The gathering of Boomers and Babies Jan. 6 at The Rudyard Kipling for a loose reconstitution of The Last Waltz showcased some high notes and some sour ones for those of us who stood in the crowd to hear several of the region’s best musicians reliving The Band’s farewell concert from 28 years past. I say “Boomers” because the audience was more than a touch gray and, in many ways, as faded as its jeans. And I say “Babies” because so many of us whined peevishly about the sound system, the crammed conditions and the hour-long wait for the show to start.
It takes a lot these days to pull us away from our home theaters, plush sofas and the night’s uncorking of the latest Pinot Noir. But thanks to a nostalgia-inducing concert concept and an appetizing preview in the Courier-Journal from the paper’s truest tastemaker, Jeffrey Lee Puckett, The Last Waltz had us searching for comfortable shoes and braving the streets beyond our comfort zones. Those of us who have become 6 a.m. risers also faced the prospect of being up well past our bedtimes.
The Rud, in Old Louisville, is a bit of a fading Boomer itself these days. Still true to its roots with occasional theatrical performances and poetry readings in addition to regular stagings of original, often undiscovered music, its coffeehouse vibe runs counter to the slick sound and pulsating lights of DJ shows in other clubs. Like so many in attendance for the reprise with local performers of Martin Scorsese’s landmark concert film, it is struggling to maintain its health and, one might guess, its enthusiasm as it ages. Owners Ken and Sheila Pyle, as has been reported around town, have been enduring hip replacements and other health slowdowns and would like to sell the hangout they’ve nurtured since the 1980s. But running the restaurant-nightclub is still a labor of love and the possibilities presented in recapturing even a fraction of the musical adventure of The Band’s farewell performance was, I hope, as energizing for them as it was for me.
Sometimes, the spirit of things matters most. Surely, this was the case here. The night was a benefit for Kentuckians for the Commonwealth, a grassroots social-justice organization, and it was meant to have the free-flowing spontaneity of a ’60s “happening.” At one point, writer Ed McClanahan, he of The Natural Man and firsthand memories of Ken Kesey’s “acid tests,” slipped up to a microphone and, with a tattered volume in hand, read with sing-songy beat phrasing a passage from his account of an early Grateful Dead concert. From our spot in the rear of the Rud’s performance room, only every third word was audible, which sparked a number of complaints. Yet here we were, part of the scene — wasn’t that the main thing? Once, it was.
Our group of six passed the hour amiably enough between the announced starting time of 9 p.m. and the first song. The complaints about having to stand because all chairs were taken before our arrival fell away as we accepted our condition and spotted numerous acquaintances within the crowd. When the surrogate Band, a Lexington group named Tula, finally fired up and a couple of numbers in cranked out a highly evocative “The Shape I’m In,” the entire chorus-singing room was locked in a concert moment.
Some mikes were more audible than others, some instruments too. We had trouble hearing the impersonators of Joni Mitchell and Neil Young, but Dr. John’s stand-in croaked out a Tom Waits-like version of “Such a Night” that brought smiles all around. Not long after that, Rodney Hatfield and Nick Stump, guiding spirits of the Metropolitan Blues All-Stars, gave us an injection of harp and lead guitar that brought to mind Muddy Waters’ appearance, inspiring me to wander up the aisle to get a closer look. The sound improved with every step.
Other blues-hounds stood to my front and back, some dancing in place. Then a young couple edged its way through the line and stopped to my left, straining for a better view of the stage. Within seconds, an inconvenienced Boomer behind them was out of his seat, chest puffed, confronting the young man, who dragged his girlfri/files/storyimages/off as the two guys shot expletives at one another. Ah, the shape we’re in!
I left soon thereafter, remembering, mostly, the concert’s soaring moments and hoping it would not be my last waltz.
Note: One man who’s still rockin’, staff photographer John Nation, celebrates his 30th anniversary with Louisville Magazine this month. We asked him to compile a retrospective of his shots of local people during the past three decades for a photo essay beginning on page 52. May John stay forever young.
