Stephanie Crozier: What it Means to be a Critic

Before taking Valerie Boyd’s critical writing class, I’d never given much thought to what it means to be a critic and how much goes into those reviews that we all love to hate when they go against our opinions and enjoy reading when we agree. I suppose I’d always just imagined that critics watched movies or ate at restaurants or what have you, and then wrote about what they thought. End of story. After a semester spent learning about the art of the review, however, I’ve learned that being a critic means so much more.

It’s not enough to simply listen to a CD and decide if you like it or not. Critics have to be good reporters and strong writers as well, must be able to dig up relevant background information and to bring alive for readers something that they may not yet have experienced, or perhaps never will. A good reviewer will tell their readers everything they need to know while simultaneously making them drool over delectable-sounding dishes or hear in their heads music that they’ve never heard with their ears.

A critic’s job, I’ve found, is not to force his opinions on his readers, but rather to fearlessly offer his thoughts and to provide the readers with the tools they needs to decide if the movie or book or restaurant is worth experiencing. Critics exist today, at least in part, to help us sift through the mass amounts of media to decide what’s really worth spending time and money on, and what isn’t.

Thus, in short, the role of the critic is to entertain, to inform, and to guide, and as long as we have a seemingly limitless supply of books, movies, television shows, and other media, there will always be a place for the critic in our society.

David Rogers: On the Role of the Critic

I got an album three weeks ago that I thought was incredible. It didn’t leave my car’s CD player for two weeks except when I brought it inside the house to listen. I then undertook it as my mission to tell everyone I know about this band and this CD. The role of the critic is similar to this.

The critic must come into reviews with knowledge on the subject he or she is reviewing. Looking at genre, style, and/or background on the artist—among other things—the reviewer must insert personal taste and form an opinion on the matter. Then, it is the reviewers’ job to express this opinion to readers.

I have personally been turned on to many bands, CDs, movies and books I wouldn’t have known about if it weren’t for reviews I read. I know where to go to read reviewers that I trust and I hope to find more. For me and, I think, many others, the role of the critic is and will be a very important role in journalism.

Matthew Grayson: A Critic's Manifesto

The role of the critic is as a student of pop culture. He or she must absorb knowledge from all sources and then detach his or herself completely in order to write a brutally honest and painstakingly accurate account of his or her studies. The who, what, when, where and why are important, but also the why not.

Like any other newsroom employee, a critic must convey a certain amount of factual information in his or her pieces. A reader must know, at minimum, what subject is under scrutiny, how that subject can be found, viewed or purchased, and why that subject is momentarily cast into the limelight.

As with any form of media worth consuming, the ultimate purpose of criticism is simple entertainment. The secret to a great review is that the piece must not only form a convincing argument as to the merit of a particular subject but also be written in a style that cleverly mirrors, playfully contrasts or otherwise complements the subject at hand.

The easiest way to screw up a review is to forget the last part of the formula: conversation. Criticism should not read like a book report nor should it be structured like a news story. Rather, a critic should approach his or piece like a conversation and act merely as if he or she were talking to a good friend about a tasty meal or a lousy book.

The job of a critic, then, is essentially a circus act. He or she must juggle journalism, entertainment and conversation while somehow managing to have fun.

Jace Bartet: Thoughts on pop culture critiquing

The most valuable thing I learned this semester in Valerie Boyd's Criticial Writing class is just exactly who I am to judge the creative works of others: I am a consumer of those works, nothing more and nothing less. There need not be further justification for the individual critic in his or her role. The critic does have a responsibility to exhibit a certain degree of knowledge and understanding about the subject at hand, but anyone's opinion is as valid as they are willing to make it through the tools of the craft of writing.

Criticism taken to its utlimate logical conclusion would be called sociology, because it is not enough to simply have an opinion. The reasons for that opinion must be explored, and it is in doing so that the critic provides for himself a sovereign authority. Failure to explore reasons for opinions results in weak and circular reasoning, the sorts of which so often allow people to become quagmired in dogmatic thinking and personal stagnation.

At the heart of this matter of "the role of the critic" in a pop culture construct is the lack of many people to ask the question "why?" often enough, both of themselves and of others. It is a question that can probably not have a conclusive answer at its deepest level, but the excercise of merely asking promotes new avenues of thought and exciting variations on doing the things that have always been done. When the critic asks why, this question means not only "why?" but also "where are we now?" and "where are we going next?" It is about holding people accountable for their thoughts and actions. For this reason, the question must always be asked, and the critic will always be a viable component of our cultural construct so long as society wishes to expand its horizons and its limits.

