ON THE concert scene, the best part of the Stephen Stills at-Carnegie-Hall gig was
Maria Muldaur and her band, who have been opening for Stills throughout his tour.
All Ms. Muldaur needs now is a hit single to cap her success.
Her first solo album (Warners) featured back-up work by Dr John, David
Nichtern, Ry Cooder, Jim Keltner, Bill Keith, Clarence White, and Richard
Greene. It was good and has
done well, but Maria sparks best in live performance. She’s a livewire who
skips,
dances and tosses off quips while looking totally at ease.
Hassled by a lousy sound system (Carnegie ought to get their sound
together), her voice
and range came off best on Dolly Parton’s lilting "My Tennessee Mountain
Home," — on which she played fiddle and was joined by Ellen Kearney and
guitarist David Michtern.
She could have done an encore, but it was a Steve Stills crowd, and who wants to buck
that?
Stills has been doing great business on his tour, and an extra show was added for
Carnegie. But with fans expecting something spectacular, I think he felt
apprehensive,
countering his tension with a loud and generally bland performance, relying on his back-up
band to carry much of the weight.
Together only three weeks, the band never slackened and most of the time Stills
wasn’t equal to their strength. His voice
sounded strained as he delivered songs his fans had been waiting for — "Love The
One You’re With," "Change Partners" et al.
He opened and closed with hard-rocking stimulants, including an all-electric version of
"Wooden Ships." A turn on the piano
with "For What It’s Worth" was cheered as though he were Arthur
Rubenstein.
His acoustic set was gimmicky, with percussive footbeats more expressive than his
singing.
He played guitar with one hand while feeding himself a drink with the
other, and after
spending valuable time tuning a five-string banjo, used only one or two strings on the
instrument before slapping it around gently as if it were a percussion instrument.
The worst thing was to hear a headliner like Stills blow it completely on a seemingly
off-key rendering of Lennon/McCartney’s familiar and sensitive "Blackbird."
This one was wretchedly botched.
