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"We’re all going to die, but some people suffer before they go," is how Otis Taylor introduced one of his songs at Johnny D’s last Saturday. And from there he sculpted a tale of a man lost in a wilderness of the soul, abandoned by God and perhaps even by himself as he wanders through a bleak, loveless life. It was not a typical blues, and this 54-year-old from Boulder, Colorado, is not a typical blues artist. Ever since Taylor, as a teenager, fell under the dark spell of the blood-stained songs of the 1920s Appalachian singer/banjo player Dock Boggs and old bluesmen like Charley Patton, he has written and performed numbers full of brooding stormclouds. It’s just recently that we’ve been able to hear them, on a series of four albums — including the new Truth Is Not Fiction (Telarc) — that have won him an international audience that extends from hardcore blues fans to the jam-band scene. Part of the reason is that no matter how bleak Taylor’s tales of lynching, slavery, murder, and betrayal are, they’re usually driven by his personal approach to rhythm on electric guitar, mandolin, or banjo. He often uses a D/G tuning derived from old banjo stylists, and that creates a droning tonal base for his work. Add a lick of digital delay and his frantically flying thumb and the result sounds entirely African. His playing on "Be My Witness" or "Ten Million Slaves," a pair of tunes that, like much of his songwriting, reach into the bruised heart of African-American history for their inspiration, creates a swelling pattern of notes that makes listeners sway no matter how dire the lyrics turn. It’s the same hypnotic effect that makes the best kora players or the high-tuned, ringing guitar of King Sunny Adé appealing. So all night at the Somerville club Taylor walked the wire between musical mesmerist and hard-nosed storyteller. Especially in the second set, where the absence of his usual bassist, Kenny Passerelli, compelled him to break songs like "Black Witch," a tale of jealously, imprisonment, and betrayal, into long, evolutionary jams that allowed his guitarist, Eddie Turner, to show his Hendix-fired chops. Taylor’s daughter Cassie, who usually provides spectral vocal support on his albums, filled in on bass, nailing the job even though she was unfamiliar with some of the material. Electric-cellist Ben Sollee was a welcome new addition to the group, adding delicate colors and stretching his instrument’s voice into mournful banshee wails for the compelling "Kitchen Towel," a story of how human suffering leaves an enduring stain in its wake. Taylor’s music wasn’t unremittingly bleak. "Live Your Life" offered up affirmation and a celebration of individuality — both sorely needed in these repressive, dogma-fueled times. And he led the crowd in a round of "Hambone," a good-times call-and-response chant with its feet in the days of plantation jubilees and rent parties. But it’s unlikely that Taylor will ever be caught leading an audience in a chorus of "Hey, hey, the blues is all right." He knows that the style, so reflective of real life, is far more complicated than that.
BY TED DROZDOWSKI
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