Rocking Through the Darkness, Down Highway 61

by Beau Wilcox

LULA, MS -- In a sterile venue, before a throng still numbed by the fresh spectre of a nation's most visceral tragedy, Jonny Lang just shrugged sheepishly, played his guitar and sang.

He's done it all before, after all. And Saturday night, at the Isle of Capri Casino's Flamingo Bay Ballroom, he just did it again.

Yet on this night, this man of but 20 years -- with less than half of that invested upon the strings of his Fender -- did it with a tenacity and beauty that seemed utterly profound even it was nothing more than your run-of-the-mill performance. For this writer, Jonny Lang ushered in normalcy once again, and authored a triumphant reminder that even terrorism in its most heinous incarnation cannot rupture the musical vein that courses throughout humankind.

Jonny is a wizard in the Vaughn or Hendrix mold, but his naivete leads one to believe that even the high glass ceilings blown judiciously by such late legends are in danger of being smashed. Whereas his conventional foil on the blues scene, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, lives for the moments in which his antics on the neck are physics-defying, Jonny Lang is content to -- gasp!!! -- just play music. He's a damn impressive guitarist, no doubt, but he has a feel for what's stirring instead of what's awesome.

The fans who gathered for Saturday's show seemed cognizant of this, save for the standard legion of inebriated young ladies waving their limbs wildly within a few feet of the stage. Yards behind them, perched squarely in their seats or standing only for the sake of seeing what they were hearing, the more appreciative spectators remained civil, but not for the sake of exhibiting maturity. Rather, these were the ones who were content to sit back in those rigid utilitarian chairs and simply close their eyes while Jonny blistered his way through "The Levee" or adroitly shifted into the impassioned, bittersweet "Irish Angel."

You see, you can feel Jonny Lang. His tone is remarkably well honed for someone who can't legally drink. His vocalization is peerless. The songs are mostly scripted by others, and are mostly free of complexity, but Jonny works magic on each and every one, whether it's a typical blues joint like "Cherry Red Wine," an acoustic ballad like "Breakin' Me" or, in the case of his best song, "Leaving to Stay," a gospel-tinged lament.

Throughout a two-hour set, in which the pristine arrangement of tunes and the brilliance of the other musicians are merely afterthoughts while the prodigy sizzles in the spotlight, you will find yourself reaching for comparisons. You will recall blues legends, then remind yourself that it makes little sense to do that, as the crop of 20-year-old white boys from Minnesota in the genre is about as healthy as a pack of menthol cigarettes. At times, what with the screams of the girls from the foreground interrupting your solace, you will try to identify Jonny Lang with the boy bands and the Britneys of the world, but you'll immediately note that there is a palpable gulf between him and them in those "trivial" qualities of talent and musicianship. Sometimes, you'll think you're hearing the next great young rock star, but even those pained grimaces and that distinctive rasp cannot obscure the fact that you are simply watching a child at play, albeit an incredibly gifted one whose toys actually make pleasurable sounds.

What Jonny Lang possesses is a gift that is, in the aftermath of September 11, 2001, the kind of balm that many of us will subconciously need. He is blessed with all the aesthetic distractions, of course, being a handsome teen-idol sort with the musical skills that often morph unintentionally into implements for crude one-upsmanship (see: Shepherd). But the young man does not show off -- he is simply, perfectly content to play.

In what has been a joyless two-and-a-half weeks, isn't that something we all need anyway?