Groováge by Richard Malcolm on Saturday, July 7, 2012 at 2:38am · It started out at polite volume. Problem was, I was parked outside of a Gold Street club that had some jive canned music streaming out and I was stuck there for awhile after midnight, between pedestrians wobbling on their heels and cops shining flashlights at me. So I turned it up to drown out the jive, which is when it came more alive. And it came even more alive when I got to cruising speed, with the windows open on a summer night after a rain, and the velvet air mixing with the velvet sound. Next problem: police sirens firing up from three directions and howling down a nearly-deserted Lomas Boulevard. No problem: The volume has some headroom left, and the breeze coming in the sunroof tells me to use it. Then, out of the darkness, a dozen or more motorcycles roaring and winding. Volume knob is still working, and the highs (mostly voices and strings) soar over the rumble, which is soon just some taillights in the mirror. Now the groove is loud, rolling down empty streets, singing with the night air, and the bass comes back into its own. Now it's sweet: the details come out to play, and they play well together. Now the funk is driving, and the universe feels back in alignment. Now the familiarities emerge: is that Michael Herndon's voice? Who's playing that horn? Could it be Paul Gonzales? And that's gotta be Dimi DiSanti, with the cleanest damn dirty guitar I've ever heard. And Chris Dracup slipping slyly out of his zone, still bringing it home. Daniel Ward? 'Zat you? Some Sina? I'd expect no less. Shades of the Boz Man, righteously reconfigured. And through it all, maestro Rodney Bowe, pulling the strings that make this thing fly, and bringing his voice in more ways than one. The groove is not exactly without mercy, because it feels so good, but let's just say it doesn't back down. Maybe that's why Rodney called it Groováge, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, he walked into Scalo the other night with a couple of discs in hand, and I had to have one. But here's my problem: I have an inclination toward flesh-and-blood musicians making sounds with wood and metal and air. Would it hurt to clap some actual hands? Oh, I know . . . it's good to own the groove, and I love tools and toys as much as the next guy, and I respect the mastery of orchestrated electrons, but . . . were all the good drummers booked? (I know . . . it's hard to do the good ones justice in a studio this side of a million bucks.) But here's my other problem: I get lost in it and I can't stop. The myriad of sounds: fresh, cliche-free, classic and contemporary . . . they pull me in and I forget that some of it came out of a machine. Ultimately, the cats working this thing cover a multitude of synth. This is a problem I can live with. Groováge brings the vibe of all-nighters in the studio, the sound of headphones stuck to your ears so long you don't know whether it's day or night. It feels distilled across some time: you can hear the changing of seasons and the phases of the moon, way back in the mix. This thing is polished to a fine luster, long and lovingly and thoughtfully. It sounds like the vision of a man with funk in his soul and love in his heart. And maybe that's why I can't turn it off.