Reviewed by Ray Smith, Friday 13th February 2015
As the audience settled into their cabaret style seating at the Governor Hindmarsh Hotel, or hung around the bar in true 'Gov' fashion, I took the opportunity to examine the stage before the show,
The Backsliders With Old Gray Mule, began.
The battered 'cut down' kit emblazoned with the Backsliders logo looked old and tired centre stage, compared to the more contemporary and complete drum kit positioned at rear stage left, but was bizarrely juxtaposed with a space age looking bladeless fan. The industrial fan positioned next to the other kit was a clear sign that we were in for a very hot time.
Old Gray Mule (C. R. Humphrey and J. J. Wilburn) were introduced by Dom Turner, and the industrial fan instantly went into overdrive.
Humphrey's finger style guitar work made his borrowed Fender Telecaster bounce from the first note and Wilburn's drumming was insistent and precise. Wilburn sang the first song in his Southern drawl, whilst drumming, but had problems with his microphone stand, which he overcame without missing a beat, a relatively simple feat for a man who appears to have several more limbs than the average human.
The music was raw, edgy, riff-based and rock solid. The duo sounded like a full blues band in very good form, Wilbur's kick drum and Humphrey's right thumb providing all the bass the songs required. No guitar heroics were offered or needed as the pair led us through swampy mangroves, we tramped the Mississippi Delta and into Texas, as Humphrey's 'twang' informed us that, "Born down South, Steely wind's gonna blow" in a mournful minor, while Wilburn's muted but precise drum fills dotted the i's and crossed the t's.
The only departure from their pure blues sound was an homage to Hendrix in a version of Voodoo Chile on a sparkle-finished telecaster. Now, that takes confidence but I suppose having
Isaac Hayes' nephew on the drum kit would give anyone confidence.
The Backsliders (Dom Turner, Rob Hirst and Ian Collard) took to the Stage and Ian Collards' harmonica wept from the first beat. That tired old cut down kit burst into life, driven relentlessly by Rob Hirst, as the lights reflected from Dom Turner's slide and the audience knew that "it was on".
This was a music lesson for the eager and appreciative crowd, not just in terms of the Blues but also about precision and good rehearsal. If the band was any tighter it would burst.
Turner was brilliant. His slide safely nestled over his fourth finger allowed him to use his remaining digits to voice chords and fret riffs with fluid grace as the band segued from one song into the next with deceptive ease. This is one tightly rehearsed outfit, which may have something to do with the fact that they have been working together for many years and are masters of their respective crafts.
Turner's voice sounded almost lazy and conversational as he reminded us in a clear Australian accent that, "The penalty varies from race to race" as he finger-picked perfectly timed and nuanced riffs that skipped between the jagged rocks of Hirst's drumming and the threatening clouds of Collard's harp lines. The man is a phenomenal blues player.
Hirst was merciless on the poor drum kit, and himself, and he was soaked in sweat within the first 10 minutes of the set. "The drummer just got out of the pool", a friend whispered to me, as the bladeless fan worked as hard as it could. His playing was frenzied, powerful, insane and utterly perfect.
The pure physical force of his playing needs to be seen to be believed, and I couldn't help imagining that this wasn't a carefully selected array of percussive elements that had been chosen for the show but rather the few remaining parts of a kit that he'd played the night before. I don't know what company supplies his drum skins but they should sponsor him immediately If a skin can survive one gig of Hirst's brutal playing, it should last a normal drummer at least ten years.
In one of their numbers, Hirst played with his bare hands and it was somehow even more aggressive than his stick work. The extreme violence in his playing seemed incongruous as he offered beautiful and gentle harmonies to Turner's lyric while trying to beat his kit to death.
All the while, Ian Collard haunted the far edges of the stage with his brooding presence, offering mournful responses to Turner's lyric as he paced around like a man in gaol. A dangerous and solitary figure he seemed; a caged tiger, a threat, a coiled spring ready to burst out without warning.
Burst out he did.
I've seen Ian Collard play before, when he fronted Collard Greens and Gravy at the Semaphore Workers' Club in South Australia, where he sang most of the songs and communicated freely and easily with his audience.
This Collard was different.
This Collard was in his own world, and it was quite disconcerting.
A casual flick of the eyebrow from Turner heralded Collard's first solo, and then he began. Ian Collard solos are breathtaking, literally. I stopped breathing, willing him to take a breath as I watched him play that damned thing. I have never seen a player of his ilk before and I doubt that I ever will again. He is simply the best blues harp player I've ever heard.
What an extraordinary gig.
The clinical and subtle Dom Turner was obviously the doctor in charge of this particular asylum, and his 'clients' would not be easy to manage, I imagine, but the results speak for themselves.
This was a workshop on the Blues, which every sweaty dancer and punter and musician in the audience thoroughly enjoyed, and then they stepped it up a few notches.
Not content, it would seem, with their hugely successful show. The Backsliders decided to let us in on their process, their methodology.
All through their wonderful show there had been a microphone sitting front and centre stage for no apparent reason.
Turner invited us to the Campfire Session.
These three brilliant players left the comfort of their amps, sound system and fold-back to gather around a single microphone at the front of the stage to play for us virtually 'unplugged'.
We were witness to three great players, working together without technological help as if in rehearsal in someone's lounge room, an enormously risky but generous gesture from fabulous musicians who have nothing to hide.
This was a marvellous, marvellous show.
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