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Bottom of the Hill January 30, 2004 Review by Shannon Coulter "I loved that class we had together," said the blonde woman standing next to me. "Which class was that?!" I asked over the din, trying to place her face. "I said, I love that glass over there!" she repeated, pointing to a spot somewhere on stage. It took me a few seconds to figure out what she was trying to show me, and then for the first time--I noticed a large window on the wall that separates the stage from the back room at the Bottom of the Hill. It's made of thick, wavy glass that's broken in the center--a web of large cracks radiates out from the damaged spot. "See how it's all prismatic like that?" she asked. "It's beautiful." Before she scampered off for more beer, I learned that my new pal was in San Francisco for a weekend yoga retreat and had decided to come out for slightly less wholesome fun when she heard Vic Chesnutt was playing. The crowd seemed mostly there for him, but they were about to be thoroughly romanced by the opening act from D.C. Like the rocky chasm of their name, Canyon's music was majestic to the point of being psychedelic and big enough to put off its own atmosphere of vibrating, red haze. Brandon Butler sang like he was taking aerial shots of vast American landscapes and had an earthy, searching seriousness about him that played well off some obvious chemistry with rangy guitarist Joe Winkle. Winkle was undoubtedly the band's cinematographer who practically french kissed the sky with the surreal, curling guitar work about which I later rhapsodized to anyone who would listen, including keyboardist Derry DeBorja. Along with lyrics that expertly rode the contours of each song, it was DeBorja's sounds on the Fender Rhodes that added several more strata of depth and feeling to the sound, with occasional shades of great mid-60's soul and prog-rock like Procol Harum. With Evan Berodt on bass and Dave Bryson on drums, Canyon are set to quest very soulfully for their musical terrain--playing straight from wise, but ardent hearts to make a big, warm-blooded American post-rock. They're like Film School's alt-country cousins and definitely deserve to be heard. I'd like to know, how many performers can crack you up and break your heart as thoroughly as Vic Chesnutt? The man's words are not only fine as all Hell itself, but a suspenseful delivery makes them all the more satisfying as you wait to find out whether any given line will gladden or gore you--or both. And how many songwriters show off the beauty of language as well as Vic who, by balancing it on the steeple of his intellect, can turn the six syllables of "Isadora Duncan" into a tiny poem of their own? "With some ballet moves, I removed her shoes and painted my lips to hers." I swooned to the Georgian's drawl on lines like that. He's still a truth machine too; his rickety songs are little mineshaft railcars making their improbable, graceful way directly into the void. Wearing a knit cap that read "George Bush is a Dumb Cracker," he mixed in a few of the new tunes from "Silverlake," which showed off his usual eloquence to great advantage, though I pined a little at not getting to hear "Sultan, so Mighty" or "Wren's Nest," two of my favorite off the new album. From "Wren's Nest": "the barn owl’s white belly is like a flash bulb/instantly illuminated by a moonbeam/as he swoops silently before us/toward a fateful meeting in the forest." On lines like these, Vic approaches Annie Dillardesque greatness in his ability to reference the natural world, which is nice since most lyricists seem to have have forgotten it altogether. But not Vic. Along with Canyon, he gave us a night of wordly music that nevertheless refused to capitulate to cynicism...music that somehow makes it all the way to end of the mineshaft, where the gold is lodged like a lump in the throat. If you've somehow missed out on Vic thus far, kindly get with the program. --- Read our previous Canyon review: May 23, 2001 @ Bottom of the Hill ©2004 playinginfog.com |