Everyday nothing seems to change.
Everywhere I go I keep seeing the same old thing & I..
I can’t take it no more.
Oh, I would this town but I ain’t got no where else to go.
Wake up in the morning, oh, more bad news.
& I.. Sometimes I feel like I was borne to lose & I..
It’s driving me out of my mind.
I’ll catch the next train & I.. I’ll move on down the line.
Whoah I’ll be ready now. I’ll be ready when my train pulls in.
Whoah I’ll be ready now. I’ll be ready when my train pulls in.
I know my time ain’t long around here.
& I can’t live this life again.
Walking down the streets you might run across a smilng face.
But they’ll stab you in the back as soon as you turn & walk away
& I.. Oh Lord it’s bringing me down.
If things don’t change around here, ain’t no use in me hanging ’round.
Whoah I’ll be ready now. I’ll be ready when my train pulls in.
Whoah I’ll be ready now. I’ll be ready when my train pulls in.
I know my time ain’t long around here.
& I can’t live this life again.
The view from the AMD Stage at the Austin City Limits Music Festival, at Zilker Park on a recent afternoon, amounted to a sea of flushed faces under a clear blue sky, and a horizon framed by the downtown skyline. Gary Clark Jr. walked out slowly and took it all in for a moment — the sights and the sounds, including a hungry, welcoming cheer — before picking up his guitar, stirring an annunciatory squall and striking up the dirty-blues riff from “When My Train Pulls In.”
Call it a homecoming or a victory lap, or maybe a coronation: Mr. Clark, 28, was back in his native Austin after months on the road, winning converts at practically every other major music festival in the country, from the big-time to the boutique. A guitarist of deep magnetism and tremendous feel, prominently hailed by Eric Clapton and Alicia Keys, he brought his cool swagger, his hard-nosed band and a batch of songs from his full-length major-label debut.
The album, “Blak and Blu,” released on Monday by Warner Brothers, presents Mr. Clark as a pop eclectic rather than a straight-up bluesman — a point of concern for some of his most impassioned fans. But no apparent tensions were set off by Mr. Clark’s sharp, commanding performance here. His singing was suave and self-assured, and his playing struck the usual balance of incandescence and unhurried poise. He seemed glad to be home. And for a town that takes pride in its music culture, his return as a conquering hero signaled a shared achievement.
The headliners of this year’s festival, on different nights, were Neil Young, the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Black Keys, but Mr. Clark’s midday slot on a main stage felt like no less an event, and he was the one on the cover of that week’s Austin Chronicle. “One has to go back to Stevie Ray Vaughan 30 years ago to find an Austinite who’s had a point in his career where Clark finds himself today,” wrote Michael Corcoran, a longtime observer of the scene, in an accompanying profile.
Mr. Clark is tall and thin, with a demeanor that turns quiet and watchful in the company of strangers. Without a guitar in his hands, he hardly seems the type to make the boast that opens his new album: “I don’t believe in competition/Ain’t nobody else like me around.” But onstage he exudes the rakish charisma of a guitar slinger, trained to make a strong impression right out of the gate, and to give each solo the arc of a story.
“I’ll tell you this: If I hadn’t grown up in Austin, I don’t think I’d be doing what I’m doing the way I’m doing it,” Mr. Clark said after his set, during an interview in an Airstream trailer on the festival grounds. “I always knew I was into music and wanted to be involved in it, but I was 14 or something when I really checked out the scene and started walking around downtown. You could hear a country band, a blues band, a hip-hop crew, whatever. All on the same strip on the same night.”
Plugging into the action on Sixth Street and elsewhere, he came under the wing of experienced bluesmen, notably Jimmie Vaughan, Stevie Ray’s older brother. And he became a fixture within Austin’s musical ecosystem, a scene so vibrant and self-sustaining that it can dull the incentive to set out for bigger things — a phenomenon that Alejandro Escovedo, the veteran Texas rocker, recently described as “the velvet rut.”
Mr. Clark nodded in recognition at that concept. “I found myself getting way too comfortable here,” he said. Things changed decisively after a breakout performance at Mr. Clapton’s Crossroads Guitar Festival in 2010. “You’re gonna know my name by the end of the night,” Mr. Clark sang there, in a steamrollering revision of Jimmy Reed’s “Bright Lights, Big City.” Within months he was recording “The Bright Lights EP,” a four-song calling card produced by Rob Cavallo, the chairman of Warner Brothers Records, and released on that label last year.
“Blak and Blu” was also produced by Mr. Cavallo, with Mike Elizondo, whose credits range from Fiona Apple to Dr. Dre. Because Mr. Clark has earned his fan base mainly through live performances, and because blues-rock partisans are constitutionally wary about the conformist pressure of the music business, the album aroused skepticism months before its release. When the industry gadfly Bob Lefsetz devoted a recent edition of his e-mail newsletter to Mr. Clark, he showered praise but began by saying, “He should never put out an album.”
