A music review of sorts: Lonesome Lake, Ken's Last Ever Radio Extravaganza, Diane Cluck

Wednesday evening I attended the second show of the Colonial Theater's new Backstage series, in which the entire audience is seated, literally, backstage.  For those who've never been, the Colonial is a restored stage theater built in the 20's and renovated extensively in the 90's, and has been working as a community non-profit ever since.  

I think the demographic in attendance to the Colonial's usual fare has become somewhat predictable over the years, and the Backstage series is trying to bring a different kind of show, and a different kind of crowd.  Unfortunately, they're sending something of a mixed message: the fifteen dollar price tag is approximately ten dollars more than a college student or working twenty-something is willing to spend on a band he/she's never heard of.  

I bucked up, and coughed it up, primarily because some friends of mine were opening.  And it was nice - the empty theater served as a memorable backdrop.  Facing away from the rows or ornate stenciling and dimmed chandeliers, faced away from so much space, the performers seemed vulnerable.  I couldn't help but feel as though there was a statement being made, something just short of apparent, a spacial analogy for the generic counter-culture. 

First up, Lonesome Lake, a trio of mismatched looking characters did what they do best: that is, make good music, a blend of old-time Americana and the newer Indie sound.  The low throb of Jeff Murphy's standup bass permeated the air, high in the mix, as he sang backup vocals and thumped away with the casual effort of a true professional.  Bjorn Delacruz inevitably draws eyes as he draws his bow; his notes at first as undetected as the arrival of a garden snake later pierce the heart like cobra poison.  In the center was G.G. Moore, somehow looking both the toughest and the most sensitive of the trio.  Something in his posture lends to the image that this is a tormented man, but mostly it his lyrics that lead us to conclude Moore is at the center of an existential crisis.  

I could go on, but it would be unfair; I am both a fan and a friend of this trio, and any review I make could be accused of being biased.  I suggest you listen for yourself.  

After their set I walked through the dark rows of the main theater to stretch my legs, and get some water.  Upon returning a strange sight beset me:  the instruments and amplifiers had been cleared away and replaced by a small, circular wooden table designed for one, the kind you would see at any coffee shop.  A short man with a shaggy mop of curly, iron grey hair set up his laptop, from which a spattering of multi-colored wires fed in and out between adaptors and battery packs and something else (effects pedals?).  On the square of carpet next to the table was an open discarded backpack, and a liter of water. 

The short hippyish man sat down in a chair set at the table, leaned over into a microphone set close to his body, and quietly said, "I'm going to make some sounds.  I hope you like them."  Then, for the next half-hour or more, he barely moved.  Over the PA something like a harpsichord slowly grew in volume.  A couple sitting front and center chatted gregariously, unaware that the "show" was underway.  Who could blame them?  The techies hadn't even dimmed the lights.  The man with the laptop wasn't wearing shoes, and one of his wool-socked feet was folded under his opposite thigh as he stared at the monitor making minute movements on the keyboard.  He looked like one of millions, sitting at a coffee shop, doing research for his graduate thesis, or emailing his friends on the West Coast.  

I wondered: is he going to read poetry?  Is this a performance piece?  I craned my neck looking for a loop pedal, a sampler tucked behind the laptop, anything to explain what this may was going to do other than sit at his computer silently, barely moving.  He raised his hand to his chest, placed it upon his grey sweater, and I was sure this was the moment something was to happen, that he would burst out singing, or start an interpretive dance.  He plucked some lint off his grey sweater and gently lowered his arm.  A spot of heartburn, perhaps.

Now, I'm no stranger to experimental music.  Some I've enjoyed, some I've not, but I've always recognized that music was being made, that some effort was being expended. Knob-twisters, button-pushers, beat-matchers are all easy targets, but it's difficult to deny the creative process its myriad outlets.  However, there is a limit to the graciousness an audience grants it's artists, like suspension of disbelief.  This relaxed gentlemen, his hair just covering his eyes, could have been on Facebook for all we knew.  Nevermind the fact this kind of music isn't everyones cup of tea; there was no evidence live music was being played at all.  

The harpsichord (or whatever it was) started to change, some notes being played in reverse, and other sounds started to invade the mix, not necessarily in the same time or pitch.  I realized that this was it, this was the whole shabang.  As soon as it occurred to me, I glanced around to gauge the audiences response.  The couple in front was still chatting away unabashedly, to the chagrin of more serious listeners behind them.  A few others like me were scanning the crowd for understanding.  Most stared in varying states of intensity at the small shaggy-haired fellow sitting comfortably at his computer, as though he was doing, or about to do, something of interest.

After about ten minutes, two men in the otherwise empty row in front of me started to mumble to each other, clear signs of dissent.  They were dressed in working men's attire, and drank $4 beers from small, plastic cups.  Another five minutes, and the one on the left said to the other, "On three?  Three."  and they both got up and left.  I envied them their right to judge, their capacity to walk away.  As a musician myself (and I consider myself open to new experiences) I felt obligated to take this man very seriously.  Across the aisle, I noticed Eric Gagne of the folk duo Redwing Blackbird had his eyes dutifully closed, to better listen to the soundscape, or perhaps it was a clever cover for a nap.  After the chatty couple had been asked politely to quiet down, another gentleman started squeaking his wet sneaker in time to the music.  The lack of visual stimulus was taking its toll.  

I had been crying with silent laughter.  The sheer absurdity of this unexpected performer was  producing in me a succession of different reactions, like the five stages of grief.  After the humor left me and the music showed no signs of ending, I wondered if Diane Cluck (the headliner) had brought the shaggy-haired man as an endurance test to weed out potentially unhip patrons.  No, I thought, and a deep profundity took shape around him, a swelling feeling that, yes, I understood now what all this meant.  It was a statement about the isolation of man inside technology, the loneliness of global connectedness and communication.  Look at him, alone on a stage, shadowed by a gigantic empty theater, the center of a universe no one can see, the antithesis of "rock star", the embodiment of average man, look - he is every one of us.  

The music played on and soon this stage ended too, and I realized that no matter what grand statement this man may have inadvertently been making his music was fairly unoriginal and boring.  I had been right earlier.  It was simply an endurance test.

When the harpsichord returned and the man spoke into the microphone to tell us in his odd way that he was finished, I did not feel proud for having survived.  I was ready to hear Diane Cluck.  

She was great.  

Epilogue:  I spoke to the short, curly-haired after Diane played, and he was nice, and humble.  I signed his mailing list, feeling like a liar.  Check him out here.