[Date Prev][Date Next][Thread Prev][Thread Next][Date Index][Thread Index]
This is quite possibly the longest review ever. Grab some popcorn.
Well, it's been over a week, and I'm finally posting my review of the May
18th Over the Rhine show at the Theatre of the Living Arts in Philly.
I've been a bit busy in the interim, and I'm now on vacation in Santa Fe,
New Mexico. But I brought my laptop and vowed to finish this damn review
while I'm here. See the things I do for you? No, no-- don't worry. I'm
used to the sacrifices.
Oh, man, this is gonna be hard. And extensive.
See, every time I read one of those thankfully rare posts about how "Over
the Rhine is better than my Mom!" I just cringe. I'll admit freely to my
days of "John Taylor is my personal deity, dammit!" but to me that always
seemed to be missing the point in any discussion about music. I can't
listen to JT's cheekbones. I mean, good G-d, I can stare at them all day,
but they're unimportant in terms of the way he handles a bass. So seeing
a review about how great and wonderful and gushy OtR is but that doesn't
say anything about the musicality of the performance just confuses me.
But last night...well...golly, they're gushingly good. Oh, boy howdy,
they're good. And last night of all nights, I personally have reason to
just get silly.
I knew the night was going to begin well when I realised that despite not
having the Pointy Boots of No Forgiveness, the boots I was wearing had
earned themselves a name: the Unsubtle Footwear of Suggested Compliance.
Y'all'll know when you see 'em. And I mean, when you start an evening
that way, you know it's gonna be fun.
So I showed up on a slightly cool, overcast evening, after being early
all day, yet still managing to arrive late. I did manage to get the main
chunk of a major corset alteration done, so this was mostly good. But I'd
hoped to arrive at 7.15 at the latest. I am sure Mr. Armstrong, whom I
found peering hopefully up the street outside the TLA, also wished I'd
shown up a bit earlier, seeing as how I had his ticket, and he, after
having arrived at 5.30, had been forced to forage for sustenance on South
Street. Regrettably, he discovered Auntie Ann's Pretzels in Philly are a
vastly inferior yet paradoxically more expensive creature than their
Lancaster cousins.
We stood outside for a while, waiting for Sophie and Michael, whom you
might remember from my December Tin Angel review. Once again, they'd
agreed to come along for the ride. Once again, work made Sophie late. So
we stood under the canopy of urban trees, watching the evening changing
of the guard, from daytime strollers to nighttime alternateens and
hip-hoppers. Paul from Willard Grant Conspiracy came out to chat a while
and make sure David's ticket actually arrived, which was awfully sweet of
him, despite increasing my guilt content for an alarmingly wild, albeit
brief, moment.
Eventually, the rest of our party appeared, Sophie already in full spate
of complaints against work, which would be annoying in a lesser human,
but in Sophie's delightful French accent are somehow entertaining. (We
work for different branches of the same store, so she can complain all
day to me and I'll just nod and agree wholeheartedly.) We had a brief
moment of fear when the exceedingly bored ticket-booth femme refused to
give Sophie her tickets, despite the fact that I'd handed them over not
ten minutes before, since it was now 8.30 and David and I had decided to
go in. Sophie began hunting for ID she knew she didn't have, and I
actually had to wave to get the girl's attention, since I believe her
fingernails were vastly more important to her at that moment. The light
went on a fraction of a second later, and she surrendered the precious
papers. Quick, before she changes her mind....
We met the fabulous Jason (nrg-boy) a few moments later, and discovered
we had the neato-est-keenest seats in the place-- right in front, from
Jack's mic over to Karin's, and the foot of Linford's keys. Dave, I'm
going to have to teach you how to do the Happy Dance; it would have
served you quite well in that monent. Directly in front of Karin. Y'all
can worship me now. Go right ahead. We also discovered we were in prime
location to be OtR's personal Hell's Angels, but we'll get to that later.
Willard Grant Conspiracy was interesting. I exchanged a tiny wave with
Paul, and then sat back to listen.
The songwriting was solid and visual, and well-done. But I think the key
to why I enjoyed them but didn't buy a CD is that they're a TWENTY-SIX
PIECE BAND and we only saw TWO. I feel like I heard a fraction of a song,
like I heard ghosts. I got an impression of what they must sound like in
full spate, but I was missing something I'd never heard. The gentleman
who sang, however, had a great sense of humour-- very dry and insightful.
So we did enjoy them, and I'd like to be able to hear what they sound
like with the rest of 'em in effect.
I decided in between sets that, y'know, I'm darn hungry, and I'm even
willing to pay the vastly inflated prices they're going to gouge out of
me in the lobby for some noshes. They have a great scam going. They order
a pizza from one of the many great pizza places on South Street. ("So we
went to the Philly Pizza Company/And ordered some hot tea/The waitress
said, "Well, no, we only have it iced."/So we jumped up on a table/And
shouted 'Anarchy!'" Name that tune, y'all) They probably pay about $10
for it. They get about 10 slices out of it, and charge $2.50 a slice.