Mr. Cavallo allowed that the album’s lead single, a horn-blaring curtain raiser called “Ain’t Messin’ Around,” drew the ire of “the fans that were looking for the big nine-minute jam. Like, ‘What is this? Did Warner Brothers force him to do this?’ ” He insisted that market strategy played no role in the album’s variety, a claim echoed by Mr. Clark.
“Someone said something to me the other day: ‘People like to keep you where they found you,’ ” Mr. Clark said. “I’m totally comfortable shaking that up.”
His songs on “Blak and Blu” nod to Al Green (“Things Are Changin’ ”), Prince (“You Saved Me”), Chuck Berry (“Travis County”) and, less fortunately, Sublime (“The Life”). The title track suggests the sway of millennial neo-soul, and Mr. Clark handles it smoothly.
Still, the album’s core strength lies in its approximation of what Mr. Clark can do onstage. “Rather than subject him to under-the-microphone headphones,” said Mr. Elizondo, who played bass on much of the album, “I set up studio monitors in the room and cranked the mix out of there, to give him the feel of what he hears live.”
At times, as on a slow-grinder called “Numb” and a mash-up of “If You Love Me Like You Say” (Little Johnny Taylor, via Albert Collins) and “Third Stone From the Sun” (Jimi Hendrix), this decision feels inspired.
“I was thinking that if I ever got to this point, I would love to just put it all out there, and not filter, and not be in a box,” Mr. Clark said, referring to both the album and his endless touring. (He’ll play the Voodoo festival in New Orleans on Friday, and three-sold-out shows at the Bowery Ballroom in Lower Manhattan in November.) He sounded philosophically calm about his skeptics and his chances of winning them over.
His composure was even more evident a short while later, during a broadcast with the Austin radio station KGSR. Perched on a chair in a tiny media tent, cradling an acoustic guitar, he engaged in friendly banter before venturing a solo arrangement of “Ain’t Messin’ Around,” less fiery and locomotive than the version he’d played earlier onstage.
Distractions were rampant all around him: the deafening clamor of a nearby dance music D.J.; the milling about of his label and management team; his girlfriend, the Australian supermodel Nicole Trunfio, watching raptly from a few feet away. He kept his eyes shut as he strummed and sang, connecting with the instrument, briefly but credibly lost in the song.
When My Train Pulls In
by Gary Clark Jr
Everyday nothing seems to change.
Everywhere I go I keep seeing the same old thing & I..
I can’t take it no more.
Oh, I would this town but I ain’t got no where else to go.
Wake up in the morning, oh, more bad news.
& I.. Sometimes I feel like I was borne to lose & I..
It’s driving me out of my mind.
I’ll catch the next train & I.. I’ll move on down the line.
Whoah I’ll be ready now. I’ll be ready when my train pulls in.
Whoah I’ll be ready now. I’ll be ready when my train pulls in.
I know my time ain’t long around here.
& I can’t live this life again.
Walking down the streets you might run across a smilng face.
But they’ll stab you in the back as soon as you turn & walk away
& I.. Oh Lord it’s bringing me down.
If things don’t change around here, ain’t no use in me hanging ’round.
Whoah I’ll be ready now. I’ll be ready when my train pulls in.
Whoah I’ll be ready now. I’ll be ready when my train pulls in.
I know my time ain’t long around here.
& I can’t live this life again.
Always at Home, Wherever He Plays
by Nate Chinen
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/23/arts/music/gary-clark-jr-releases-blak-and-blu-an-eclectic-album.html?ref=arts
The view from the AMD Stage at the Austin City Limits Music Festival, at Zilker Park on a recent afternoon, amounted to a sea of flushed faces under a clear blue sky, and a horizon framed by the downtown skyline. Gary Clark Jr. walked out slowly and took it all in for a moment — the sights and the sounds, including a hungry, welcoming cheer — before picking up his guitar, stirring an annunciatory squall and striking up the dirty-blues riff from “When My Train Pulls In.”
Call it a homecoming or a victory lap, or maybe a coronation: Mr. Clark, 28, was back in his native Austin after months on the road, winning converts at practically every other major music festival in the country, from the big-time to the boutique. A guitarist of deep magnetism and tremendous feel, prominently hailed by Eric Clapton and Alicia Keys, he brought his cool swagger, his hard-nosed band and a batch of songs from his full-length major-label debut.
The album, “Blak and Blu,” released on Monday by Warner Brothers, presents Mr. Clark as a pop eclectic rather than a straight-up bluesman — a point of concern for some of his most impassioned fans. But no apparent tensions were set off by Mr. Clark’s sharp, commanding performance here. His singing was suave and self-assured, and his playing struck the usual balance of incandescence and unhurried poise. He seemed glad to be home. And for a town that takes pride in its music culture, his return as a conquering hero signaled a shared achievement.
