The House of Blues asks its patrons to forgive much. First, if you bought a $42.50 ticket to hear Ms. James, you got to stand in the outside line in 100-degree heat and 100% humidity while those who could afford the overpriced drinks and food in the joint's dining room got to stand inside in the airconned cool. However, if one has paid the minimum $2000/year tab to join the "Foundation Club," you can ascend the elevator to the exclusive "Foundation" Restaurant and repair at showtime to your exclusive box seats to watch the show.

Not being so profligate (even if we had that kinda cash), we chose the Buddah-like Middle Way and ate the overpriced steak and red wine and showed our dinner receipt to the very official gatekeeper, who then admitted those full of HOB chow to the showroom before the hoi polloi sweating in the driveway below.

Now it used to be that those gaining early admission could rush to one of the very few stools in the vacinity of the bars on either side of the room...but not no more. Oh no. Now, each little barstool has been "reserved", and has some patron's name right on it. A burly HOB employee stands by to ID each person wishing to place his ass on a stool, to make sure that it is indeed the correct ass on that stool. Asking that selfsame burly dude, I am informed that special patrons pay about $40 to $50 to reserve those stools, in addition to the regular admission tix price.

Seeing as we am here to see Etta James, and not to drink and chat it up with the bartender, we move immediately to a space frontstage center, and in less time than it takes for you to say, "Tell Mama," we are closed into our precious plot of HOB standing room by the press of the crowd. I've been told that the headliner will not be coming on until about 10pm. It is now 7:45. There will be an opening act, according to the sign outside: Johnny A.
Didn't recognize the name, but this Boston guitar player whose apparently done lots of session work made his opening set memorable for all us sardines out there in standing room only. A really unusual and unusually enjoyable set: all guitar instrumentals, backed by bass and drums, which conjured up Jimi, the Ventures, Link Wray, Scotty Moore, Wes Montgomery, Danny Gatton, and Les Paul, among many others. Through it all, Mr. A. kept the talk to a minimum and let a strong sense of his own individual playing style show through. No antics, either...he sat on a stool and just played that ax until it told the truth. I guarantee that Jimi Webb's Witchita Lineman has never sounded better. A great update of the Venture's chesnut Walk Don't Run. A punchy version of the Beatle's Yes It Is. Jimi's Third Stone From The Sun was the very heavy-hitting closer, and it was acknowledged by the now-capacity crowd that the opener had done more than his obligatory warm-up bit. He'd gotten the room hot and steamy, and ready for the Queen of Steam herself. If you're interested to know more about this artist, and he's certainly worth checking out, here's his URL: www.johnnya.com.

Now one nice thing that the HOB does do is send waitress out into the depths of the crowd to take drink orders, and this was much appreciated, as I did not have to surrender my little piece of observation deck to the pressing masses, or leave my gorgeous but way-too-nice significant one to guard my territory. By the end of the evening I was wishing the HOB would find a way to bring the urinals out to you, too, but I guess that's unreasonable...if you gotta go, you just have to give up your turf.

Twenty minutes later, at 10 o'clock on the dot, the daughter of pool shark Minnesota Fats (true), the Matriarch of the Blues, and the only woman singing today who can be ranked with Billie or Etta or Sassy Vaughan, was revealed by the opening curtains to be onstage, large and in charge of her 8-piece Roots Band even while sitting down in a black swivel chair.
Ms. James' health is clearly not good these days. Her hands, feet and legs are swollen, and between songs she's breathing heavily. She performs the entire set sitting down, driving the band from that board-room chair, wearing a sequined red gown which reflects sparks from the spotlight which is trained on her all night. Within moments of sailing straight into At Last, the audience is hers. The tune, recorded with strings in its original version, is played tonight as if it was straight from Muscle Shoals. The horns power forward, the Hammond B3 quakes and shakes. Three of the members of this band are family, and they clearly know that this could be their leader's last tour. They are giving it everything they have in their very cool L.A. way. And as she calls the number two tune of the night, Come To Mama, the room seems to rise on the moment.

Now we pause to consider that Etta James' first hit record was The Wallflower (Work With Me Henry), recorded with Hank Ballard and the Midnighters and released in 1955. Nearly 50 years later, Etta James is clearly a senior citizen whose best days as a blues-belting temptress are behind her. But don't tell that to her, as she writhes in her leather chair, vigorously sucks her own thumb in demonstration of what she's gonna give you when you come to mama, and flirts salaciously with every man standing near the stage...this may be just performance, but it is damn convincing performance. And it is not as if she needs to highjink in order to distract from her failing vocal chops, because her inimitable voice is in fine, fine, form, oh yes indeed. She screams, teases, and begs us to come on over and play with her toy. She lifts her arms during the bridge and directs the band as if she were conducting the Chicago Symphony. And they respond to her just the way a lover might, by giving her everything she demands.
The seduction continues with a song written, she explains for Johnny Guitar Watson in the 60s: I Wanna Ta Ta You. And with a terrific medley of I Just Wanna Make Love to You and Born To Be Wild that turned the audience into one wild thrashing animal. Things slowed down and cooled out with I Would Rather Go Blind, which seemed ripped right out of the middle of her soul.
Now that she'd achieved ulitmate control of the crowd, she proceeded to ignore requests and play several lesser known songs that showed off the versimillitude of her Roots Band, allowing for generous solos and detailed introductions. Finally, amid shouts of "We Love You, Etta!!!" she delivered the evening's capper, Sugar On The Floor, dedicated to the memory of her mother, whom, she told the crowd, had died recently. "Sugar" had been her mother's favorite song, and she sang it looking straight up to Heaven, clearly believing her mother were listening, tears pouring from her cheeks. She morphed the number, by the last verse, into a gospel pleader, repeatedly offerring up her "Thank You" with outstretchd arms and her formidable voice. As the number came to an end and the curtains closed, she turned the cries of "Thank You" to the audience and cleared her tears.

Ten minutes of calling, clapping, pounding and pleading ensued. But it was all over. She'd clearly given everything she had in a non-stop performance lasting over two hours and twenty minutes.
I'd advise anyone to see Ms. James if she's touring near your town this summer. She is one of the greats, a singer without limits in blues, RnB, jazz, funk and pop. Clearly at least the equal of Ray Charles or BB King, and on par with the best female singers of the century. Like B.B., also now on tour, she won't be performing long, due to her health. And when you've missed her, you really missed something, friend.