You gotta be kidding me! How in hell did Jimmy McIntosh manage to snag such a luminescent roster to back up and accompany him??? I mean, we're talkin' John Scofield, Mike Stern, Ronnie Wood, Ivan Neville, and Toss Panos among others, a gig that even one-ups his last outing, Orleans to London (here—'n yo, Jimmie, eight friggin' years is waaaay too long to make us wait, dammit!). It makes sense, though, as Vegas resident McIntosh is a musical allsorts and has played for a way wide variety of acts, from Penn & Teller to Buddy Hackett to The Imperials and beyond, thus quite a number of notables have grown fond of the gent. Of course, it doesn't hurt, either, that he can get down and wallow in funky blues like a road vet psychedelitician touring the juice-joint circuit.
I'm not exaggerating on that last part. Jimmy McIntosh and … is a stripped down, funky-assed, woodsheddin', half-drunken set of freed-up escapades caught raw and nasty. Welllll, okay, I don't really know about the drunken part, if anyone was really imbibing—I mean, these are rock 'n rollers and they don't do that sort of thing, do they?—but when I lay an ear to this, I sure as hell feel like grabbing a fresh bottle of rye in order to catch that sun-scorched desert lizard vibe full and proper. And in that vein, Mike Landau woulda made a perfect sit-in as well, no stranger to this stanked-up vibe, a guy who can cut the swamp grass under stoned-out night skies with the best of 'em. In fact, McIntosh blends in with his six-string guests, or perhaps it's the other way around, so well that it's more than once difficult to tell 'em apart.
PM Blues gets strung out five ways from Sunday, more than once, and is a cool example of organized dissipation, yet manages to hang together just enough to make it gaspingly to more than one fragmented end, a true seat-of-the-pants jam with no destination in mind, just a lark, a lilt, a grin, and a bit of daring. Again, I'd cite particulars between one axeslinger and the other in this disc, but really, as said, the confab is one big hang, everyone getting off on the same vibe, no vocals anywhere, just a rotating set of musos letting their hair down in a home studio sans corporate types yelling at them to sweeten things up for the charts, the result a matter of pure-dee funky bluesrock.
In parting, dig this set of factoids: Jimmy was born in Sao Paolo, Brazil, but raised in Temperance, Michigan, whence his family had moved when he was but a tad of 7. He started his music life not on guitar but on the French horn, an instrument given to him by none other than Duke Ellington, a close friend of the family. And the Vegas thing? His grandpa built the first permanent structure in there, a saloon, the Arizona Club. Boy howdy!, ya can't make stuff like this up, and is that cooler than hell or what?
Edited by: David N. Pyles
Copyright 2014, Peterborough Folk Music Society.
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