When Roots Are the Hoot

Chuck Berry’s witty, ever-engaging songbook is in no danger of going stale, but his headlining set Saturday at the Hootenanny ’97 Festival included an apt updating of “Rock ‘n’ Roll Music.”

“Some people said rock ‘n’ roll would fade / It’s been 40 years since that remark was made,” Berry sang.

More than any of the bigger, more ballyhooed summer fests, the modest, folksy Hootenanny is a reminder of why rock ‘n’ roll has been worth preserving. In its third year at Oak Canyon Ranch, a rustic and, on Saturday, almost oppressively sunbaked patch of private Orange County parkland, Hootenanny once more showed that it is a hoot to bring together rockers old, young and in-between to celebrate rock ‘n’ roll’s heritage--the origins together with the tradition-honoring branches that have sprung from the roots.

The vibe at Hootenanny III was perfect. The dance-happy audience, a near-capacity house of 3,000-plus, was full of high energy and good spirits despite the heat; the crowd was a rare panoply of ages and subcultures. Most were in their 20s, but there were little kids, baby boomers and some folks who probably were dancing to Chuck Berry back when the scoffers said it couldn’t last.

With men sporting lots of retro pompadours and spiky punk ‘dos, the spirits of ’57 and ’77 were hovering over Hootenanny ‘97, and the hair-grease merchants had to be loving it. Vintage custom cars ringed the premises; many women came as sweethearts of the rodeo or queens of the hop, but you didn’t have to look far for punkdom’s piercings and tattoos.

This nicely meshed diversity flowed from the music, which poured forth nonstop from three stages. The 18 bands ranged from raw, storming, punk-fueled but roots-conscious acts--Supersuckers, Tenderloin and Los Infernos--to the straight traditionalism of such second-generation rockabilly, country, blues or big-band swing inheritors as Lee Rocker, Robert Gordon, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, James Intveld and the Paladins.

Self-professed Texas “hillbilly” Steve Earle performed solo and, along with Berry, reminded us that no pop tradition can flourish without those essential nutrients: lyrics that capture vibrant, telling slices of life and tunes that give the words staying power.

Unlike the bigger festivals, there was no tinge of musicians going for the big score, or fans showing up just because they wanted to be in on a big event and not miss the next big thing. Nobody plays roots music unless it’s under their skin, and few people come to a roots-music show unless they’re devotees. It added up to a festival as pure and refreshing as a mountain stream, no matter how parched the day.

Berry, who is 70 or 71, depending on which source you go by, started his set with “Roll Over Beethoven.” It cranked so mightily that, if you closed your eyes, you would have thought it was Keith Richards giving his juiced-up variation on the thinner, more twangy original Berry guitar style.

Next came a fine “School Day,” and it seemed Berry might just deliver us to the days of old in a total, clock-rewinding triumph--in stark contrast to Jerry Lee Lewis’ distracted, diffuse performance last year in the founder’s slot at Hootenanny.

But “Sweet Little Sixteen” was discombobulated--proof once more that Berry has made a huge mistake with his shortsighted, cheapskate policy of using local pickup talent instead of hiring a real band. It wasn’t the fault of the backing trio, which included the rhythm section of San Diego rockabilly band Hot Rod Lincoln, but Berry’s idiosyncratic stops, starts and attempts at fine-tuning the accompaniment took away all the gumption his day laborers had shown at the start. And yes, God help us, he played not only “My Ding-A-Ling,” but a wan country waltz that shared the same anatomical fixation.

It took the day’s only duck walk to get the music flying again, during the penultimate number, “Johnny B. Goode.” The crowd went bonkers, Berry and his musicians were energized, and they flew through a grand, concluding “Reelin’ and Rockin’ ” in which Berry sang amid a horde of dancers he’d summoned from the audience--the master with his worshipful boogie children.

It was an all’s-well-that-ends-well conclusion to a mixed-bag set. While Berry was prone to half-speak his vocals, he remains richly and rightfully engaged and amused by his songs’ wonderful stories and wordplay.

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If Berry’s catalog is the bible on how to write great rock ‘n’ roll songs teeming with the humor, frustration and rich eventfulness of life, Earle’s songbook makes him a modern saint of the genre.

His solo acoustic set, delivered with a scruffy burr that had a bit of Dylan in it, was fueled by the pride of a man who knows he has written first-class stuff and is damn well going to give his utmost to honor the achievement.

Whether singing the intimate lover’s confession of “Valentine’s Day,” the muscular gunslinger yarn “Devil’s Right Hand” or a couple of socially tinged new songs from an album due in October, Earle lived up to his high bardic standards.

Earle returned for a guest slot with the Supersuckers, helping the over-amped Seattle band get a semblance of a restraining grip on itself for a moment with a cover of the Stones/Keith Richards nugget “Before They Make Me Run.”

The Supersuckers’ love of hell-bent rock is endearing to a point, and they do thunder and crank. But live they trample all over the song-craft that’s a highlight of their records. They need to find a better balance. They ignored their strong new album, an uncharacteristically mellow, country-inspired, Wilco-ish effort called “Must’ve Been High.” If you can’t play country music at the Hootenanny, when can you?

Los Infernos and Tenderloin had good moments that were both catchy and hell-bent, but they have one-dimensional singers and limited appeal beyond their sweaty hell-raising.

It was a good day for roots classicists. Robert Gordon, who pioneered rockabilly revivalism in the late ‘70s, impressed with his deep, smooth voice while covering Elvis and Eddie Cochran, among others. His pickup local backing band, the Sun Demons, was tight and effective.

But a hint of antiquarianism entered the picture on “Summertime Blues.” Gordon, the only deeply traditional act not from Southern California, seemed to be preserving the song, rather than bringing the story to life again. On the other hand, “My Girl Is Red Hot” had all the fiery immediacy you could ask for.

The news about Lee Rocker, the former Stray Cats bassist-turned-bandleader, is the marked leap in his command as a singer, evident both onstage and on his new, import-only album, “No Cats.”

Joe Wood, the veteran hard rocker who fronted T.S.O.L., is singing traditional blues now with Big Deluxe, and his piercing, husky, bigger-than-life voice and storyteller’s sensibility shape up as tremendous assets for a blues man.

Russell Scott, he of the marvelous, creamy voice that sounds like a young McCartney who decided to stick with rockabilly and R&B;, struggled with hoarseness but impressed with stylistic versatility.

The Paladins carried on in the trenchant, brawny blues style of Stevie Ray Vaughan; although guitarist Dave Gonzalez doesn’t dazzle like Stevie Ray--an unfair standard--he does sizzle with the best of them. “15 Days Under the Hood” was the Paladins’ affectionate ode to all the clutch-heads responsible for the impressive array of vintage, custom cars ringing the Hootenanny grounds.

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, the retro swing band from Ventura, helped kindle a fair share of the day’s high spirits. It was nice to hear a crack, four-man horn section power a band, in contrast to the rote riffing and comic relief that typically pass for horn playing in the overexpanded ska-punk genre.

O.C.’s Jimmy Camp again showed himself a promising arrival in the line of roots-rock songwriters--he’s working some of the same earthy, highly melodic turf as Earle and Graham Parker. James Intveld again showed himself a hidden ace as a country songwriter; he played his unheralded classic, “Cryin’ Over You,” back-to-back with a cover of “Folsom Prison Blues,” and it stood up perfectly.

The Rugburns, from San Diego, were the odd band out--not a roots act at all, but a satiric pop band that’s usually clever and cynical to a fault. They didn’t need to be at the Hootenanny; they needed to be in Oz, asking the Wizard for the heart that’s lacking in most everything they do.