Concert Review: Allison Weiss

It’s always awesome when a girl can rock on the acoustic guitar, even more awesome when you can go see her show for free.

Starbucks has started a free concert series on Friday nights, and unlike its over-priced beverages, the shows lack pretension. On Friday, Oct. 6, I had the pleasure of listening to 19-year-old Allison Weiss croon underneath Christmas lights, amongst candles and surrounded by her closest friends.

I had never heard of Allison Weiss until a friend, who works at SBUX and had booked Weiss, asked me to come out and hear good girlie music. I was expecting a cross of Michelle Branch-wannabe mixed with Avril Lavigne’s angst but missing the ability to play guitar. I was pleasantly surprised.

Weiss, a waspy-looking 19 year old who wears horn-rimmed glasses (possibly trying for the whole Lisa Loeb thing), has an excessive amount of self-assurance, and it comes off in her performance. Although she’s perched on top of a stool, looking like she might fall off it if the weight of her guitar finally takes a toll on her tiny body, the girl rocks.

The young songstress is laid back and personal with the audience, joking with her friends in between songs, asking someone to buy her a shot of espresso to kick her tempo up a notch and even calling a guy friend on his cell phone halfway through her show to ask why he’s delinquent.

The atmosphere was relaxed and romantic. I wished I had brought a guy instead of my roommate because it would have been a great first date. There were only 20 or so people, so Allison started chatting people up in the audience she didn’t know from her perch on the mini-stage. She asked my roommate if she liked the piece of pumpkin bread she was munching on, replying it was her favorite snack from SBUX. Kind of quirky, but still funny.

Weiss has her vulnerabilities as a young, teenage singer-songwriter, but one can’t recognize them in her music. She could rival Vanessa Carlton on stage, if someone handed her a record deal, but then she might lose her feisty edge.

Sure, her coffee-house, pseudo-open-mic night may seem a bit unprofessional, but she used it to her advantage. She gave true explanations of what inspired her to write certain songs, such as “I was drunk on the beach and it hit me” or “This is about my friend sitting in the purple chair to stage left.”

Her self proclaimed “hook-filled acoustic power pop” is just that. Her song “I’m Ready” is incredibly catchy, and “Number 6” sounds like a female version of a Dashboard Confessional track minus Chris Carrabba’s whines. The rest of her set list was a veritable chick-rock fest, with songs about broken hearts, missed opportunities and vengeful songs about getting back at the boy who cheated on her.

Weiss could have been another emo-infused feminist, but she’s not. Her emotions translated into likable lyrics that were playing in my head for the rest of my Friday after I left Starbucks. I came home and downloaded a few of her tracks from her MySpace page, and the line “I’m ready if you’re ready” is still ringing in my head.

Her next show is at Tasty World on Oct. 19. This one isn’t free, but I’ll go there anyway. I love it when a girl can rock, and thinks I do too.

—Lauren Morgan

Album Review: The Wreckers, "Stand Still, Look Pretty"

Michelle Branch went country…or did she?

New vocal duo The Wreckers, comprised of former solo artist Michelle Branch and once backup singer Jessica Sharp, has broken into the country music scene with its debut release under Maverick Records, "Stand Still, Look Pretty," but the sound isn’t always so different from what one might find in Branch’s earlier work. The pair, who wrote or co-wrote all but one of the slow and mid-tempo songs that fill their album, deliver clean harmonies with just a touch of twang and plenty of acoustic guitar, but even with Sharp’s vocals and writing contributions, many of these tracks could have easily appeared on Branch’s "The Spirit Room" (2000) and "Hotel Paper" (2001)…not that that’s a problem.

