The stage at the Lion and Sun
is set well back from the audience. I’ve attended and played a few open mic’s there; sound bounces off the beam that spans the middle of the room and returns to the stage like a soulless echo. Patrons chatter loudly through the distractions of the performers, trying to make their small talk bigger. To me, a rank amateur, all that space is disconcerting. I don’t have the chops to bridge that distance, to create a connection, to establish intimacy. But tonight I realized what I simply must accept:
I’m no Pat James.
Pat takes the stage like he’s just come in to have a coffee and talk about shit with his friends. And in a way, he has. His opening song, played solo, is called “A Life Worth Talking About”, an exploration of how our everyday lives create significant meaning. Immediately, suddenly, he is indeed among friends. And the bar goes silent.
That never happens in a bar.
Ever.
There are rules, usually written in the blood of experience, to playing in a bar, and it’s unclear whether Pat has mastered them or just disregards them altogether. His banter feels like he’s telling secrets, and his lyrics reveal why you’re not quite as happy as you should be, or perhaps you meant to be. He is right: indeed, I meant to skydive in the Rockies, and that piece of my life goes unlived; but I did fall in love in New Orleans, and for a moment, Pat seemed to know my secrets. It’s that intimacy thing.
Maybe it’s because I play a bit of harp, but there’s something about the badass minor chord growl of the southern blues that gets my blood boiling. There’s a comraderie to drinking with friends who are all nodding in the acknowledgement of Baby You’re My Sickness. For a moment, I thought we’d all be showing each other the tattoo we got to cover up that scar that we were dumb enough to get. The blues, man. They cover that distance.
There is something unrequited in many of his songs. In Memories of You he evokes that ethereal longing to feel something as fully as we once did. Love, for so many of us, can sit in that in between place, the unrealized life where we linger, wondering whether our imagination has hazed our memory. Great songs help us recognize the mistakes we’ve made, and can pull us back from the past to see the mistakes we’re making now. Damn it Jack, pay attention. You’re falling in love again, like you have been for the last ten years. This time, the mistake is forgetting that.
I’ve only heard these songs twice, the first being that magical concert at Hoolie’s, Mat Murray’s basement bar. Last night, I found myself wondering how original songs could sound so familiar , the way the words from a thousand years ago come back without reaching for them, the way a moment, a visceral feeling, returns as real as it ever was. And that’s the point. His songs are real. And as poignant as they are, there’s another level. These men are all great musicians who play with force. Shit can get beautifully, superbly loud.
Jeff Cox, his drummer, is a percussive magician. I’m 62. I shouldn’t be air drumming, bad hair flying, arms flailing all acrimbo (;-)),but there I was, just another aging white boy living an unrequited dream. I’m pretty sure Mat, who was sitting beside me, was shaking his head.
Mat Power, whose expression seems stuck in a perpetual grin, bears a striking resemblance to
Zach Galifianakis, that guy who hosts Between Two Ferns. If Mat were a scotch, he’d be somewhere between a 12 year old Lagavulin and a Laphroaig four oaks. The bottom end was smoking, and came straight from the earth. His harp solo on Father was crisp, clean, first position melody, not easy to deliver from a holder. He had heard the song, and understood the moment that only a harp can provide. He’s also their sound guy, and all I’ll say is that we’re not worthy.
If the night was about secrets, John Gould on guitar is the band’s secret weapon. You can close your eyes and think one moment it’s Jason Isbell on slide, or think again and it’s Derek Trucks. John plays like a young man who just had his heart ruined by a bad woman. Or maybe more than a few bad women. That shit gets real dirty real quick. Just stay out of Super 8 motels, my young brother.
Last night felt like we were watching the Stones playing the El Mocambo , while holding tickets for their show tomorrow night at the Scotiabank Arena. These songs, and this band could own a stadium.
I would be remiss were I not to acknowledge Pat’s shout out to “The Regulars”, Curtis Thompson, Mike Chianelli, and crew, both great musicians in their own right, who now may need to change the name of their band.
I can’t wait for the album, due sometime in spring 2024. Word is getting out. Go see these guys while you can still afford tickets.