I did not get the chance to make it to Thursday's concerts, but going by what people close by told me, Willy DeVille was on his usual form, King Wolf & The Hound Dogs were a surprise, and Robin & The Wild Trains were nothing special (my source of information was not very forthcoming).
On the Friday the plan was to get to Gijón early, but a labyrinthine journey meant we did not land in Jovellanos's city until around half past eight in the evening, and on top of that we still had to find first the hotel (to drop the bags and freshen up) and later the Universidad Laboral. And so a new game had just begun, which is why by the time we reached the university grounds Lucky Peterson had finished his set and the J. Teixi Band were halfway through theirs. Javier Teixidor's band does nothing for me — no blues, nothing. Urban rock from the revived movida, which has no place these days. Boring and out of step.
Next it was El Vez's turn, that so-called impersonator of Elvis Presley. He is simply a very particular imitator of the boy from Tupelo in those well-known and wrongly labelled Las Vegas years of decline. He opened with a medley of Elvis numbers filtered through his own style and given a completely free reading. After that he worked through most of his repertoire in the same vein. On a great "Blue Suede Shoes" the elvettes (El Vez's dancers, for anyone new to this) put on a display, throwing sexuality out into the Gijón night. "Love Me" was an extravagance of eroticism. "Hound Dog" turned into "Chihuahua" and was dedicated to a "bad man", George Bush. He then moved on to a run of anti-Yankee, pro-Mexican speeches, praising the Virgin of Guadalupe. He played one of his biggest hits, "Chicanisima" ("Little Sister"), and an excellent reworking of "Polk Salad Annie".
ElVez stands out for his big visual show, a forceful band, two beautiful dancers who know exactly how to play off him on stage, and a parade of suits each more eye-catching and more tasteless than the last.
I think the J. Teixi Band were billed again on the small stage, the San Miguel, but nobody turned up there — just as well, because it let me have dinner and chat a while with the crowd, since what was coming next on the big stage, Blues Explosion, did not interest me in the slightest; I think I went over to catch a couple of songs, but I cannot offer an objective comment given how indifferent I am to them.
Back on the small stage, another band, in this case the Stepbrothers, drew me over to see them, but my instinct tells me I will be better off with my own people sharing a few litres of beer away from the musical bustle, so more of the same: a couple of songs are more than enough for me to know that Mr Mariconda's band is not going to entertain me, and I take the chance to spend a few euros at the Sleazy Records stand.
And then comes the controversial moment of the night. Word goes round, the talk is, the rumour has it, that Phil Alvin has missed his plane, that The Blasters' set is suspended for the moment, and so The Presidents Of USA are brought on. Everyone is furious — plenty of rockers, more than grunges, waiting to see the Californian band. Between one thing and another I find myself watching, or rather hearing, their first numbers, which is an eighties poppy version of "Video Killed the Radio Star". Outraged by the situation as well, I go looking for information about The Blasters over at the marquee the Savoy had set up, and after talking first with Javi and then on the phone with the Crossroad's press officer, they confirm what had been assumed all along and was later borne out, that The Blasters were closing the night. So, heading for the main stage, I manage to hear PUSA a second time, doing another cover, this time the Isley Brothers' "Shout!". It seems the Stepbrothers were supposed to play on the small stage, but they did not do that either — just as well (where have I read this before!!!).
So once tempers had settled, at around half three in the morning The Blasters appeared on stage, but not to start their set straight away: it was for a quick and not very effective soundcheck, as we would find out later. The Blasters shook a whole legion of genuine eighties rockers out of their torpor and had them dancing boots first, prising them off the bar where they have been left stranded by so many hepcat, rockin' blues and western swing bands at festivals gone by. Keith Wyatt's guitar is not Dave Alvin's, it draws out a much dirtier sound, but Phil Alvin's characteristic voice was indeed there to delight us (more out of a fan's passion than for its musical merits) with classics such as "Marie Marie", "Dark Night", "Long White Cadillac" and "So Long Baby Goodbye", on which Phil parked the guitar to go and bathe in the crowd with his harmonica.