“Leave the Pieces,” the first single and a song that peaked at the top of the country music charts, is a catchy way to kick off the album and is stereotypically country in subject matter, as the two girls sassily tell a guy to just go ahead and leave because they know he’s going to break their hearts and they can’t sit around waiting anymore. From there, the album continues with a string of tracks that seem light even in their lack of cheerfulness and have a touch of nostalgia, a touch of wistfulness, and a feeling that something needs to change. “Tennessee” speaks gently of regret and missed opportunities and “Lay Me Down” finds a girl reaching out to her boyfriend, telling him that she loves him even though she feels lonely and as though he doesn’t understand her. Pop-infused mid-album gem “Cigarettes,” penned by Harp and arguably the best track on the CD, delivers an instantly memorable chorus about optimism for the future and being okay with the present that will fill you with peacefulness and have you nodding your head in time to the lightly driving music.

Stand Still, Look Pretty, which has been certified gold since its May 2006 release, feels both fresh and familiar at the same time, and the melancholy songs have an airy feel to them that makes them more hopeful than depressing. Whether you’re having a great day or are feeling a bit down, driving along with the windows down and this CD playing on a cool fall day is sure to put you in a pleasant state of mind.

—Stephanie Crozier

Concert Review: Mark Cable

It can be hard these days to get a bunch of college students up on their feet and rocking out to Christian music, but Mark Cable will never let that get in his way.

Returning to Young Harris College for well past the tenth time, Cable came out strumming at the annual hour-long gathering dedicated to his music ministry.

After playing through an upbeat opener alone on the stage, Cable introduced himself and three other individuals who have been with him for all 25 years of his ministry: his bookkeeper, his publicist, and his manager.

"They're all me," he then quipped with good-natured sarcasm.

Cable continued with a piece titled "Ol' Gus," an addictively jazzy and awkwardly-rhymed (by Cable's own admission) lesson in humility and gratitude when faced with mercy.

As he continued, he proved he came well prepared with songs that were easy to follow, not to mention entertaining and catchy. He was quick to encourage his audience to snap their fingers along with the music.

"Just one hand for now, we'll switch later... this is a five minute song," he sung adeptly between verses, to giddy laughter from the crowd. Other songs had him eliciting claps and even vocal backup from the crowd.

However, with a wife and six children, Cable was not without more touching music to keep the mood humble.

One such offering was "Get There," for which he established a very real and understandable backdrop: he wrote it for his daughter in 2002 when she was first deeply troubled by high school peer pressure.

His experienced guitarwork and vocal prowess easily speak for his ability to express this lesson to his daughter, but still he turned on the tape, joking that it was time to get some help from the band.

"And I pray that you get there / To the place where / You will not care what they say;" as he lovingly crooned the words, it became clearer than at any previous point that Cable is a man devoted to life and love.

"All She Knows" and "September 12" also surely hit close to home for many, contemplating the pain of being rejected and alone as well as the raw emotion and fatherly love that 9/11 caused within Cable for his family.

Near the end of the set, when Cable asked the audience to stand, it was still clear that he was dealing with a college crowd. As he began explaining hand and body movements to go along with one of his songs (sticking your arms and fingers out like tree branches, for instance), some of the students remained stiff and uninterested while others nervously participated.

But never mind that, because the moment he mentioned that part of the song was clucking like a chicken, the entire room came alive with laughter, and suddenly there were a whole lot more tree branches in the room.

Concluding with the moving, crucifixion-centered "Empty Pockets" from his 2001 album of the same name, Cable brought his main message back to center stage.

He hopped down off the stage as the crowd began to stream out, having reminded Young Harris that after 25 years touring as a musical minister, you sure as heaven learn how to entertain a crowd.

—Miles Moffit

Concert Review: Emily Herring

A show that promises to be an intimate event featuring an upcoming artist who describes her music as Texan country with a twist of Delta Blues must be something worth seeing, right?

Wrong. Newcomer Emily Herring’s October 8 show at the Bluebird Café in downtown Athens left more than a lot to be desired. It left pretty much everything.

The acoustic show featured a mixture of classic covers and Herring’s own material from her self-produced debut album “My Tears Will Be Relieved” (2005). Wailing away at inaudible lyrics and grasping at uneasy vocal transitions, Herring made it nearly impossible to identify the songs she was singing.

Appearing at ease with her guitar perched on her lap and the microphone in front of her, Herring simply tried too hard. If she had performed music that enhanced her vocal capabilities, her concert wouldn’t have been half bad. But, in her quest to be an edgy new artist, Herring butchered her show with overdone vocals that were at best a growling montage of noise.

