Rob Azevedo goes inside the local music scene bringing you the best of what’s happening in the Granite State.
That’s why when Ashland musician, Paul Hubert, was telling me in the WKXL studio recently about a new song he wrote and was about to perform with his friend the Chicken Man called “40 Bushels,” I was flabbergasted to hear the tale about the “Year Without a Summer” in 1816. READ MORE
Song one, line on, joke one – they all need to land right with the audience at the git-go. And that’s what “Say Darling” did on their new self titled EP. They crushed it, right from the git-go. READ MORE
So, we compromised (Imagine that? In these days of rage and hate) and billed this Saturday’s tribute night in Concord at NEC: “A Tribute to The Excitable Boys: Warren Zevon and Tom Waits.” The free show starts at 5:30 p.m. and the half-rack of artists playing their favorite songs by these two musical titans all know exactly what they need to do to capture the essence of both artists. READ MORE
There’s just something about Motown music that brings out that crooner in all of us, even those buried beneath a furnace of life’s rank frustrations. It’s true. I saw it, felt it, smelt it, tasted it, just last weekend at New England College in Concord, where one funky band and three funky solo artists tackled some classic Motown tunes and made them their own.
“Something To Be Found,” the first single, shines a light on a 25-year old woman with two degrees, a busy job, a loving family and the weight of the world on her shoulders. Something is missing, some crucial element of fulfillment has been neglected for much too long. Ah, the music. “She’s begging me to come back home.” READ MORE
Finally, I asked Anita if I could sit at Hunter’s desk. It had taken me nearly three decades to do so. “Of course you can,” she said without hesitation. I positioned myself behind the typewriter, looked down at the keyboard, at the numerous convention lanyards and reading glasses, the can of air spray and pack of cigarettes and my mind was blown, a flurry of humility rushed over me.
In August 1977, things changed. The King died. Elvis Presley himself. And at seven years old, I had no clue who Elvis Presley was. But when the Boston Sunday Globe arrived to our home the week he died, I remember picking through the remains of the paper after my father and older brother, Mike, tore through the metro region, sports, travel and editorial sections like two animals tugging at the same side of beef. READ MORE