Phelps to bless A2 with blues experience

Kelly Joe Phelps

Legend has it that, many years ago in the Mississippi Delta, a young man named Robert Johnson arranged a midnight meeting at a deserted crossroads. There, by the light of a full moon, he struck a deal with the devil, bargaining his eternal soul in exchange for the ability to play the blues better than any other man. And though he died from drinking poisoned whiskey in 1938, his stature as an influential giant of the blues lives today.

Listening to Kelly Joe Phelps' new album, "Roll Away the Stone," it is clear that Phelps, who hails from the state of Washington - about as far from that Delta crossroads as you can get in the lower 48 - has listened to his share of Robert Johnson. It is equally clear that mentioning the name Kelly Joe in the same breath with Blind Lemon and Mississippi Fred might not be as foolish as it sounds.

PREVIEW
	Kelly Joe Phelps Sunday night at 8 p.m. The Ark $11

Phelps will appear at the Ark on Sunday night to play material from this album; an album that is, in many respects, a traditional blues record. But to his considerable credit, Phelps recalls the past while transcending the blueprint of tradition, adapting sounds and styles that have been handed down through generations and making them into something new and distinctly his own.

Some of this willingness to experiment and ability to create may be attributed to his appreciation for and training in jazz.

A former jazz bassist, Phelps once idolized that genre's greats, from John Coltrane to Miles Davis. After hearing a record by seminal bluesman Mississippi Fred McDowell some years ago, Phelps took up a guitar and began to play the blues, but his jazz background still shines through in the array of sounds he coaxes from his strings and his highly impressionistic usage of them in his songs.

For Kelly Joe Phelps is a guitar wizard, conjuring not just melodies but all manner of moans, squeaks, squeals and sobs from his instrument. Laying the guitar flat on his lap like a dobro, he picks and plucks with care and precision, turning a mere note into an impassioned cry with an upward sweep of his steel slide, intermittently keeping time with the resonant thump of his hand on the guitar's body or his foot on a stomp box.

And he sings. His voice, though no great wonder in itself, is soulful in a plain-spoken way, slightly smoky with a gravel edge. He is sensitive to the fact that his singing need only complement the playing - the clear focus here - and gives sensitive, heartfelt treatments of both his original compositions and traditional numbers such as "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder."

I don't know whether Phelps came by this remarkable talent naturally or struck a satanic pact. But I do know that to hear "Roll Away the Stone" is a visceral experience; to see this man perform, bent over a supposedly inanimate object that suddenly seems to be alive and squalling in his hands, promises to be something of a wonderment.

Just make sure he stays away from the bad whiskey.

09-19-97