After the live sets came the canned sound, and for the one signing these lines, perhaps the best of the night. Tim Warren, the boss of Crypt, took it upon himself to get us dancing with about the most striking set there is for these purposes: rhythm'n'blues, jivers, rockin' blues, sixties garage — or, which is the same thing, "Rock Everybody Rock" by McKinley Mitchell, Slim Harpo, Tarheel Slim, John Fred's "Boogie Children"... anyway, soaked in that much party and alcohol, one ended up losing himself among the miniskirts of the mods gathered there.
The night ended better than it began and ran its course in a hostile, confused atmosphere that cleared up in the end. And speaking of clearing out, off we went to the hotel, since there were plans for the following morning. Plans that came off: a walk round the old town of Gijón, a plate of fabes at a cider house on the plaza del Marqués, and a swim in the Cantábrico. There was time for everything, given that the first concert on the Saturday was billed for eight in the evening, and what a coincidence, it started on time (well, half an hour late, but in this little world that can be called punctual).
So by the time Lee Rocker was starting to stroke the four strings of his silver double bass, I was already at the gate of the Universidad Laboral grounds. And the second Stray Cat, in terms of taste or preference, served us a set of rockabilly with a marked eighties sound, very much in the stray cat manner, but replacing the guitar of the brilliant Brian Setzer with two guitarists who had quality of their own, Buzz Campbell and Brophy Dale. I do not know much of Mr Lee's discography (one, two, three, look at Mr. Lee, three, four, five, look at him jive Mr. Lee, Mr. Lee oh, Mr. Lee Mr. Lee, Mr. Lee oh, Mr. Lee ...), so I will not go into judging his own numbers, but I can say they did not displease me in the least. Of the covers played, cum laude to the peculiar and surprising reworking of "Rock This Town" and to "Stray Cat Strut", with a perfect double bass solo on which he took a prominence that puts the blond of the Long Island band in the shade. What he did with "Twenty Flight Rock" can be described as a psychobilly streak. "Baby Please Don't Go" was played with total aggression, and as for "I'll Cry Instead", the Beatles would have been surprised at how it was put together. Brilliant.
I was very keen to see Colin James. From the information I had gathered he had nothing to do with the Colin James of the Little Big Band, but if his repertoire leaned towards blues and rhythm and blues, perfect!!! Those are sounds I love, and love a great deal. So there was our man with guitar in hand surrounded by eight musicians with a horn section and piano; things were going my way. They started out very bluesy and with high-octane rhythm and blues and rough riffs. This is very good!!! But then came that American blues-rock stretch with endless numbers that end up being heavy going, and there my enthusiasm for Colin James disappeared. An excellent guitarist, but the meandering I mention sent me off towards other goals.
A Finnish band was due to start on the small stage, unknown to most of those present (or at least to my lot), but through the organisation's press service we more or less knew what we might find. So after having had dinner, the best thing was a good shot of bourbon and to get ourselves placed (as Tierno Galván put it) around the marquee. And the Finn in question is called Eero Raittinen, and he brings along a nothing that he nicknames The Noisy Kinda Men. Rock and Roll of the usual sort, of the lifelong sort, undistilled, was what came off that stage. He adds nothing, but his presence is more than welcome at any festival worth the name. Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry... and a magnificent "Lonely" were the most notable things in his repertoire.
We had to get ourselves into position quickly: the Crossroad's star turn was about to arrive. Nerves? Anticipation? Indifference? Magic? We were about to find out. A litre please, and off we go.
After an endless introduction in which the members of the band showed off both collectively and individually, Wayne Chaney, the manager and trumpeter of that outfit, introduced one of the living legends of rock and roll: LITTLE RICHARD!!!!! And there he was, wrapped in a shining white suit, his face caked in make-up and basking in the crowd gathered there. He paced the stage from one side to the other, climbed on top of the piano, shrieked, exclaimed, and at last the music came. "Good Golly Miss Molly", "Tutti Frutti", "Lucille", "Long Tall Sally", "Keep A Knockin'", "Jenny Jenny", "Bama Lama Bama Loo", "Oh! My Soul" passed through his histrionic but by now spent voice, since some of them he could not finish and others were sung by the musicians in his band. That small tribute he paid to the Black artists of his own vintage is to be appreciated: Ray Charles, James Brown, Sam Cooke and Jimi Hendrix (who was a guitarist of his in the early days of his career). He also remembered one of the bands that has venerated him most, the Rolling Stones, playing "It's Only Rock'n'Roll" for the occasion. And since we already know that the star from Macon became the Reverend Penniman, he transformed himself on stage and presented us with thousands of copies of a book titled "Looking for Inner Peace", whose only appeal, as far as I could tell, was that each copy carried a photograph signed by him to remember the gift by. Did Little Richard triumph or disappoint? To my mind he delivered, which is enough. He delivered thanks to that powerful band who played it to perfection, and to his presence. 72 years of age up on that stage and third on the podium of rock and roll — what more can you ask????
