The Delta Saints

I was excited about the concert of the band from Nashville, Tennessee THE DELTA SAINTS, because with their EP “A Bird Called Angola” they really brought the ears to glow. Last year they released a DVD recorded live from the Rockpalast gig in Germany; and all of that may be the reason that even on a sunny Monday evening, the little club “Hafenklang” – darkly squeezed between all the modern glass facades at Hamburg harbor – was pretty well attended.

Ahead there was a support from the Hanseatic city, right from there where the industry smokes and the highway roars to the south – namely “Peute” – and, may be, why this band because of all of these vapors is called “Black Jesus”. The Delta Saints come from the swamps of the Mississippi, so come Black Jesus from the marshy lowlands of the Hamburg suburb. Further similarities probably can be hard to find.

The music from the Hamburg band rocks and reminds a bit of a grunge version of Paul Weller. The boys are no longer the youngest and show some experience on their instruments, already smoked in the oven of an 70s retrospective climate. You might want to get an idea here:

After this time for a quick beer outside in the balmy air of the port, but rapidly the saints of the Delta were on stage and presented from the first to the last minute an intensive show. On the ridge between a rocking party and introspection a music was celebrated, which bases on the fiery blues and funk of the southern states – feverish, a little crazy, wild, and in all this quite traditional.

The Delta Saints enriches the genre by a dynamism and freshness that distinguishes it from other American blues bands, and this although they proceed not avant-garde or particularly innovative. The first recipe is an intense interaction, on the basis of – despite their youth – a lot of live experience. They surely have hardly practiced and worked together.

The chemistry seems to be well coordinated within the group. Each of them has open spaces to play, especially in various psychedelic guitar solos (Dylan Fitch) and refined harmonica interludes (Greg Hommert – talking some German to the audience). In the center with his dobro resonator guitar sits Ben Kringel screaming the soul into the microphone – his voice is even more powerful in the studio-work, may be because of club-sound; his audio-level had been slightly under-supplied. To this join the groovy bass lines (David Supica) and the drive by a great drummer (Ben Azzi), to whom an avid visitor bought a beer: “yeah, baby, rock it!”

This all sounds passionate and authentic. The southern North America from its root site. No glamor-pop or perpetual country-music, but music that goes beyond mere entertainment, in addition to the fire and fun it also includes parts of the pain that belongs to the origins of the blues.

Andreas Torneberg

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