Blues. Stevie Ray Vaughan. Стиви Рей Вон - Мужчина с большим «Стратом»

нетрезв....

2sunset:

>нетрезв....

намана...тожэ хорошо идёт :-)

You mix my drink
With a can of Red Devil lye
You mix my drink
With a can of Red Devil lye
Then you sit right down
Watchin' me, hopin' I might die...

(с)SRV, ну и Воющий канешна жэ...

Вот меня всегда забавляло пару моментоф на видео:
на Скандинавском рок-фесте в 88 под открытым небом в жару, когда Стиви выдаёт "Вуду чайл" перегорает здоровенный куллер-фен-вентилятор, обдувающий артиста,

и в Италии под открытым небом, Стиви лабает "Суперстишн" и... начинает дымиться "ванна"- колонка :)
Omen, блин... :-)

2john lee hooker:

а ты подскажи, какие dvd реально купить в Москве?

Монтрё(2дэ-вэ-дэ), Токио, Остин Сити Лимитс, Остин Сити Лимитс Аутэйкс (1989), Эль Мокамбо, Трибьют (Би-Би,Клэптон, Бадди, д-р Джон, Боня, Крэй, JLV и др.)
Это всё официальные релизы ,за исключением "Лайф ин Токио", хотя в Мюнхене, я видел, он продаётся вполне легально (чудеса!), да еще и си-ди урезанный с этого же выступления :)
Из неофициального "БиБи Кинг и друзья - Раскалённая блюзовая ночь":блюз-пиршество глубокой ночью, где звучат самые неожиданные спонтанные джэмы: д-р Джон с Эттой Джэймс, БиБи с Баттерфилдом + SRV + Альберт Кинг, ну, и тэ дэ...

2john lee hooker:

Спасибо, сэр. Кое что есть...но не все
Будем искать(с)

ежели чаво не найдёшь, обращайся ;-)

УСЕК

To: john lee hooker.
Агласить весь списк, пжлста.
А что есть-то, что можешь чиркануть?
У меня есть только 2 vcd: Mocambo и сборник клипов.
Ещё как я и говорил есть в формате Real Video концерт в Германии (около 55 минут).
Ну ещё то сё, аудио... Ну в общем я всё что у меня есть приготовлю.
А проформат, тоже прошу поясни во что ты можешь преобразовать.
Кстати, скоро у меня и DVD Rom будет, с writer'ом, так что и DVD тоже смогу скоро смотреть.

2Elicaster:

>To: john lee hooker.
>Агласить весь списк, пжлста.
>А что есть-то, что можешь чиркануть?
>У меня есть только 2 vcd: Mocambo и сборник клипов.
>Ещё как я и говорил есть в формате Real Video
>концерт в Германии (около 55 минут).
>Ну ещё то сё, аудио... Ну в общем я всё что у
>меня есть приготовлю.
>А проформат, тоже прошу поясни во что ты можешь преобразовать.
>Кстати, скоро у меня и DVD Rom будет, с writer'ом,
>так что и DVD тоже смогу скоро смотреть.

понЯл..Это-то я и хотел узнать... про дэ-вэ-дэ.
Оба баварских перформансеф я тебе мало-мало запишу. Ну, и фсё такое... Короче, чиркни на мыло про аппетиты и тэ дэ, шоб я знал объем какой трэба работы (человеко-часоф)

Сегодня на техасщине "День SRV".
бЛЮЗ, рокенролл, пиво, чопперы, куча подражателей и тэ дэ...
Эххх...
PS Эликастр, глянь почту....

