Kenny Wayne Shepherd
Tramps, New York, May 20, 1998


Let's get this out of the way right at the start: Kenny Wayne Shepherd is every bit the guitar wunderkind that such high-profile admirers as B.B. King and James Brown have proclaimed him to be. He's phenomenal, and that's a simple observation, not an abuse of superlatives. And as tiring as it is to dwell on his young age (still under the legal drinking age), it's hardly an irrelevant footnote. Indeed, it is impossible not to look at him now and marvel at what he might be capable of doing with another five, ten or twenty years of experience under his belt.

Truth be told, all those years of development and promise ahead of Shepherd are actually his saving grace. Without the untold glory of that road before him, it would be far too easy -- and tempting -- to write him off now as a brilliant but derivative copyist. His blues rock licks will make your jaw drop like a stone, but it doesn't so much hit the floor as settle softly into a comfortable groove worn smooth by deja-vu. "Here it comes again," goes the hook from his aptly titled breakthrough hit, "Deja Voodoo," and hearing the band rip through that number tonight delivered the same gut-wrenching kick as hearing the late, great Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble burn through "Crossfire." But the real evocation of the dead came with the encore's blistering "Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)," which rumbled and roared out of Shepherd's guitar like a storm out of Valhalla. And the kid played it note for blistering note. Simply put, Kenny plays Stevie Ray like Stevie Ray, Jimi like Jimi, and Kenny like, well, Stevie Ray and Jimi.

"Voodoo Chile" and "Deja Voodoo" were the highlights of an evening otherwise bloated with capable Free-style blues and solo after solo after solo after+ no, the whole show *was* an extended Shepherd solo, with singer Noah Hunt (who replaced Corey Sterling for Shepherd's sophomore release, Trouble Is ...) stepping up to the mic maybe once every ten minutes to huff and puff a quick verse in his best Paul Rodgers grunt. Which was really a pretty good imitation, as spot-on as Shepherd's own mimicry -- or maybe that of any bar band singer in America worth his salt.

And yet it wouldn't have mattered if Hunt's voice was totally distinctive -- he seemed to be there simply for window dressing. Likewise for the rest of the KWS Band: keyboardist Jimmy Wallace, drummer Sam Bryant and bassist Robby Emerson. All of them are great players, particularly Wallace, but they were never given much of a chance to express themselves beyond the bounds of ace sidemen, there to fill in the short little gaps when Shepherd had to cool off his fingers. They added muscle and bone to the promising "True Lies," funk to "One Foot on the Path," and subtle coloring to the several long instrumental passages. But every note they played was a set-up, a stepping stone for Shepherd to climb back onto the dais and peal off another rip-snorting Fendergasm for the worshipful crowd.

It's worth nothing, if Shepherd is to be considered alongside the likes of Hendrix, Vaughan, Clapton, et al., and not just as "one of those hot-shot kid guitarists" (Johnny Lang, Derek Trucks ... or even Isaac "Ike" Hanson), he might do well to tone things down or take a few more risks. A reputation like he's already built is a heady thing to uphold at such a young age, as Clapton, nee "God," could probably testify. But Clapton didn't earn that title as frontman for the Eric Clapton Band. He was a side musician for John Mayall. The guitarist for a little group called the Yardbirds. One-third of Cream. By the time he finally stepped out for a solo career, with the spotlight directly on him for the first time, he'd earned his wings. Hendrix was the star from the get-go, but for all his heralded guitar skills, he agonized over the limitations of his voice. And yet he sang, as did Vaughan, another great guitarist with a not-so-great voice.

But they sang because the human voice is as vital a component to the blues as any riff or muddy groove -- perhaps more so. And their music, so close to the supernatural, was made all the more rich for the all-too-human imperfection of their voices. If Shepherd wants to be remembered as anything more than a flashy showboat, he needs to step up to the mic, or step back a little more. God knows he's got enough time on his side to stay out of the spotlight until he's got enough new licks to remake his own name, not evoke others.

Opening act Todd Snider was guilty of his own acts of mimicry (Tom Petty), albeit with a crucial spin -- "Yesterdays and Used to Be's" sounds like a killer tune Petty *should* have written, not one he did. And with smart, raucous, dontcha-just-love-rock-n-roll frat-boy anthems like "Alright Guy" and "My Generation (Part 2)," he more than showed off his own unique songwriting voice. "If I'm elected sophomore class president," he enthused during a break in "Alright Guy," "we'll have a coke machine in every hallway, a Taco Bell in the cafeteria, and the fucking Red Hot Chili Peppers to play the prom!" How can you not love a guy like that?

RICHARD SKANSE