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Sleepybird with Culture Queer
Friday · Northside Tavern
One of the most satisfying performances I caught at the 2006 MidPoint Music Festival was a mesmerizing set by Dayton six-piece Sleepybird. Amidst the head-spin of trying to see 100 bands in four hours and being sopping wet thanks to the chilly, bucketing downpour, squeezing into the tiny Crush bar on Main Street, I was instantly sucked in by the sextet's tranquil, warm sway. Sleepybird (who seem to play Cincinnati as much as they do Dayton) are acoustic-based, built around the simple but evocative songs of singer/guitarist Nick Tertel. But it's the augmentation that gives Sleepybird's music an almost otherworldly quality. The band members decorate the songs with keys, synths and samples, as well as upright bass, violin and trombone, coming up with a sound that is defiantly all their own. The convergence of all of these elements creates a unique brand of psychedelia, alternately noisy and gorgeous, artsy and traditional. It's the missing link between early Folk, '70s Prog, Pink Floyd, weird, early Flaming Lips, Grizzly Bear and other more esoteric artists in modern Indie Rock. There are no drums on the majority of Sleepybird's songs, something only remarkable in that you don't really notice their absence, and the music's inherent rhythmic, oceanic swing happens to be one of its most magnetic trademarks.
On record, the band is even more interesting to listen to (though watching them, especially busy-body Jason Dryden jumping between his bass, synth pedals and theramin, is a treat) with the subtle quirks and noises that can get lost on a small-room PA coming through much more clearly. In October of last year the 'Bird released its second long-player, All Things Are Mine, a captivating collection of ebb-and-flow balladry.
The band could find a fanbase amongst the legion of lovers of the emerging, so-called Freak Folk genre, as lysergic lullabies like "Held Tight" and "(Rings) Your Eyes" are peppered with echoing effects and other brain-tickling additives, but always propped up by solid, fairly traditional songwriting. When I hear Sleepybird's music, I imagine being happily stoned in the arms of a lover on the deck of a ship lost at sea, the moon flickering overhead in the fog as the waves gently rock the vessel to sleep and the real world is all but forgotten. But, lucky for you, there's no need to pack Dramamine. (Mike Breen)
Guy Clark with Joe Ely, John Hiatt and Lyle Lovett
Saturday · Aronoff Center
The photograph on the cover of Workbench Songs, Guy Clark's 11th studio album and debut for Dualtone Records, shows the singer/songwriter's weathered hand gripping the headstock of his acoustic guitar — perhaps one that he's made himself — against the backdrop of his workaday denim shirt with pearl buttons at the cuff and pockets. It's a warm, simple image that perfectly captures the mood of the album's songs and the spirit in which they were created.
"That just hit me one day, because I was sitting where I am right now, looking at that workbench," says Clark from his Nashville home. "It just popped into my head. The first thing you do is, 'What song on here would be a good title,' but I thought this up."
It's an easy image to conjure, particularly since Clark is an accomplished luthier and actually crafts guitars in the same way he metaphorically shapes a song. One can imagine Clark strapping on his guitar the way most craftsmen strap on a toolbelt and getting to work on a song, starting with the raw materials of melody and verse and whittling away anything that doesn't belong to reveal the simple beauty underneath it all. The end result is the simple magnificence and elegant truth of a Guy Clark composition. Repeat the process a dozen times, throw in an extra craftsman or two as writing collaborators, and the result is better still; an entire album's worth of Clark's musical ruminations about life and its obvious (and not so obvious) pitfalls. It's a time-tested blueprint that has worked for Clark over the course of his 30-plus-year career, although he notes a certain hesitance over the word "craftsman."
"That term gets bandied about with me a bit and it's complimentary," says Clark. "But hopefully it goes a little past craftsmanship. Hopefully it approaches art. But I guess that's the way I approach stuff, trying to do it right. No loose ends."
In typically self-deprecating fashion, Clark admits that he doesn't adhere to any grand design or thematic patterns when assembling a new album. He just waits until the hopper is full.
"I write all the time, and I make a record when I get 10 or 12 good songs," says Clark. "That seems to be the way I've figured out to do this."
Perhaps most incredibly, Clark has been figuring this out for so long. When he moved to Nashville in 1971, he had no long-range plans that could have foreseen a 35-year career as a performer and songwriter.
"I wake up every day not envisioning it," says Clark with a laugh. "I've just been seeing the Texas borderline. If I ever break even, I'm moving back."
Clark is out touring behind Workbench Songs but it's in an unusual and most interesting configuration; he'll play as one-fourth of a songwriter's collective with Lyle Lovett, John Hiatt and Joe Ely. Clark notes that he's been out with this distinguished group of peers before and the personal satisfaction he derives from the shows, not to mention the respect and admiration he has for his cohorts, has kept him coming back.
"We've been doing it for a long time," says Clark. "It's a lot of fun. It's real loose. We don't have a set list. Sometimes we play each others' songs. It's whatever you feel. If you feel like you can play long, play long. If you don't, don't. Hiatt and Lyle play really well together; John's a great guitar player. It's always different." (Brian Baker)