А ведь сегодня ДР SRV ;-)

Был пару дней в Москве. Встретился с john lee hooker'ом и с Primal Scream'ом. Посидели в клубе B.B.King, пивка попили, пообщались... Ребята задарили мне десяток DVD-дисков с разными выступлениями SRV и ещё много вкусного. Вот смотрю, наслаждаюсь :-))) Посему БОЛЬШОЕ СПАСИБО вам, ребята. Никак я не ожидал я что встречу таких замечательных людей.
Спасибо также и этому форуму и сайту beatles.ru, Интернету и маему кампьютэру :)))
P.S. Мужики! Ну как вам наш туркменский коньяк??? Я ведь сам-то коньяк не пью (см. ниже :-) и не могу его заценить. Уж очень интересно мнение товарищей.
Drink to me, drink to my health. You know I can't drink anymore (cognac)...

2Elicaster:

Нам также было приятно познакомиться с тобой. Надеюсь, что дисочки пондравились. А коньячок твой я еще не открывал. Я его всем показываю - это ж раритет! Сам Туркменбаши на этикетке! Такого в наших краях нету. Так что попиваю пока обычный Remy Martin.

Эликастер!
Такуйю прелесть я низашто не распечатайю! Он (конь-як) с туркменбашкойю да ысчо и с асмью звездочками!!!! Эт нечто! Это настоящее украшение моего бара.
Мне ужэ фсе завидують (акромя Праймыла, канешна).
За тебя канешна жэ я выпью и не раз. Наслаждайся непофторимым Стиви и слухай хорошую музЫку.

следующий релиз старого-нового SRV на "Эпик" запланирован на 2006. Скорее всего это будет одна из записей (аудио/видео) концерта, которая пылицца в архивах "Сони". До нового года рукой под-дать :-)

Поковырялся в развалах гадюшных своих и обнаружыл сборничек Дик Дэйла... А финальным бонусом на нём Дик и Стиви Рэй лабают "Пайплайн"...Ну, та самая "штука", за которую два Медиаторных Терминатора отхватили "Грэмми"...
Давненько не слухал...Чудовично карашоу... Дохтур прописал фсем поклонникам сёрфа...

здесь можно качнуть mp3(320 Кбит/сек) выступления SRV в Нью Джерси в декабре 1988г