"Er...how much?" "2.50," she snapped. "Okay, well, how much for a Pepsi?"
She visibly stifled the urge to leap over the counter and snap my head
off my shoulders and merely grunted, "$2." Chastened, I handed over a
five for my admittedly good pizza, and stunted Pepsi which actually
tasted more like birch beer, not that I was going to say anything. Cos a
minute later, as I chatted with Jason, I realised that she'd handed me
$1.50 in change. When I chirpily pointed this out and went to hand her a
dollar, a demonic red glare rose in her eyes, crimson fur sprouted all
over her body, she grew to three times her normal size, and swung her
horns at me, mouth frothing as she roared, "WhatEVER, my mistake. Just,
like, keep it." And slammed the register drawer shut.
Blink.
So anyway, back at my seat, it was pretty much cocktail hour as we stood
in the pit area in front of all the seats and chatted amongst ourselves.
It was a mostly casual crowd, in cotton and jeans, long hair or no hair,
and wire-rimmed glasses. So yours truly, in black velvet and fishnets,
stood out like a sore-- well, sartorially unique thumb. I briefly
accosted Jack in the aisle, since I had a package to deliver to him, and
I'm sure that when I stopped dead in the middle of the aisle, pointed at
him and said, "You!" his first instinctive thought was going to be,
"Damn. Marilyn Manson's kid sister at an OtR show. These crazy
Americans!"
Anyway, there must have been some pheromone in the air that made us sit
all at once, because no sooner had we done so than the lights dimmed, a
cheer when up, and Jack, followed by the rest of the band, wound his way
through the equipment maze to perch directly in front of me. It was then
we noticed that one guy somehow hadn't gotten the message and was still
leaning casually against the stage, beer in hand, gazing up at Karin with
undisguised...er...admiration. We all looked at him rather nervously, but
with the full realisation that we could all prolly take him. If nothing
else, I could hamstring him with the UFoSC. I mean, what else are they
for, right? But eventually, he subsided, and we were all able to enjoy
the show.
They opened with The World Can Wait, and went straight into If Nothing
Else. And I don't mean they began, I mean they TORE into them. Now, I've
seen OtR maybe a dozen times, and I was just stunned. By the time they
were halfway into the second song, I realised they were wound so tight
and playing so loosely (this is a good thing) that they were at "finale"
intensity and they'd only just started. It was incredibly loud for
someone used to the Tin Angel, and my brain almost couldn't get around
that. But once I'd accepted it, it was all cool. It all fit. I got all
tingly-happy.
I also realised, watching Jack swing his way over, under, around and
straight through each song, that live, at least, Over the Rhine has
really added "Guitar-driven rock band" to their list of descriptions. The
first few times I saw him with the band, I didn't think he fit, quite.
But that was years ago. And now, I really think that on the more
guitar-based songs, and even on ones that, on CD, aren't, Jack has
completely re-written the whole score. This is not your Daddy's OtR.
(Apologies to all the Rhinelanders with kids!)
They then swung into a very funky version of "Faithfully Dangerous," with
Dale and Wade adding all sorts of swingy twang to it. I got a floating
vision of down-home FfR, etc. being served up with Thai peanut sauce or a
nice chutney. It was quite yummy! Have some yogurt.
Linford at this point mentioned a great little Italian place they'd found
for dinner called "Overtures," I believe, and to my shame, I have to
admit that even though this is my home town, I have no idea what he was
talking about. Of broader interest, he also said that the band had
schlepped all their gear up three flights of stairs (he said this with an
amazing lack of rancour, in my opinion) to tape a segment with WXPN's
"Live At The World Cafe." This is excellent news! Yummy live OtR on the
airwaves in broad exposure! Yay!
"Anything At All" came next, a tight, swingin' little version with Karin
on acoustic. Again, straight into "I Radio Heaven," a slightly slower,
more intense version with red floodlights all the way through it. It was
dark and smoky and hammered me over the head. I swear, by the time the
bridge came round, I almost envisioned Karin with arms raised on high,
screaming, _howling_ the words through the roof. Blow the roof off!
Awwwwww, yeah!
It was somewhere in here that our slightly dazed-looking friend with the
beer stood up, walked up to the stage, and attempted to initiate a
conversation with Karin. Aside from being the King of Bizarre Timing, I'm
not even entirely sure anyone heard what he said, although I thought I
caught the words, "first album," and some manner of entreaty. Dave could
have made two of him, however, and perhaps he felt our collective glare
through what I'm hoping was merely a grain-induced haze and not something
requiring the best of SmithKline Beecham or some nice men in soothing
pastels. It was ever-so-slightly tipping the scales of creepy. But Karin
pointedly ignored him, he subsided, we continued, and no one got hurt.
