Low Spark, High Quality

Last February, my husband and I caught a small add for tickets to see Steve Winwood at the Bank of America Pavillion.  We ordered the tickets—at a relatively modest price considering the prime Boston venue—and posted the event to our iphone calendars.  Tonight was that concert.

Thirty years ago, Steve Winwood brought us together.  His song While You See A Chance was “our song”—an anthem that fueled our early dating life, each of us looking past our personal comfort zones to find love from an unexpected source.  It continues to resonate in our lives today, sounding its few familiar zip chords randomly on the radio at the most poignant moments, offering support, comfort, and reassurance.  You would never believe how many times I have started the car on the morning of my wedding anniversary only to be greeted by that song playing through the radio.

I confess that I was ignorant to the great Winwood when my husband first introduced me to his music years ago.  This is no surprise, as I was so steeped in classical musical as to be ignorant of the Beatles, the Who, and Led Zeppelin. Even today I mistake many of the songs for which Winwood is best known as belonging to Eric Clapton.  Indeed, his frequent collaborations with Clapton make it difficult to distinguish which had more influence on the other—both are such extraordinary musicians.

Tonight’s concert was a rare treat.  Not only are Winwood tours rare in the U.S., performances of this quality are few and far between.  The last show we saw at the Bank of America Pavillion—an open air venue along Boston Harbor that is covered by a voluminous tent-like structure—was Meatloaf.  The show was so loud and lacking in artistry that we actually left early (only after his gratuitous rendering of Paradise by the Dashboard Lights).  While Meatloaf needs to turn up the volume to 13 just to be interesting (exceeding Spinal Tap’s limit of 11), Winwood kept to a comfortable 9.5.  His was an experience where harmony and timbre were meant to trump volume by a mile.

This was one of the classiest and most professional concerts I have ever attended.  It was a tight ensemble, featuring a percussionist (bongos, mostly), a drummer, a wind player (who played flute, baritone sax, and everything in between), and a guitarist.  Winwood himself switched off between his magical keyboard machine and lead guitar.  The small group played for two hours straight without interruption; the only “break” was an extended killer drum solo during which Winwood stretched his legs and sipped some water without leaving the stage.  For the most part, they modulated seamlessly from song to song, clustering selections into mini-sets before allowing the audience to applaud.  There was no microphone banter, no pyrotechnics, and no auto-tune.  This was blues and “blue-eyed soul” rendered for the love of it all, with an appreciative audience that listened attentively and showed appreciation graciously.

It is hard to imagine that Winwood made his start in the business as a teenager—just 14 years old when he became the sensation of the Spencer Davis Group.  Today, at 64 years old, his voice is just as pure as ever.  But what really struck me was his power as a musician.  I listened to the familiar songs as if for the first time, marveling at his truly original harmonic architecture, underscored by sophisticated syncopated rhythms.  The blue-hued stage lighting cast a club-like feel over the large gathering, helping the crowd to sink into appropriate mellowness, each row swaying gently to the sounds.  After the first hour, Winwood picked up a guitar non-chalantly.  As it gently wept in his hands, I realized that had this been a studio recording each instrument would have been wrought by Winwood’s own hand.   

Today, singer-songwriters of this quality are a vanishing breed.  Some of the concerts I attended at this venue left me wondering whether the performers had respect for the audience.  In this case, however, those of us who were lucky enough to be there were honored to be witness to greatness.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Love and Hate of Tiger Woods