The Stone Pony
Asbury Park, NJ - 29dec88

http://www.srvrocks.com/mp3s.htm

Отрывок из книги "Стоящий под перекрёстным огнём" Кроуфорда и Патоски о последнем совместном концерте "величайших гитаристов планеты" 26-го августа 1990 г.:
After intense negotiations, Joseph Entertainment secured the date. Their shed was Alpine Valley, a small winter ski resort in southern Wis­consin, about eighty miles from Chicago's Loop, where summer concerts were staged. Clapton's fee for two nights was a reputed $1 million, less production expenses.
To bolster Clapton's drawing power, Robert Cray, the Seattle-born blues and soul stylist who was touring with the Memphis Horns, and Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble were added to the lineup, which was billed as An Evening with Eric Clapton and His Band. The advance
sales of more than 60,000 tickets for the Saturday, August 25, and Sun-jay, August 26, dates more than justified Clapton's guarantee.
The first night went smoothly enough. Surprise guests Bonnie Raitt and Jeff Healey, the former a longtime friend of Stevie's, the latter a disciple of his guitar stylings, appeared at the end of the show to join Clapton, Cray, Stevie, and Jimmie Vaughan, for a not-so-informal pick­ing session, much to the delight of the assembled crowd.
The second evening, August 26, promised even more fireworks. On the helicopter flight from Chicago to the concert on Sunday afternoon Eric Clapton, the man who had jammed with Jimi Hendrix, Albert King, B. B. King, Freddie King, and every other guitar player on earth, leaned over to Buddy Guy, the Chicago wildman who would appear that night as an unannounced special guest, to ask a question.
"How am I going to follow this guy?" he said, referring to Stevie Ray Vaughan, who had played like a man possessed the night before in marked contrast to Clapton's restrained performance.
Guy shrugged.
"Well, just do the best you can," he advised.
It was a hot, humid midwestern summer night, the kind of still evening that seems to put a slow-motion brake on reality. The muggy weather was a sharp contrast to the air of expectation that filled the Double Trouble part of the backstage area. With the exception of a mop-up date in Lubbock and a concert in London, this was their last show before what would be the longest break the band had taken since Tommy Shannon hired on as bassist in 1981.
Mark Proct, Jimmie's manager, showed up for the gig wearing one of the black polo shirts embroidered with two guitars crossed at the neck and the initials SRV and JLV that Jack Chase, the CBS branch manager in Dallas, had made. The shirt spoke volumes. This was the brothers' deal. No one from either Double Trouble or the Fabulous Thunderbirds was being recruited for the Family Style touring band.
Before the gig, Clapton, Stevie, Jimmie, and Robert Cray posed for photographer Robert Knight, who was shooting an advertising layout for Fender guitars. They all were Strat men, as good an endorsement of Leo Fender's craftsmanship as anyone could desire.
Stevie Ray Vaughan followed Robert Cray's opening set by strolling onstage wearing a floral-print vest over a billowy white shirt, his face shielded by the trademark broad-brimmed hat, looking for all the world like the fastest gun in Dodge City. With little fanfare, he immediately got down to business, wanning up with an introductory jump boogie whose groove was pinned down by Reese Wynans's pumping organ grind. Not saying a word, the band seamlessly segued into "The House Is Rockin'," Stevie and Doyle Bramhall's party anthem from In Step, which immediately commenced the 30,000 fans in the house with no roof to swanging their butts.
The set built up its own momentum with a perfunctory reading of "Tightrope" followed by a tip of the gaucho hat to Guitar Slim on "The Things (That) I Used to Do," during which Stevie dredged the aural equivalent of cries, moans, and field hollers out of the primordial mud from which all subsequent great electric guitar licks have emanated. He led into "Let Me Love You Baby" and "Leave My Girl Alone" with some stage patter about the need to please your woman and keep her happy. He then paused long enough to make a dedication "to everybody in the world who's suffering for any reason, that they might find some happiness soon, if not now." He'd distilled his message to the abstract. Suffering was a part of the human experience, regardless of the cause. Everyone could use a little healing sometime.
The balm he offered came in the form of "Riviera Paradise," the wordless contemplation from In Step that once and for all placed him on equal emotional footing with Jimi Hendrix. Every delicate run that skit­tered up and down the frets elicited roars of approval from a crowd paying such close attention, they seemed more like a bunch of friends sitting in the living room than a swollen mass of faces. Jimmie came out to join the band for the final triad of "Goin' Down," "Crossfire," and "Voodoo Chile," the climax that brought the audience roaring to their feet.

