My usual, predictable complaint about Beale Street Music Festival (and some other festivals) is that it’s usually pretty lean on acts fronted by or featuring women. This year’s fest boasted Katy Perry, Susan Tedeschi, the Reba Russell Band, and Bonnie Raitt. Assuming I haven’t completely overlooked someone (it’s possible, please comment if so), that’s four out of nearly 60 acts. I’m always curious what’s behind that disappointing ratio. Is it an inability to lure female artists onto the bill? Is it a deliberate decision by festival organizers because there’s an assumption that festival tickets don’t get sold if there are too many women on the bill? Et cetera and so on.

Anyway, after a weekend of seeing dudes endlessly strut onto and off of stages like they own the place (they do, clearly), how completely awesome to see Bonnie Raitt take the stage and completely own it, own her guitar(s), and own her crowd. The woman rocks and she knows it. I, for one, would love to see more of that at BSMF.

— Lindsey

Those who have seen George Clinton & P Funk know that the band is more than just a band. It’s a surreal pageant of weirdness. The guy in the underwear. The guy in the wedding dress. The list goes on.

Fronting the band is the unclassifiable George Clinton. Backstage, onlookers played a game of figuring out what Clinton was going for in his couture. To put in another way: from what vault of stoner/cultural iconography has the man assembled his wardrobe?

Note that when Clinton took off his hoodie (pictured), he was wearing a red, military style shirt. Boy Scout or Buffalo Soldier? Is the flourescent hairpiece a homage to a kind of psychedelic rooster, or perhaps the sacred plume of a witch doctor?

The school of study devoted to Clintonian ontology, or “Parliamentary Funkology” as it is listed in the course schedule, meets off-campus, daily, at 4:20, or  whenever. Bring something to munch on, and a hackey sack. Please call Funk University’s enhanced learning program for more information.

–Christopher Blank

Internet, I hope you will permit me a moment. A moment for a love letter of sorts.

For some Memphians, Al Green may be old news. Or one of those local cultural staples that, like Elvis or Graceland or barbecue or the Peabody ducks, you just sort of eventually become immune to because of its ubiquity.

But to me? Al Green is still a larger-than-life legend, a mythical beast I’d not yet glimpsed until Saturday night. Someone to get entirely too excited about. Someone to structure an entire evening around.

Allow me to explain.

I was but a glimmer in my parents’ eyes when Al Green was crooning in his heydey. I don’t think my family ever really got into soul music. The Turners were a steadfastly country-music household, so Al Green was a non-entity to me for a long, long time.

And yet.

My sophomore year of high school (1997-98, if you must know), I started dating a senior I’d had a crush on forever (in reality? maybe, like, weeks). We’d ride around town in his brown ‘69 Chevy Nova with a giant boombox in the back seat spinning CDs since his stereo only offered AM radio. And one of the most-spun discs in that boombox? Al Green’s Greatest Hits. (Say what you will about Greatest Hits albums, but this was pretty revolutionary stuff for teenagers from my hometown.) It was the first time in my life I had been exposed to soul music in any real way, and having my young puppy love blossom to a soundtrack of Al Green wailing like a lovesick panther with a shard of glass stuck in his paw, well, it felt sweet and sophisticated and perfect in every possible way.

That was my introduction to the Reverend. And my respect and admiration for him and his voice and his music has just grown since then.

So getting to see him (up close for three songs and then back behind the stage — not backstage but behind the stage where you couldn’t see anything) for the first time tonight was a treat for me. (Bonus: I caught Elvis Costello backstage watching Al Green. Jeez. Too much greatness in one area.) I won’t even feign journalistic indifference or whatever. I was totally excited and then blown away when the man, who is well into his 60s, was struttin’ and dancin’ and hamming it up for his completely enthusiastic audience. And how completely amazing to see a backing band so clearly psyched to be a part of a man’s music. (They were seriously tight. Especially the percussionists.) There were some audio foibles (a finicky mic) early on that clearly frustrated him, but he kept that wide grin on his face the whole time and kept the crowd engaged. I’m a little sore that I didn’t get to snag one of the many red roses he tossed into the audience, but that’s nothing. I’m so happy I got the chance to see him while he’s still full of fire.

Video of Al Green singing “Let’s Get Married” (complete with technical foibles) is here.

— Lindsey

So, I’m trying to upload videos and photos and get a post up on this here blog, and Shinedown is mere yards away from me, hootin’ and hollerin’ and screaming and driving their bass beats so hard that the walls of this trailer are shaking. It’s all giving me a sense of urgency that I’m not terribly accustomed to feeling. Or I could be jittery because I just drank a Coke and ate two snack-size bags of Cheetos and THERE IS NO BLOOD IN ME ANY MORE, JUST SUGAR.

Anyway, there has been a ton of good stuff to see today, and there’s still more to come. (I’m trying to log this entry and then hoof it to see the Reverend.)

I came up to the last song of the Bar-Kays’ set and they were absolutely rocking out. I mean, “rocking out” makes it sound so lame and square, right? They were doing the opposite of whatever is lame and square, complete with complicated guitar choreography. Los Lobos kept a straight face as they unleashed their roots rock on a drenched crowd. Shinedown got the kids bouncing (they’re still out there; have I mentioned how difficult it is to write with them playing right outside?) Robert “Wolfman” Belfour has been out in that Blues Shack off and on all dang day, moaning and wailing in a way that I wish I could take with me and have with me always when life is just a little too tough to handle without bluesy accompaniment.

But so far, topping my list (even though I didn’t get to see their whole set) are The Roots. They strutted onto the stage like the world’s tiniest and most bad-ass marching band. The front row was insatiable and kept chanting for the lead vocals to be upped. But, you know, it’s hard to compete with the amazingness that is a tuba. And listen, I don’t know if I can say this with enough force or clarity, but I demand more tuba in everything from now on. Everything!

Video of The Roots is here.

It’s been a full day. And it’s been great fun watching yesterday’s firm ground get tilled by feet into the viscous sludge that it is now. These pants will never be the same again, sadly.

I’ll do my dangdest to check back in before the night’s over. I’m waiting on a video of The Roots to upload and I’ll plunk it down into this post once it’s done.

— Lindsey