And another human flood, though this one less torrential, towards that stage called the San Miguel, where there was going to be perhaps one of the star turns of the night for this chronicler: The A-Bones. Yes, that band led by the bosses of the Norton label (Billy Miller and Miriam Linna). These people who dig around in the most out-of-the-way recording studios of the land of the stars and stripes to offer us a catalogue of genuine rancid rockabilly treats. Their garage sound seasoned with trash-billy captivated us at once. Gene Vincent's "Bird Doggin'" promised me a fantastic live set and they did not let me down, with nods to The Cramps — yes, yes, I dared to compare them to them, but I do not think my perception was deceiving me. Benny Joy, Larry Williams, Sam the Sham & The Pharaohs, Tommy Blake, The Surfaris... and adjacent sounds went through their repertoire. I think the high degree of drunkenness my body was funding by that hour I owe to them and to a couple of good-looking barmaids who served the drinks splendidly, he he he!!!
After the storm and the enthusiasm came the letdown — yes, lads, the disappointment: the band of David Hidalgo, Louis Pérez and company let me down (Los Lobos). I was expecting rock and roll from the L.A. coast and I found a band who at the village fair back home would have been the delight of children and grown-ups alike. They started with cumbias, squeezed in some little rock and roll number sideways and under pressure, and carried on with the band's most folkloric side. Namely, classics of Mexican popular culture, "Volver"; sentimental ballads, "La Pistola y el Corazón"; corridos of their own making, "Anselma"; and of course they closed with "La Bamba", the number that catapulted them to fame after appearing in the Ritchie Valens biopic. Musically they showed great quality, but their repertoire, as I see it, was not the most appropriate for a festival of this kind. At Pirineos Sur they were a triumph, but the ideal of Pirineos Sur at the Lanuza reservoir is a different one from the Crossroad's. I repeat, monsters on stage, but what they gave us had no place in Gijón that night.
And off we swayed to the marquee again, this time for the Super Ratones, an Argentinian band who in their early days threw themselves into the rocker thing, closing the night's music. Their get-up was not very rock and roll, but their repertoire was, and it was worth following them for entertaining the audience enough after so much folklorist drivel. And so, by way of "Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow", "Help" (the interplay of voices reminded me of that version my friends the Dynamos did in the early nineties), an excellent Creedence Clearwater Revival medley, a couple of Latin rock and rolls, "La Plaga" and "No Seas Cruel", and of course that great tribute to the Argentinian rocker of the first division, Moris and his "Sábado Noche", a number they nailed and which those of us gathered there knew how to thank with an ovation to rival the one Maradona got on the day he retired. Another matter is when they played their own numbers, very milonga-ish, that is to say a carbon copy of what Los Rodríguez were. In short: entertaining, with small reservations.
It does not end here. Diego Manrique, the well-regarded journalist from TVE and R-3, was going to delight us with one of his sets. Let us drop the word delight, since the man in question riddled us with sampled versions of rock classics that soured the end of the night for more than one of us. Please!!! If only Tim Warren had come back. So at this point one decides to clear off to the hotel and get some rest, though not much: it was already gone six in the morning, the journey back is hard, a lot of kilometres, and with a hangover they are harder still.
Obviously I could not witness the closing party, which fell to Willy DeVille and Super Ratones, though the grapevine informed me that they were, respectively, perfect and entertaining.
The Crossroad is behind us now, with its pros and its cons. A festival that sets out to bring together every variety of rock and roll, but that comes up lame in something. That sets out to be a great summer festival, but that lacks the infrastructure (not a single fucking tap to wash your hands!!!!). To its credit I will always be able to say that the people who organise this let me see Stray Cats (for the second time), The Blasters, The A-Bones and, of course, LITTLE RICHARD, the queen of rock and roll.
Note: Chronicle sent in by José A. Añón "Moreno", a contributor to RockabillyRules.com.