It was Eric Clapton's turn next, playing music from a quarter-century's worth of blues and rock classics. Clapton, like Stevie, had never stopped improving his craft, never stopped exploring the possibilities of his instrument. It was an odd juxtaposition, hearing the elder statesman run through his repertoire with skilled restraint, following the young Texan who had grown up emulating Clapton's version of "Crossroads" at sock hops and battles of the bands.
As Clapton ended his set, the late evening faded into early morning, and a thick fog descended on the huge crowd, enveloping them like the smoky haze in a low-rent blues joint. It was an eerie sight, 30,000 people trying to peer through the mist so they could see the tiny figure onstage approach the microphone to introduce the final portion of the con­cert. With its engagingly polite English accent, the amplified voice of Eric Clapton echoed from the public address system to the surrounding hillside.
"I'd like to bring out, to join me here, a big treat - the best guitar players in the entire world: Buddy Guy, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Robert Cray, Jimmie Vaughan."
Standing in a semicircle, the five briefly tuned up while sizing up one another. For Buddy Guy, Jimmie and Stevie Ray, it was a throwback to a 3 a.m. jam at Antone's. For Cray, it was a chance to match licks with elders and contemporaries who inspired him to dig deep into the blues. For Clapton, the master of blues-inspired, rock-and-roll electric guitar, it was an opportunity to bring together three generations of players, paying respects to Buddy Guy while acknowledging the contributions of the three younger players who picked up where he left off.
"It's in A - I mean it's in E, it's in E," Clapton told them. The men all knew what key it was in. They went right to work.
The nightcap Clapton had selected was "Sweet Home Chicago," an appropriate choice since that's where the musicians and the vast majority of the fans were headed when the music was over. Most of them had a slow bumper-to-bumper crawl out of the Alpine Valley Amphitheater, down a congested two-lane farm road and another fifty miles of interstate highway to look forward to. But only a fool would try to beat the traffic and miss what was going down where the spotlights were burning. Fog or no fog, juke joint or amphitheater, this jam was going to be serious.
Behind Guy's gritty vocals, the five electric-guitar players inter-played with an ease and intimacy more typical of a motel room picking session. After Guy's opening lines, each player took a turn working notes and chords out of his instrument, revealing to one another and the audi­ence beyond bits and pieces of what they knew about making a guitar sing. Clapton ripped off a run of crisp, staccato notes, clean enough for a studio take. Cray rattled out florid clusters of sound, then one-upped Clapton by punching out some impossibly high squeaks at the bottom of his fretboard. Jimmie Vaughan and Guy preferred an earthier, more direct approach that emphasized economy over excess, aiming their breaks below the belt, as if they were running their fingers up the thighs of a big-legged woman instead of a guitar neck.
And then there was Stevie Ray. The first time around, he demon­strated a textbook knowledge of subtlety, precision, and circumspection from the instant his index finger pressed the fat, nickel-wound top E string, grinding it against a thick metal fret. He played his passage, acknowledged the applause, and waited for his turn to come again. The second time around, he cut loose, using passion and pure force to push the notes out, bending strings so forcefully that each note shimmered and shook with the pressure of his fingertips. Following the second lead, Clapton shook his head with a disapproving smile, rather than nodding to the next player.
"You're on a roll, Stevie Ray," he seemed to say. "Do it again."
The Texas kid shook the sweat from his face, sucked in his gut, and lowered his head out of view, clenching his teeth. With his large, bony right hand he stroked his instrument, making it howl. Moving both sweaty hands in a contorted blur along all six strings, he summoned up a sonic roar pierced by a flurry of sharp single notes and chunks of growling chords wrapped so tightly around the song's loping rhythm that they threatened to consume it altogether.
Come on. Baby, don't you want to go?
Jangling, furious and refined, intricate and brute, the solo answered the call that Robert Johnson, the Mississippi Delta blues guitarist who sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads, had issued into a wire recorder in a San Antonio hotel room fifty-four years earlier.
Standing on the stage of the amphitheater, rivulets of sweat coursing over his busted-up nose, down his chin, and over the body of his instru­ment, Stevie Ray Vaughan confirmed to one and all that he belonged there. On this night, at least, he was the best guitar player in the whole wide world.
"He just sort of kicked everybody's ass and nobody seemed to fight back," Jimmie remembered. "Stevie was on a cloud or something." Buddy Guy didn't know where it was coming from, just that whatever Stevie was doing worked a strange number on even him.
"I had goose bumps," he said.
The song ended. The lights went up. The roadies immediately be­gan tearing down equipment while the musicians hugged and traded compliments backstage. Stevie autographed posters, compared calluses with the other performers, talked with Clapton about some future dates they were planning for London's Royal Albert Hall, and discussed the possibility of going to Paris in September for a Hendrix tribute. But while Stevie usually lingered until he shook hands with the last fan, he seemed preoccupied with getting back to Chicago. Tommy had already hopped a helicopter after Double Trouble's set. Now Stevie scurried between Jo­seph Entertainment representatives, tour manager Skip Rickert, and members of Clapton's crew trying to hustle a ride on the next helicopter out.