Published on Mar 24, 1999
C.J. Hutchins may just be the F.P. Santangelo of blues-folk.
Now that you’re officially asking “What the hell is he talking
about?” allow me to explain. Most musical artists tend to find a
basic groove and stay in it. Whether it’s guitar pop, hip-hop,
country-rock, blues-rock, whatever, once they choose a path, they
tend to stick with it. They may stray occasionally with a song here
or an album there (alt-rockers Gin Blossoms cut a couple of great
country tunes in their time, not to mention Eric Clapton and
company doing all those “unplugged” one-shots). But these ventures
tend to stick out from the rest of an album or catalog of work;
whether they’re well-done or not, they’re bound to be
conspicuous.
What singer-songwriter C.J. Hutchins achieves on this debut
album — produced and arranged by his friend, guitar legend Ronnie
Montrose — is to demonstrate that his storytelling skills defy
labeling. This album contains folk, blues, rock and a hint of
country, in both acoustic and electric formulations, all on the
same disc. And while rookie jitters show up here and there with
some of his vocals, overall Hutchins’ performance comes off as that
of a wiley veteran whose essential class and heart shine through in
whatever genre he touches.
The disc opens with Hutchins’ sweet acoustic picking leading
into “Face In The Mirror.” This gentle, contemplative tune shows
off Hutchins’ delicate falsetto and a taste of the Moody
Blues/mystical renaissance flavor shared by “Mirror” and the next
song, “Cannonball.” It’s an indescribably airy feel, as if these
tracks had been recorded in an ancient English castle. “Cannonball”
again features wonderful low-key guitar work by Hutchins, as well
as very complementary harmony vocals from drummer/percussionist
Michele Montrose.
The first major stylistic shift on the disc comes with
“Cross-Leg,” a light- hearted little roadhouse boogie number (“I
don’t mind if my chances / are no bigger than a splinter / And I
don’t mind if you / keep me hungry all winter”) embellished by
Ronnie Montrose’s rhythm guitar.
The stylistic trifecta comes when Hutchins then segues straight
into the lounge shuffle “Baby, We’re Through,” which sounds like a
lost Tony Bennett out-take. Funny thing is, Hutchins nails the
vocal and you’re left wondering whether this folk-blues artist’s
true calling might be buying a tux and playing Vegas (which, come
to think of it, the Moody Blues have done). Later in the album,
“Hello Friend” has the same slick blue-eyed soul flavor.
After a couple of more acoustic numbers — including the
country-esque “A Man Like Me” — it’s back to the blues with a
vengeance. In addition to one of the best lyrics on the disc, “Rock
Me To Sleep” features Montrose on lead guitar, this time laying
down some sweet blues licks, punctuating Hutchins’ vocals on the
choruses and taking a pair of restrained but nonetheless stinging
solos. The title tune takes the blues flavor to the next level,
adding a rock arrangement and harder-edged guitars, as the
harmonies by Alex Ligertwood (Santana) add a dynamic depth to
Hutchins’ vocals on the choruses.
Next up? A gentle acoustic number with more of Hutchins’s sweet
falsetto vocals (“Here We Are”). The only real pattern here — and
through the rest of the 13-track disc — is that there isn’t one.
Hutchins throws anything and everything he’s got at you all it
once, with some hits, some misses, and some in-betweens with the
potential to grow on you.
And that’s about it — wait. What’s that you say? I still
haven’t told you who the hell F.P. Santangelo is? Well, then:
Santangelo is the multi-talented veteran utility-man my beloved San
Francisco Giants signed as a free agent this spring. He’s about
four inches shorter than your average baseball player and has
struggled to hang onto a starting job during his three years in the
majors. But he plays six positions — none of them at all-star
level, all of them solidly well — and when fans get the chance to
see his hard-nosed, dedicated, heart-on-his sleeve approach to the
game, they inevitably give the guy a hand.
F.P. and C.J. Coincidence? I don’t think so.