Judging by the motley looking bunch of rowdies at the Beacon's packed house, the average Allman Brothers fan is at least blissfully ignorant of the passing of time. While the thinning ponytails and southern rock jocks chugged Budweiser from the can, paunchy bootleggers blew plumes of pot smoke at the multi-colored mushroom murals and bellowed "Best band in the land!" after nearly every song.
It was nearly enough to make you forget that it's 1997 and the Beacon is now a non-smoking venue. On any other night, a flashlight brandishing security guard would surely be stomping out joints like the seventies never happened. Temperance, however, takes a back seat when the tattooed Georgia jam-meisters take up residence.
Slogging onward past death (most acutely felt in Duane Allman's fatal motorbike wreck in 1971), drug excess and various break ups, the Allmans have re-emerged with a sturdy professionalism and a barrage of live shows that fill the wake left by the Dead's absence. Blowing out southern blues-boogie at eardrum rattling levels, the tight dynamics of Dickey Betts lead guitar and Warren Haynes more fluid slide work led the band with a fuller, more robust sound than one might expect.
And when Greg Allman pipes up from behind the organ in his isolated corner of the stage, it's tempting to give him credit for still possessing a mouthful of teeth and the ability to work up a sweat without clutching his heart and pitching over. But Allman delivers more than that, growling with a bear-like menace that neither time, heroin, nor marriage to Cher can wither. Starting with "It's Not My Cross to Bear" early in the evening, he sung straight from the barrelhouse floor, all whiskey and stale cigarette smoke.
When the thin-voiced Betts stepped up for the crowd-pleasing "Ramblin' Man" it couldn't help but pale in comparison. The wall of percussion (two drummers and one percussionist is superfluous considering they only add up to one good one) crammed the sound with a weighted rhythmic pounding that threatened to sink the whole structure. Enter Haynes, darting in to punctuate Betts lines with colorful melodics. Besides saving "Ramblin' Man", he alone held aloft the improvisational banner of yesteryear.
The band's history of collective interplay did surface at the end of the first set in the instrumental "Jessica." At quarter tempo, Betts' constructed melody lines took point as he expanded the congenial tune into a charging crescendo of dual guitar leads. For once, the percussion triad sounded jubilant. Witnessing Betts tearing into the lyrical repetition with Haynes throwing extemporaneous answers back on the spot, the memories of their legendary Fillmore East concerts seemed not so much untouchable glory as part of a continuing saga.
Highlighting the latter half of the show was the more recent "No One To Run With." As Allman rang out a litany of fallen rockers (a club he's narrowly missed belonging to), the band whomped out a Bo Diddley beat, a '90s version of "Aiko Aiko" of sorts. Laments aside, the spirited muscle of