The headliners of this year’s festival, on different nights, were Neil Young, the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Black Keys, but Mr. Clark’s midday slot on a main stage felt like no less an event, and he was the one on the cover of that week’s Austin Chronicle. “One has to go back to Stevie Ray Vaughan 30 years ago to find an Austinite who’s had a point in his career where Clark finds himself today,” wrote Michael Corcoran, a longtime observer of the scene, in an accompanying profile.
Mr. Clark is tall and thin, with a demeanor that turns quiet and watchful in the company of strangers. Without a guitar in his hands, he hardly seems the type to make the boast that opens his new album: “I don’t believe in competition/Ain’t nobody else like me around.” But onstage he exudes the rakish charisma of a guitar slinger, trained to make a strong impression right out of the gate, and to give each solo the arc of a story.
“I’ll tell you this: If I hadn’t grown up in Austin, I don’t think I’d be doing what I’m doing the way I’m doing it,” Mr. Clark said after his set, during an interview in an Airstream trailer on the festival grounds. “I always knew I was into music and wanted to be involved in it, but I was 14 or something when I really checked out the scene and started walking around downtown. You could hear a country band, a blues band, a hip-hop crew, whatever. All on the same strip on the same night.”
Plugging into the action on Sixth Street and elsewhere, he came under the wing of experienced bluesmen, notably Jimmie Vaughan, Stevie Ray’s older brother. And he became a fixture within Austin’s musical ecosystem, a scene so vibrant and self-sustaining that it can dull the incentive to set out for bigger things — a phenomenon that Alejandro Escovedo, the veteran Texas rocker, recently described as “the velvet rut.”
Mr. Clark nodded in recognition at that concept. “I found myself getting way too comfortable here,” he said. Things changed decisively after a breakout performance at Mr. Clapton’s Crossroads Guitar Festival in 2010. “You’re gonna know my name by the end of the night,” Mr. Clark sang there, in a steamrollering revision of Jimmy Reed’s “Bright Lights, Big City.” Within months he was recording “The Bright Lights EP,” a four-song calling card produced by Rob Cavallo, the chairman of Warner Brothers Records, and released on that label last year.
“Blak and Blu” was also produced by Mr. Cavallo, with Mike Elizondo, whose credits range from Fiona Apple to Dr. Dre. Because Mr. Clark has earned his fan base mainly through live performances, and because blues-rock partisans are constitutionally wary about the conformist pressure of the music business, the album aroused skepticism months before its release. When the industry gadfly Bob Lefsetz devoted a recent edition of his e-mail newsletter to Mr. Clark, he showered praise but began by saying, “He should never put out an album.”
Mr. Cavallo allowed that the album’s lead single, a horn-blaring curtain raiser called “Ain’t Messin’ Around,” drew the ire of “the fans that were looking for the big nine-minute jam. Like, ‘What is this? Did Warner Brothers force him to do this?’ ” He insisted that market strategy played no role in the album’s variety, a claim echoed by Mr. Clark.
“Someone said something to me the other day: ‘People like to keep you where they found you,’ ” Mr. Clark said. “I’m totally comfortable shaking that up.”
His songs on “Blak and Blu” nod to Al Green (“Things Are Changin’ ”), Prince (“You Saved Me”), Chuck Berry (“Travis County”) and, less fortunately, Sublime (“The Life”). The title track suggests the sway of millennial neo-soul, and Mr. Clark handles it smoothly.
Still, the album’s core strength lies in its approximation of what Mr. Clark can do onstage. “Rather than subject him to under-the-microphone headphones,” said Mr. Elizondo, who played bass on much of the album, “I set up studio monitors in the room and cranked the mix out of there, to give him the feel of what he hears live.”
At times, as on a slow-grinder called “Numb” and a mash-up of “If You Love Me Like You Say” (Little Johnny Taylor, via Albert Collins) and “Third Stone From the Sun” (Jimi Hendrix), this decision feels inspired.
“I was thinking that if I ever got to this point, I would love to just put it all out there, and not filter, and not be in a box,” Mr. Clark said, referring to both the album and his endless touring. (He’ll play the Voodoo festival in New Orleans on Friday, and three-sold-out shows at the Bowery Ballroom in Lower Manhattan in November.) He sounded philosophically calm about his skeptics and his chances of winning them over.
His composure was even more evident a short while later, during a broadcast with the Austin radio station KGSR. Perched on a chair in a tiny media tent, cradling an acoustic guitar, he engaged in friendly banter before venturing a solo arrangement of “Ain’t Messin’ Around,” less fiery and locomotive than the version he’d played earlier onstage.
Distractions were rampant all around him: the deafening clamor of a nearby dance music D.J.; the milling about of his label and management team; his girlfriend, the Australian supermodel Nicole Trunfio, watching raptly from a few feet away. He kept his eyes shut as he strummed and sang, connecting with the instrument, briefly but credibly lost in the song.