Review by Shawn Perry
The last time I reviewed a Widespread Panic show, which was when they played the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles, I was still trying to figure out where exactly they fit into the musical quagmire. There were the obvious Grateful Dead and Allman Brothers Band comparisons, and there was something else…something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I went to see them a few more times — at the Hard Rock in Las Vegas, and twice at the Orpheum in L.A. — and was still missing something in the stew.
At the second Orpheum show, I was given a front-row center seat that I never sat in because of the sheer pandemonium that takes place in such close proximity to a band like Widespread Panic. Everyone was dancing wildly, passing doobies and reusable cruise flasks of Jack Daniels around in the spirit of the moment. And there was the band just a few feet away. It was a lot to take in.
To really soak up the soul and spirit of Widespread Panic, I either had to see them at their home-base in Athens, or someplace else where the environment aligned with the music and the audience. As it was, Red Rocks was a venue I had long wanted to visit, so when I heard about the Panic’s annual three-day, sold-out run at the legendary Colorado amphitheater, I felt the urge to be there, if only for a night. As it turned out, Sunday, the grand finale, was when the band and I would connect.
Having experienced multi-night stands with both the Grateful Dead and Phish, I could sense I may have missed out on some vital performances on Friday and Saturday, and may not appreciate the context, the mood and tone of how the last of the three would be delivered. Totally over thinking it, of course. There was nothing to worry about. Even the afternoon thunderstorm that swept through the area just before the doors opened couldn’t quell the anticipation and excitement of seeing Widespread Panic at Red Rocks Amphitheatre.
Surrendering our umbrellas to security, my companion and I made our way up the steep red-rock-lined stairway to about the halfway point of the seating scale. A few steps in, we placed our ponchos on the wet wooden bench and claimed our spot. The party was already underway, as far as friends meeting up, sharing assorted refreshments and selfies, swagging up with limited edition posters and concert tees, all while anxiously awaiting the band’s arrival. A contagious buzz gripped us and we settled in for what can only be described as a euphoric sojourn of sound- and sight-tingling dimensions.
It was 25 minutes after the hour (5:00), when the six members of Widespread Panic — lead singer and guitarist John Bell, bassist Dave Schools, percussionist Domingo S. Ortiz, keyboardist John “JoJo” Hermann, guitarist Jimmy Herring and drummer Duane Trucks — ambled onto the Red Rocks stage, took their positions and meandered into Michael Stanley’s “Let’s Get The Show on the Road,” a weary tome that teased the first few rows with a barren, gnawing emptiness bound to blossom as the devoted drained their tall cans of Coors (or the rare Dale’s Pale Ale) and fell under the spell.
To my pleasant surprise, they eased into “Bear’s Gone Fishin'” from the band’s sixth album, 1999’s ‘Til the Medicine Takes, and the place started to groove. Schools drove the undertow as Bell’s snarly voice wrapped itself around the melody, slightly off-kilter, but efficiently conquering the collective, offering the first of numerous tapestry-woven jams where each player interlocks into a twinkling thrust of effervescent splendor. With each passing number (!), in the audience and on stage, the “agreement,” as it were, between the spectators and the band fused into one of mutual respect with enough rhythm and call-and-response to keep everyone on their toes.
As I was to find out, tonight was about covers, and along with “Let’s Get The Show On The Road,” they would sprinkle in six additional renditions of songs by everyone from Willie Dixon to Tom Waits. An unexpected stab at Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine,” with a jazzy lead by Herring, made its second appearance ever at a Widespread Panic show, a fact not lost on those who keep score.
All night, Herring’s rip-roaring leads, delivered ever so steadily and meticulously, kept Red Rocks enraptured. He never strayed from his spot, hardly batted an eye beneath his Colorado Rockies ball cap, and spat out notes at every turn. Anything Herring had to say he said with his guitar. I saw it when he played with the Dead, heard when he toured with John McLaughlin, and witnessed it at previous WSP shows. Building blocks in “Cotton Was King,” funking it up on “Old Neighborhood,” and keeping it straight and solid on “Let’s Get Down To Business” — Herring could do no wrong from where I stood.
With the music more or less swallowing up the air, it wasn’t hard to notice other things during the show besides the band. There was Edie Jackson, on stage as the band’s sign language interpreter whose job is to interpret the lyrics for the deaf and hard of hearing. Her presence underscores WSP’s holistic, inclusive reverence for their audience, plus provides visual respite on a stage filled with motionless musicians. Then over to the opposite side, about 10 rows down from me, there was a man creating art on a piece of canvas. He was working away, at the end of the aisle, undisturbed as the colors took shape. Of what, I have no idea.
And this, of course, was all happening in what many consider the world’s greatest amphitheater. If the red rock formations that flank the sides and the back of the stage aren’t enough for you, a trip to the top of the stairs is much more than food vendors, merchandise dealers and restrooms. There’s a Visitor Center with a full restaurant (it was closed), a Hall of Fame exhibit, and an outdoor patio with a view of the hillside. You can definitely separate yourself from the show if you need some space. Fortunately, I only missed a half a drum solo when I ventured up.
Besides Bell, Hermann also sang a couple numbers from behind his keys. He cruised through on the vocals for “Bust It Big” before taking flight on the clavinet. His declaration of “Mexico!” resonated with ripples within the natural red rock sound baffles. “The Visitor” is a transporter that put Hermann’s devil-may-care vocal stylings and piano work, directed by Herring’s angular lines, on the front burner. Once Ortiz and Trucks set the beat, the song exploded with possibilities.
Before leaving the stage, the band served up the honky tonk, country stomp of “Ain’t Life Grand,” and it was if the show could go on for another two hours. Instead, they took a brief break and returned at 8:45, just as the sun was setting, for a two-song encore of the appropriately upbeat “You Should Be Glad” from 2006’s Earth To America, followed by a bitter-sweet reading of Tom Petty’s “Wreck Me,” yet another one making its second appearance ever at a Widespread Panic show.
On the whole, the mix of covers and originals provided a thorough overview for a casual fan like myself who only caught the third act of a three-part spin. To the diehards, it’s another story I only know too well. Jam bands like Widespread Panic are contagious, a musical force you can’t get enough of because they change the game plan every night. I couldn’t make it happen this year. However, a trip to Red Rocks in 2019 for the full run might just be the ticket for this old Deadhead to relive the glory days.
