POP MUSIC REVIEW : Albert King Blows Audience Away With Power of Blues

How about that--a display of stage smoke that actually signified something.

The big white puff that billowed up at the Coach House Friday night emanated not from some cursed fog machine, but from the trademark pipe of 67-year-old bluesman Albert King. When King lit up toward the end of his show, the gesture had the same symbolic meaning as Red Auerbach firing up his customary stogie to celebrate the waning moments of a Boston Celtics basketball victory.

King could relax and savor a smoke while his four-man band stretched out on “Blues Power” because the evening had clearly been won. The bulky guitarist, who says he is retiring from full-time roadwork after his current tour, could chalk up another victory--a definitively emotive display of blues power before an ecstatic, packed house.

King stuck to time-tested staples of his repertoire during a show that lasted nearly two hours, and the humorous spoken raps he interjected into some of his lighter numbers were word-for-word replicas of versions he committed to vinyl long ago. But there wasn’t a hint of dullness or rote response in the delivery. King’s standards stood as a classic framework within which he was able to search out enduring emotional truths with moment-to-moment immediacy.

After warming up with a Hendrixian rock-riff number (it served as a reminder of King’s “godfather” relationship to blues-rockers like Hendrix, Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray Vaughan) and an easygoing shuffle, King got down to the real business of sifting for emotional quicksilver. He found it repeatedly in a long sequence that took the audience from the most dire depths of the blues to the joyfulness of a full-bore, finger-flashing rock-out.

King began by laying down basic definitions, using Elmore James’ “Sky is Crying” to portray the sort of sadness that makes all nature seem bleak. As he sang “The sky is crying, look at the tears run down the street,” long, glistening notes from his guitar flowed in bending runnels, embodying the image in sound. At one point, rising moans on the guitar weren’t enough for King, nor was singing the lyrics in his rough-grained but still forceful voice. Only a wordless cry-- aaarggh!-- would register what he wanted to say.

Lest anyone think that the tears in the street of some individual pain were as deep as he could delve into sorrow, King moved immediately into the slow, dark, furtive, controlled funk of the blues apocalypse, “Floodin’ in California.” Taking the guitar dynamics from a torrent to a trickle, King let dread rise drop by drop. The song was a warning: “Storm in L.A., breakin’ up in San Francisco, too.” After the Big One hits, the documentary makers will be running this song under their most forlorn disaster footage.

But, as another blues nugget puts it, trouble can’t last always. King turned to “Baby, Please,” which did justice to the ache of abject romantic pleading while underscoring how our deepest needs give rise to some of the funniest chapters in the human comedy. At one point, his guitar traced wry, hopping cat steps, as if to say that if full-frontal pleading won’t win a love-object’s indifferent heart, you can always try sneaking up from behind.

After teasing with that mixture of pain and comedy, King played “Crosscut Saw,” the sort of swaggering, steaming number designed to blast away the blues. In contrast with B.B. King’s darting, diamond-cutter precision, Albert’s rocking-blues guitar sounded like an industrial drill bit, pointed, but massive. Playing with ultimate flash, King made it obvious that his style is Stevie Ray Vaughan’s key source.

To go with all that musical force, King had a winning, homespun, ready-to-chuckle charm. “We’re going all the way to the top and comin’ down,” he declared before driving home one last chorus of “Crosscut Saw.” “I might get out there and do a boogie-woogie myself.”

Then, in the number’s still smoldering aftermath, King looked back on what he had wrought and saw that it was good. “Need a drink behind that one. Don’t tell me--that was a hot sapsucker.”

The only things not good about the show were occasional feedback problems, and keyboardist Archie Turner’s penchant for coaxing synthetic-sounding jazz-rock fusion wails and note-bends from his digital keys instead of trying to emulate the free-air-swirling-through-wood sound of an old-fashioned electric organ.

Dave Jefferson was an inventive, propulsive drummer, and Los Angeles guitarist Hank Barrios did exceptionally well as a stand-in for King’s usual backup guitarist, even though his stage bearing was as stiff and formal as a maitre d’s. King gave Barrios plenty of leeway to solo, and he responded with playing that was dexterous, meaty and varied.

Will Brady and Jodi Siegel, an Orange County electric-blues guitar duo, opened with a rich, rocking, attention-grabbing set augmented by the steady bass work of Bonnie Raitt’s old partner, Freebo, who was moonlighting from his regular gig with John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers.

The bassist’s curly-crowned presence was hardly the only reminder of Raitt. Siegel showed that she is in Raitt’s league as a slide guitarist, churning out pumping rhythms and solos that were wonderfully raucous but also beautifully crafted. She also displayed a first-rate vocal talent. While warmth is Raitt’s forte, Siegel went for urgency. When she sang the Robert Johnson chestnut, “Sweet Home Chicago,” it sounded as if her life would be at stake if she didn’t hop the next train for Illinois. It made the moldiest blues fresh again.

Brady was no slouch either, singing with an earthy drawl and igniting the audience with darting solos. While they avoided the deeper, quieter reaches of the blues, Brady and Siegel brought fresh energy to Delta-style standards and showed a knack for more contemporary, rock and R&B; material that recalled the likes of Chuck Berry and Bob Seger.