Attributing her strongest musical influence to Merle Haggard, Herring seemed to be aiming for the country music legend’s classic honky-tonk sound. This was her biggest mistake. Noticeably forced, her voice carried a cringe-inducing twang that resulted in a nasally disaster. Herring’s vocal abilities appeared to be more suited for slower, soft ballads than for the upbeat, catchy songs she performed.

While Herring’s guitar performances were much better than her intolerable, screechy vocals, the instrumental aspect of the show was still not great. I was able to catch a few fleeting glimpses of musical talent in Herring’s guitar skills, but not enough to overshadow the fact that most of her songs were missing a key element—rhythm.

Masked by Herring’s catastrophe of a show, some of her songs are surprisingly well written. (I only found this out by looking up the lyrics online.) Her signature tune “Has Country Gone to Hell?” is dedicated to her idol Haggard and advocates freedom of speech and the separation of religion from politics. “Don’t Step it Up and Go” features a light-hearted, bluesy melody and has some degree of potential. Maybe Herring should just stick to the songwriting and let someone else perform the songs.

Only about half of the dozen tables at the café were occupied and most of the patrons appeared to have stopped in just to grab something to eat. A few drunken guys and a couple of children seemed to be the only ones enjoying Herring’s performance while everyone else seemed to (or at least tried to) ignore it.

The sad part about this shambles of a show is that it actually sounded better than Herring’s album. However, at least with the album, I had the privilege to shut off Herring’s tortuous howl.

If this artist ever makes it big as a performer, then I will have an answer for Herring's question. Yes, country definately has gone to hell.

—Amy Chance

Concert Review: Ken Will Morton

Uncorked & Unplugged, the new singer-songwriter series at the Melting Point hosted by Ken Will Morton, provided a chance to see some of the Athens area’s best singer-songwriters armed only with the accompaniment of their own acoustic guitars. And that’s exactly what it was—―a real intimate affair.

The Uncorked part of the evening referred to a half-off sale on wine. The wine connoisseurs sat in the back of the room while the music lovers hovered around the stage, but by the end of the night some of the winos had redirected their focus to the music.

Age-wise, most of the small crowd that had gathered in the auditorium for the 8pm show, like the performers, were in their late-twenties. College students and senior citizens were also well-represented.

The Melting Point is the most intimate of Athens’ mid-size venues. At one point I was in a restroom conversation with the main performer, Morton. The men’s restroom downstairs has a sink awkwardly positioned over a urinal and a stall with no front door. Being the third person to walk into the tight quarters, Morton said, “Is this the lingering piss-hole?” That same level of bizarre intimacy was consistent throughout the evening.

The format of the show held the listener’s attention. Morton, the singer-guitarist, would play a couple of songs and then introduce each new artist. The atmosphere was similar to that of a VH1 Storytellers taping. The songs were often mixed with lengthy dialogue by the different singers.

Morton’s songs were the obvious highlight of the evening. He had a rootsy sound and a battered, rustic voice that seemed to be herding ghosts into the room. He’s often categorized as an alt-country singer, but his songwriting is unmistakably influenced by blues and folk music. He has a couple of self-released records out that I am familiar with, but I didn’t recognize any of the songs he played. All the material seemed to be new or unreleased. His best song was one he said he had co-written with one of the members of the country group Sugarland.

Morton’s guitar playing was particularly strong and his harmonica accompaniment was adequate. His songs were uniquely well-crafted and he seemed to live in each of them. The lyrics were also well-constructed and enjoyable.

Morton also has the best image of any Athens act I’ve seen. He’s reminiscent of a seventies Dylan, but it’s clear that his influence spans broader toward a who’s who of Americana. For most of the night, he wore an old-fashioned hat that added even more mystery to his hobo troubadour stage persona.

Morton’s sense of humor made his performance all the more compelling. One of the funnier parts of the evening was when Morton introduced a cover song about trains. He said if anyone could guess who wrote the song he would pay off their credit card debt. Some bald guy in the front row mumbled the name of a writer, and Morton’s eyes got big and he cursed at the man. He said the guy was the first person in two months to guess the correct writer’s name. I’m fairly certain Morton was able to weasel his way out of paying the guy’s debts since he began publicly negotiating the payment down as soon as the man had guessed correctly.

In between all of Morton’s sets were a host of other performers including Fester Hagood, Caroline Monroe, and Christian Lopez. These performances had their bright spots, but they couldn’t help being overshadowed by the superior performer, Morton.

