Twenty years ago, a Boston music reviewer described Rick Carroll’s “superior guitar work” as “breathing fire” into what was a decidedly original take on the classic 3-piece, power-pop blues offering; tossing in phrases like “rip it up” and “a helluva ride”  to make it clear that his wasn’t just another bland, paint-by-numbers suburban “blooze” band. And, to be honest, that reviewer was riding the brakes as he steered his way through that piece. Slamming the Boston blues scene with 100 watt Marshalls and a jarring irreverence that adverbs and adjectives aren’t equipped to describe, when Rick Carroll suddenly spun off to pursue other interests and other regions, he left Boston’s blues purists stunned; unsure of how to describe the net impact of his turbulent tenure.

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“I just got tired of playing to eyeball whites and uvulas,” quips Carroll, when asked about it all. “Yeah, it was loud and it was violent, but blues is the devil’s music . . . right? It ain’t supposed to soothe you. It’s supposed to jack you up. I never understood the controversy.”

 

With two decades of life, loss, and hard-earned wisdom in the rear view mirror, you’d think that things would’ve shifted somewhat for the man; that the “jagged” edges of his “powerful guitar engine” would be showing signs of temperance, or at least an acknowledgement of the impact of his having taken those twenty years and devoted them to other creative pursuits.

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“I never stopped playing,” he says. “Writing, even long form . . . books and such . . . that’s not an all day sort of effort. After work, I would still close off in my studio and let it rip. I never pulled back on my music. I just didn’t bother anyone else with it. For me, playing, singing, writing songs never stopped being vital and fresh.”

 

So now, after nearly twenty years, six books, and more life tumbled out behind him than anyone should reasonably expect, Rick Carroll’s come back to the blues. Not exactly hat-in-hand, but perhaps with a realistic view of where and how he might fit within what’s become of the music that’s provided his life with its emotional, visceral foundation; its contextual landscape

 

“I feel like the Prodigal Son,” he laughs. “Like the old man might still be happy to see me back again, even if the other kids are pissed about what a sap he’s being. I don’t know. I guess we’ll see how it goes.”

 

To that end, Carroll isn’t making any big or consequential moves.

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“I’m playing with the machines I put together when I built my studio. It actually sounds pretty damn good, and not a one of them gives me any grief about taking an extended solo now and then. Maybe if the act catches on I’ll go looking for players. Like I said, we’ll see how it goes.”

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With that, he laughs and shuts down the interview.

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Rick Carroll’s blues are still powerful. They’re still unconventional. Still unsettling. That said, they’re definitely blues, even if they’re the personal, distinctive blues of a very singular bluesman. As another Boston music reviewer stated, “these blues aren’t going to soothe you, so you might as well turn it up to eleven . . .”

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I suppose that even after so many years away, that’s still as valid a way of defining this prodigal son’s blues as any.