Live Show Log, December 2016

12 2 16 Megan Dooley #4/CARRIE McFERRIN/DARCY WILKIN Webster’s, Kalamazoo I wasn’t initially going to go to this, thinking Dooley didn’t need a stalker, but she gently reminded me that she plays so people can hear, so I went. Very glad I did, because despite general crowd disinterest in this hotel-steakhouse back barroom setting, this was a novel way to see three artists who know and like each other to play “in the round,” that is, taking turns and collaborating rather than each doing a set. Carrie McFerrin looks like my cousins. She is a very nice suburban mom. So no one sees her coming. She sings like her life depends on it, like she is exorcising her demons lest they infect her and her loved ones. All three women played some nice covers, but the originals are what made me sit up straight, and Carrie’s are wrenchingly personal to the point where I sometimes had trouble watching her while she sang. When A Gun Goes Off is so harrowing she broke down a bit, clipping the ending (she cry-laughed to Dooley, “I lost ma shit!”) Gypsy Queen is one of the horniest things I’ve ever heard, a howling cry of aching need that seemed to pass right over the drinkers’ heads. And, killer cover of Neutral Milk Hotel!! This was my fourth Dooley show, and she seems to instinctively tailor her appearance and demeanor to each (wildly different) venue she plays while still remaining true to herself. This was Slightly Subdued Dooley, possibly aided by the theft of her kazoo and foot-tambourine last week. I was especially glad to hear Fall, a song she wrote for her father and rarely performs, a lovely tune. Darcy Wilkin is frickin’ amazing. I talked about that fine line between alt-country and Radio Sucktown; she knows right where it is and stays firmly in her lane. A relaxed, world-weary but not defeated voice, a lived-in sound, like John Prine or Townes Van Zandt. The world hasn’t made much room for female versions of those guys, so it’s about time it did. She very kindly gave me a copy of the CD from her band, the Corn Fed Girls. There is some nice music, but it’s her two songs that I went back to over and over. Need More Of This. I was wildly out of place here, in my giant-sock-monkey-attacking-Empire-State T shirt paying $42 for a Caesar salad and two cocktails, but the music is the point, and here tonight it was ON point. http://carriemcferrin.com/  https://twitter.com/darcywilkin

12 3 16 GLITTER AND DOOM: A TOM WAITS TRIBUTE NIGHT (Olivia Mainville & The Aquatic Troupe, Mike List, Deep Fried Pickle Project, Jessica In The Rainbow, Libby DeCamp, Nate Harttmann, Chris Newman Band, Chris Miroslaw, Mark Duval, Megan Dooley, Jack And The Bear, Brenden Mann) Bell’s, Kalamazoo I waited too long to write this; it’s been six days and details are fading. This show was organized and staged by Dooley; there was a tintype photobooth ($60 or I woulda tried it), Waits-inspired props she grabbed from the junkyard, a “strange instrument petting zoo,” and gift bags containing whistles, bubbles, and tiny little aborted fetus things. Twelve acts, five hours of music, all Waits covers. A great idea for a casual Waits listener like me, since his voice is not up to the task of his own magnificent songs most of the time. (I do like later, weirder Waits.) Most of the people there were not casual fans though, these were the hardcore cool of the Michigan scene and I so did not belong there. The beards were long, the threads were groovy, and the hats were everywhere. But, music is the reason, so I plunked my butt on my high stool and took in every note. Dooley was vibrating with happiness that she pulled this show off virtually hitchless, I know that much. Transcribed from my notes, because apparently I take notes during shows now: Olivia Mainville kicked the night off, adapting Waits into her gypsy sound with added slinky saxy menace. Mike List played lap steel and shared the Waits trait of having a voice that has seen all of life, the sun and the dirt nap. Stole all the best covers too. Deep Fried Pickle Project is like the Stephen King version of the Scottville Clown Band, having more fun that strictly recommended by a physician. In a ZZ Topish irony, the one skinny beardless guy had the deepest, gruffest voice. Filipino Box Spring Hog was a highlight for me, complete with squeaking rubber pigs; beware the cymbal helmet! Also the percussion stick resembling a giant Bopit. Jessica In The Rainbow: Tom Waif? I remember being both pissed at people talking during her set and jealous that they had people to talk to. Libby DeCamp: ginger witch banjo goddess. Murder In The Red Barn was another musical highlight. This maybe isn’t the best place for someone who doesn’t like to be jostled. Nate Harttmann I liked because frankly his voice isn’t much better than mine, giving me the aspirations again. But, he can play several instruments and I can’t even play pinochle. Spoken word interlude with Robert English? I think was his name? What’s he building in there? With random percussive accompaniment. My favorite single bit of the night. The whole show had the kind of grimy sheen that attracts rather than repels. Chris Newman Band: Step right up. Chris Miroslaw: the mic distortion he dealt with merely added to the Waitsian ambiance. Mark Duval was gritty and authentic. There were sure a lot of weird little dudes there with absurdly attractive women. It was getting late and the crowd was thinning by the time Dooley herself played. Blue Valentines was very nice. Jack and The Bear was the discovery of the evening for me: amiable menace, tight control that sounds like falling down the stairs. Like Gogol Bordello with 90% of the asshole drained out. Took days, but I finally figured out who the singer looks like: spitting image of Bradley Whitford. Josh Lyman on baritone sax! Big finale: damn near everyone on stage, with a gentleman named Branden Mann singing Chocolate Jesus. Epic. Dooley used my picture! For a while. That was nifty.