"Little Blue River/In The Garden" was, of course, a much cooler venture,
but no less intense. Karin sang it in a very clear, almost conversational
manner; Linford and Jack traded back and forth, with Linford jamming out
first on organ, grinning in a most Linfordesque way at Karin (y'all are
just too cute), then switching to electric piano, and then joined by the
rest of the boys. It was a very bluesy, rolling, well-done little trip.
Everyone looked very refreshed, then they rolled on without stopping into
"Moth." My notes here (yeah, I took notes. Sue me.) say "Saucy!" I didn't
note at the time whether I was still on the chutney thing or if I'd moved
on to a nice alfredo yet. But I love "Moth," one way or the other, so
this was all good.
Kick-ass version of "Birds." I was reminded, as I always am, how Lara and
I and Alyssa (Lara, was that her name?) were following Bru-say (it's not
as bad as he thinks) on a late-night tour of Cinci after the Emery '96
show, when he stopped in the middle of the road, got out of his car, came
back to our car, and said, "Here! Remember 'Birds'? This is Sycamore
Hill!" I remember a horrible sinking feeling at the thought of actually
biking down it, much less up.
Our next course was what the band came by consensus to call "An
aggressive wounded lullaby." Also known as "Sleep Baby Jane." Now, call
me a party-pooper, but this didn't go much of anywhere for me. I didn't
really think it had much to say. However, it was infinitely redeemed by a
one-chord segue into "Latter Days." A beautiful version thereof, with the
bridge stripped bare, then rebuilt into a very moving finish.
Heh.
So at this point, I have scrawled wildly in my notes, "This just became
my favourite show EVER." Not that I'm a melodramatic, gothy, ex-theatre
type or anything.
So Karin, idly strumming her guitar, steps up to the mic and, with a
sigh, confesses to the audience, "Well, I have to admit, I've been
holding out on you all all evening. All I have to say tonight, to
Ysobelle, is...wooty woot."
To say I was tickled eight shades of pink would be an understatement. I
think I shrieked, I know I burst out laughing, I'm told all the people
around me were staring at me as if I'd grown horns-- which I hadn't, cos
I don't sell pizza, but that's beside the point. I learned later that the
crowd had been a bit staid, and that I probably offended some
proprieties. Ha. I'm in a skirt slit up to my butt, fishnets and bondage
boots, and I've got a chain in my nose. Ooops.
So I'm bouncing in my seat like one of those little slinky-dogs (you
know, the dachsunds on wheels we had when we were kids? The ones with the
slinky where their tummies were supposed to be? WORK WITH ME HERE!) and
the band drops into a version of "My Love Is A Fever" that sounds like
they've run it through a blender and added whole chunks of nifty, plus a
dash of Lou Reed (Last time I checked, I didn't see "Take a walk on the
wild side!" in the lyrics to this one, but it fit). Not only this, I'm
broken out of a impressed reverie on Jack's stellar guitar bending by
Karin murmuring to the crowd, "Can I get a 'wooty-woot?'" I know she got
a few from me, but the rest of the assemblage just didn't get it. It's
okay-- they'll wake up one day and realised all they've missed. Poor,
wootless souls.
Now, had this been a hometown, OH crowd, I'm betting we would have had
another conga line going by this time. The band swoops to an impressive
finish with "Goodbye," and though it's a little different without Terri,
it's still just fab. To solid, respectable whooping and cheering, they
bid their adieus and leave us. I'm utterly bouncy and psyched. I'm also
hoping for a decent encore. Sure enough, after further whooping and
hollering, they return and pounce on a pounding, all-enveloping "Give Me
Strength" that makes me feel like I'm in a cuisinart with the song. I
felt almost like I was breathing it-- Dale and Wade kept up a rhythm
section that thumped rather pleasingly on the brain, and Karin just
howled, bending and attacking and totally nailing it. I almost wished
this'd been a stand-up show, cos I'm sure some people would have been
dancing. And in the middle of it, they break into "If I'm Drowning,"
which I totally didn't see coming, but at which I yelped and cheered like
a chihuahua in a Disney movie. It was pure aural heaven, and it kicked
ass.
But alas, apparently everyone else had to get home to the babysitter; the
lights came up immediately, and our lovely TLA staff popped up out of
smoky holes in the earth to shoo us out and roll up the universe behind
us. (In all fairness, I smiled at the staff member closest to our group,
and I thought she was going to cry from pure shock. Poor kids.) I will
admit, like someone else said, the crowd seemed to be entirely too tame.
Is it only Ohio crowds that scream and stamp and demand more, or is it
just that we're all getting older?
