Chet Atkins Serves Up Tasty Moments but Not Much Country Sound

You can’t take the country out of Chet Atkins, but you sure can take it out of his guitar.

Atkins was a down-home and folksy host Saturday at the Orange County Performing Arts Center, chatting comfortably in a deep, scratchy Tennessee drawl that was ready with career reminiscences and between-songs quips. But Atkins, backed by his own four-piece band and, intermittently, by the Pacific Symphony, didn’t say much about his roots in the way that counts most--with his music.

While Atkins, 63, is recognized as the most accomplished and influential of country guitarists, his style always has ranged far beyond country music--he is one of those musicians who is liable to play almost anything. But even for a versatile performer, it makes sense to establish a strong base with an audience, an anchoring identity, before setting out in other directions. Atkins never did get much of a country feel going during his 65-minute show. By the time he came closest to it, during his encore, he had put his guitars away and was playing a fiddle.

After an orchestral overture that was an awfully pompous introduction for a folksy fellow, Atkins came on and answered the swirl of strings with a few countrified licks.

It quickly became apparent that Atkins didn’t feel compelled to use the orchestra just because this show, the first of a two-night engagement, was part of the Pacific Symphony’s pops concert series. Atkins’ willingness to use just his quartet seemed to hold out potential for some rootsy, rambunctious stuff (after all, part of Atkins’ contribution was as a record producer whose credits include sessions with such early rockers as Elvis Presley and the Everly Brothers).

But instead of trying to ignite some sparks, Atkins devoted most of the concert to middle-of-the-road pop and to the fluffed and sweetened contemporary jazz-fusion that has grown so popular lately.

Incongruously, the sound of strings--tinny ones at that--was pervasive even during the long stretches when the Pacific Symphony sat idle. It came from a synthesizer played by Atkins’ keyboardist. After several songs like this, the orchestra could stand no more. In a wild, tuxedo-clad re-enactment of the John Henry legend, the string section rose up in anger to assert the rights of flesh and blood over machinery.

Well, not really. But maybe some of the violinists daydreamed it, lacking anything else to occupy their minds while a synthesizer did a job they could have done better. When the symphony did get to play, it was led by Anthony Magliore, the conductor Atkins brought along for his segment of the two-part evening.

With fiery guitar runs clearly off the menu, Atkins still served up some tasty moments, notably his intimate, lyrical readings of two pop standards, John Lennon’s “Imagine” and Don McLean’s “Vincent.” Atkins’ delicate playing on the Lennon tune was especially sensitive, capturing the evanescent nature of the song’s utopian ideals. Renditions of “Classical Gas” and Orleans’ “Dance With Me” were far less affecting.

Atkins, no great singer, showed savvy in picking just the right spots for his vocal numbers. One was “Would Jesus Wear a Rolex?” a humorous country novelty hit he co-wrote. The song, fueled by comedy rather than melody, drew multiple laughs with its sharp lampooning of wealthy TV evangelists. The other was an overtly sentimental but still touching reminiscence about his father in which Atkins’ vocal creakiness lent emotional authenticity.

The opening half of the evening, a symphony program of musical Americana geared to the Memorial Day weekend, was less an entertainment than a discharge of patriotic duty. With Keith Clark conducting, “American Salute”--an arrangement of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”--flew by frenetically. If the South actually had fought the Civil War at such a pace, it would have been forced to surrender a year early.

The North didn’t fare much better on a stodgy, clangorous “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” A clunky attempt at a musical-poetic rendition of “Casey at the Bat,” with muffled, flat narration by sportscaster Bud Furillo, had all the grace and flair of the average Angels game. “Victory at Sea” was better, modulating well between breeziness and martial drama. The segment ended with a flourish--a suitably rousing burst of Sousa.