 

12 9 16 Olivia Mainville (sans Troupe) #6 Tripelroot, Zeeland A last minute substitution for Delilah DeWylde, who had a sick husband/guitarist. It is beyond surreal to be seeing live music in Zeeland (!) in a brewpub (!!!) . When I was a kid, the only music in town was churchy, little kid singalonga, or guys in straw boaters hailing those lazy hazy crazy days of summer. Times change, even here. Tripelroot is in the old Ottawa Savings and Loan, which was Florsheim Shoes when Mom was a kid. The old bank drive-thru is now an outdoor deck. Except for Carlton, who I was pleased to meet here again, the patrons were vaguely discomfited by the girl singing in the corner, though they did pause quaffing to applaud now and then. I had never seen Olivia perform alone, and it was very interesting to hear her songs stripped so far down. I kept singing the horn parts in my head, and occasionally aloud... This is a pretty small space, and she did no crowd patter at all, just going from song to song. Taking pleasure in the playing. I did leave early to spend some time watching TV with my mom; I spent almost every Saturday night over there with her for over a year watching Stargate, and she’s been feeling a bit abandoned since I started going to so many shows. We started the new Gilmore Girls, yay!

12 10 16 MAY ERLEWINE Founders, Grand Rapids I have an older CD of hers; it’s nice, rootsy, slightly twangy, and it does not come close to representing the sound she has now, on her Little Things tour. She’s left her folkier roots behind for a happier, swingier, soulful sound. She was clearly grooving on the high proficiency of her crackerjack band. Special honors to the smoking organ and the masterful trumpet. May seems somehow both patiently kind and undeniably sexy, the Dolly Parton paradox, though Ms. Erlewine is more elegant than cheerfully brash. This show was billed as a dance party and if I could dance I woulda; the country-fried swing-soul proved dance music didn’t have to be an electronic squall like my cousin was attending down the block at the Intersection. Most of the originals were new and thus new to me; the covers were reassuring classics, like Cry To Me, Lean On Me, Stand By Me. There was an unapologetically political theme to the night (Mr. Big Stuff was dedicated to Cheeto Mussolini), with a proposal for women to run things at last, and for strong men to support them. The overall theme of the show was that the holidays can be blue; some are uncomfortable, some are grieving, some are angry, and this show and this music are a safe place for all to gather and find a smile. Time to find some new traditions, and let go of old ones that don’t empower or support others. There were a few people in the crowd who did not want to hear such liberal twaddle--an attempt at a moment of silence for Standing Rock failed pretty hard--but for those of us crushed by this horrible year, her message was more than welcome. After the show was over, I made a gigantic ass of myself, and my cheeks still burn when I think of the stupid thing I said to a wonderful person, but I am not gonna tell that story. Just leaving this note here to remind myself to always think before I speak, and always come down on the side of kindness. mayerlewine.com/

12 17 16 Crane Wives #14/MORGAN HANER AND THE TRANSMITTERS  Founders, Grand Rapids I’m running out of superlatives for this band. There’s no such thing as “just another Wives show,” but I don’t have the power of description to differentiate one awesome show from another awesome show. Plus, I waited too long to write this. These are talented, friendly, and kind people who make songs that I want to hear over and over and over. Carlton was my show buddy again. I had a really tasty tuna melt. A knot of people in front of me would not stop talking; found out later they were friends of the band, and maybe familiarity breeds indifference for some. Not me, go talk somewhere else dudes. There was a new song, with less folk influence audible than ever: new direction? Big yay for a rare outing of October. Pretty Little Things was great. The Garden was reliably apocalyptic. Emilee enumerates my fears, and Kate channels my doubts, and yet somehow the music is not unremittingly sad. Encore: everyone knows you’re not gonna get out of here till ya play Sleeping Giants, kids. Good crowd for Founders, mostly there to see the band and not just quaff. (Terry Pratchett on quaffing: “a form of social drinking where most of the ale misses the mouth, and the tankard is used not so much as a vessel to drink from, but as something handy to conduct the singing.”) Opening was Morgan Haner, an Illinois transplant who looks like Steve Zahn and sounds like a happier Robbie Fulks. 