Well, I'm now on a plane to Santa Fe, so who knows when I'll be able to
actually mail this. Am I being an insufferable yuppie or just a cutting
edgy Rhinelander? Who cares. I have two hours and it's time to wrap this
puppy up.
Karin and Linford were gracious enough to invite everyone to wait in the
lobby for them, when they'd be happy to chat and sign stuff. As I've
encountered before at the TLA, the staff doesn't seem to give the
proverbial tinker's damn when artists say that, and will very rudely tell
you to please get the hell out, ostensibly, I suppose, so they can go
home. I smiled politely back and ignored them. I mean, the pizza
demon-girl had gone home, and having faced _her_, I had no further
worries. Really. So Sophie and Michael and Jason and David and I stood
about for a bit and waited. Now, somewhere in here, just before we'd
moved to the lobby, fellow Lostee Tim came up and introduced himself to
us all. He subsequently vanished the second I took my eyes off him. Tim,
you're a pretty tall guy. How the hell did you disappear so completely in
what is, essentially, a small venue? You know something we don't, or was
it that damn pizza demon again? Or did I just imagine you in the first
place?
After a few moments, Karin and Linford did indeed appear, and I found
myself bursting into laughter, tickled all over again about the whole
Wooty Woot Incident. I had to give Karin a hug for making this one of the
most silly-fun shows I've ever been to, and this includes the one where
all my friends got together at little concert by the Beach Balls and got
the lead singer, in a pink polyester tuxedo, white platforms, and frilly
shirt, to sing "Hungry Like The Wolf" to me. Like an opera singer demoted
to an Italian American lizard lounge. (I kid you not-- it's their gimmick
and they're hysterical.) Karin, trust me: you dress far better than
James, and you don't smell of a few shots of whisky.
So with joy in our hearts and ringing in our ears, we bid farewell and
godspeed to our darling muses and wandered out into the mild Spring
evening to adjourn to the South Street Diner and dissect the show over
yummy food that's really bad for us. We lost David along the way to his
parental duties, unfortunately. We also discovered that it was prime Prom
night in Philly, and the Diner was innundated with mostly African
American kids in the wildest prom duds I've ever seen-- one young dandy
had an irridescent pink organza button-down shirt that impressed me no
end, a young lady had a lovely taffeta evening gown and matching Tweety
fuzzy slippers, and they were but two of many. But my absolute favourite
part of the trip was the young man who looked at me in my gothy get-up
and asked me if I'd just been to prom, too. Considering just how long ago
my own prom was, I had to restrain myself from throwing my arms around
him and kissing him.
So as if you couldn't tell, I thoroughly enjoyed my evening with Over the
Rhine. While I have to admit, I'd missed Terri's contributions at spots
throughout the show, I'm all-around impressed with the musical assemblage
in front of me. I've never really thought of myself as a guitar-chick,
but I cannot get over the sheer fun factor of listening to Jack play. I
don't think I'd appreciated until now just how much he's changed the band.
One thing I do realise now, in the afterglow of the show, is what I think
Jessyka already said: Over the Rhine is a vastly different band live.
This isn't to diss their on-disc output, but while some recordings revel
in the delicate touches you can only get in the studio, others seem to
spring truly to another kind of life when they're being pounded into your
ears in the actual presence of the musicians. And while this is a great
thing for those who get to see OtR fairly often, the rest of us are left
sighing at the side of the road when that big silver bus with its Sancho
Panza trailer rumbles off into the night. I can honestly tell my friends
now that yeah, Over the Rhine is a great band, but if you want the whole
picture, you _really_ have to experience them live. Having said this, I
should add that, if anyone out there should have a recording of the
Philly show (hint hint), I wouldn't turn up my nose at a copy. Matter of
fact, I'd probably grovel for one. Hell, I'd kill. I don't know WHAT I'd
kill (maybe another brownie sundae like I had at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame
Cafe tonight), but I'd kill something. (PS-- Santa Fe ROCKS!) Someday, I
want to be able to actually prove to my theoretical children that yeah,
Mom once was cool, and yeah, she's always talked weird.
Well, breathe now. After having droned on for I don't know how many
pages, I'm finally done. I'm not exactly sorry I went on so long; this
was a hell of a show and it's gonna stay with me for a long time. I'm
still psyched about the whole experience, and I'm glad I've dragged a few
more people into the Cult of Losteeness.
So Karin, Linford, Jack, Wade, Dale: thanks _so_ much for coming; we have
to do this again sometime soon. Don't be strangers, all right? And next
time, I'll bring my own snacks.
Ysoie, your friendly neighbourhood Tolstoy.
---------------
Unsubscribe by going to http://www.actwin.com/MediaNation/OtR/
Follow-Ups: