and his neck strikes back and forth like a rooster in a ring and the whole world is at his hips as if he's fucking like mad. He plays a lead with such startling force and speed that it's a wonder something doesn't break—at least a string or the entire guitar or his own wrist or the stage itself. And when he comes, the band looks up and smiles big, as if they're watching themselves being taken away. And the whole crowd smiles big, too, and we dance and we howl, united.

COMMENTS
rvance's picture

Geez, Stephen. I'm gonna have to wipe the sweat off my monitor and take the rest of the day off. I'm sorry I wasn't there, but your read was the next best thing. Where's my glasses? Damn.

John Atkinson's picture

Stephen lives a life that I can only dream about :-(

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