12 23 16 Christmas Eve Eve with Megan Dooley and Friends Old Dog Tavern, Kalamazoo I still don’t know if I should have gone or not. I’m making friends with these folks, but I’m not A friend, so I was feeling very divorced. Despite her atheism my wife was always nuts about Christmas and its attendant rituals; attending a show that was almost nothing but Christmas music was maybe not the best idea in the history of ideas. One fellow on accordion, Matt Milcarek, changed Dooley’s “Too Many Times” into a Christmas anthem: “He’s checkin’ with Jesus and General Grievous to find who’s naughty or nice.” Mike List was great, and soul crushingly depressing. My evening was saved by three women: Dooley, who thanked me for my random gift of cat food with a rose, first flower from a pretty girl in many years; Darcy Wilkin, who is making me believe in the power and the glory of Emmett Otter; and Carrie McFerrin, who skirted the evening’s theme and played her own great songs with the flimsiest of pretense, then capped it with “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)”, with her family on backing vocals. Abe Savas’ “Christmas at Gound Zero” tipped the scales firmly in favor of Totally Worth The Slushy Drive Home.

12 31 16 SETH BERNARD/Crane Wives #15/Vox Vidorra #5/THE GO ROUNDS Wealthy Theatre, Grand Rapids What a difference a year makes, and also things don’t really change. The Year Of Going Out has brought me a lot of wonderful music, and acquainted me with a lot of the great musicians who make it, especially The Women of Kalamazoo. But I was still alone in the front row, at the mercy of assholes. Seth Bernard was someone I had a distinct impression of: Earthwork Harvest, acoustic hippie harmonies, husband to May Erlewine, inoffensive folk. Well, dude has discovered that his knob goes to 11. Very reminiscent of when Chris Whitley went weird. Folk melodies at the bottom, worthy hippie sentiments, but more Neil Young now than Jackson Browne. I was surprised to learn the folkiest song of the night was actually a new one. Superb. Harrison’s All Things Must Pass was like a ray of sunshine. The Crane Wives were on top of their game, leaning toward the zippier end of their repertoire for the holiday show. Emilee’s man tailored suit was on point, as the kids say. New song, High Horse, sounded great. Vox Vidorra: holy crap, clear winners of the non-contest. (Far from a contest: there was was much collaboration between the acts all night.) I don’t know why a Tina Turner comparison never occurred to me before, possibly because I admire her more than actually enjoy her music, but Molly was a stage-stalking, skirt-bead-shaking force of nature. First time seeing them in such a large venue and by God did they make the most of it. They played two covers, one old song, and zero songs from the album they’re selling, and the crowd roared for more: never experienced anything like that even with a national act. So many exciting new songs coming down the pike. And the cover of Fame almost lifted the actual roof off the sucker. I was coming in completely blind to the Go Rounds, and they made a believer out of me: knotty, complex, spacey yet funky, danceable math rock. Weirdest music I’ve ever seen a crowd dance to enthusiastically. Graham Parsons is a skinny little fellow with a buck tooth grin you wouldn’t look at twice in Wal Mart, but when his voice started swooping and sighing along with his fiery guitar, even *I* wanted to have sex with him a little tiny bit. And then, after midnight (saved from no kiss by a drunken stranger in the second row), the all star jam. Molly Bouwsma Schultz wailing Harry Nilsson’s Jump Into The Fire was the cleansing primal scream we didn’t know we needed. The Go Rounds proved they can do simple with great effect too with Little Bitty Pretty One, with Kate and Emilee backing him up. No one can stay grumpy while that song is on, it’s just physiologically impossible. To sum up, musically an incredible night, top five of all time for sure. Personally....argh. Alone again and painfully aware of it now that divorce is finally starting to be in my rearview mirror. And the talkers. Jesus H. Christ, this was a theater, not Founders at Happy Hour, could your loud conversations maybe wait till after the amazing music is not coming at your heads? This one guy....I came so close to getting myself ejected. While Seth Bernard was speaking about the power of collaboration and the importance of community, this fucker was mocking him at high volume, ten feet away. And then he made some racially tinged digs at Molly! I mean, what the fuck kind of twatwaddle does this? Sigh. Apparently the kind very close to the musicians. If you’ve heard these songs a hundred times, for some people it must become background music. I just wish they had more respect for those of us who want to hear them a hundred more. Went to Grand Coney for a pulled pork hot dog and shepherd’s pie. I will still call the night a win. Thank you for this year, The Crane Wives, Vox Vidorra, Olivia Mainville & The Aquatic Troupe and Megan Dooley primarily, and many others as well. Let’s try to make 2017 suck just a little bit less than the Hunger Games we’re about to descend into will make it seem to.  Crane Wives on Local Spins  samuelsethbernard.com/  https://www.thegorounds.com/