Uncorked & Unplugged is a success thus far. Morton will continue to host different performers each week. Locals should come witness this spectacle before Morton outgrows our town.

—Greg Sullivan

Concert Review: Kinchafoonee Cowboys

The Kinchafoonee Cowboys hit upon a winning formula back when they were founded in 1991: well-loved classic country evenly mixed with catchy, backwoods original anthems. Fifteen years later, they haven’t strayed far from that combination, but hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

“The Foonee” had a homecoming of sorts last Friday, Oct. 6, 2006, at the Georgia Theatre in Athens, Ga. The band perfected their rowdy, crowd-pleasing performances at University of Georgia fraternity parties while the members were still students.

The energetic band delighted a packed crowd of liquored-up football fans the night before the Georgia/Tennessee game. Although the band does not have the musical chops to succeed in album sales—their three studio albums have only a small but loyal listening base—they know how to entertain live. Their original songs are catchy enough that even those unfamiliar with the band were soon belting out the choruses. The set list shunned tear-in-your-beer ballads in favor of foot-stomping declarations of country pride.

Band members Chris Scarborough, Glen Tennyson, Chad McGrath, Keith Comartie, Jason Fuller and Shane Cannon are all from Albany, Ga., and took their name from a creek near their hometown. Lead singer Tennyson shared the band’s loyalty to all things Georgia from the stage. Their anthem “Sic ‘Em Dawgs,” available as a CD-single, brought the loudest cheers of the night and is played at Sanford Stadium during every home football game.

Cannon adds a unique sound element to the band as a harmonica player whose sweet melodies manage to steal some attention away from the dynamic Tennyson. Conspicuously absent from the band’s line-up, though, are the steel guitar and the fiddle, both long-time country music staples.

The crowd also roared its approval as Tennyson spotted a high school friend in the crowd, introduced him and then played Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places” upon the friend’s request. The band obliged another fan request and played Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson’s “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys.”

The band took the laid-back atmosphere a little too far by allowing a drunken fan to wander around the back of the stage holding a beer can. His stumbling and occasional ventures over to the band members while they were performing were distracting, but admittedly funny.

The self-written Kinchafoonee songs don’t have much variety and sound like they have the same handful of twangy guitar chords, but Foonee originals “Cowboy Ways” and “Eggs, Toast, Grits, and Bacon” stand out as popular favorites that had the small contingent of Foonee groupies pumping their fists in the air all night long.

The Foonee know exactly who they are—a bunch of guys who love to have a good time while playing music. Their playful attitudes allow them to laugh about fumbled chords and provide audiences with an enjoyable and lively show.

The Kinchafoonee Cowboys will help kick off the legendary “World’s Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party” at the rivalry Georgia/Florida football game where they will open for Hank Williams Jr. on Oct. 27, 2006, in Waynesville, Ga.

—Anna Fry

Album Review: Broken Social Scene, "You Forgot It In People"

Canadian indie-rock collective Broken Social Scene’s atmospheric songscapes have something surprising to offer: songs. Most bands whose name is used in the same sentence as “atmospheric” are characterized by long meanderings of noise that never wind up going anywhere; noise for the sake of noise. But the 11 members that comprised the band’s constantly expanding/changing cast of characters when 2003’s “You Forgot It In People” was released had a direction for their noise. They avoid most use of electronic devices and focused on making their guitars, bass, organs, horns and vocals sound as strange as possible. Yet, through all this they still let traditional pop songs shine on like crazy diamonds, creating a gorgeous mess—an extremely updated model of old-fashioned pop. After what sounds like a warm up session, a fast and heavy drumbeat that wouldn’t be out of place on a Ramones album signals the beginning for the album’s best and loudest song, “Almost Crimes.” The amount of experimentation in song style and structure vary from song to song, creating a lush musical world that is home to, almost shockingly, well-crafted pop songs.

—David Rogers

Concert Review: Sovus Radio

Going to a Sovus Radio show is like watching an interview with Brian Wilson. You watch it in part for the alluring genius and in part to find out when and how he’s going to self-destruct again. Either way, you can’t take your eyes off of it.

Atlanta band Sovus Radio stole the show from headliners and tour mates Manchester Orchestra at Tasty World on October 11, 2006 with their multi-layered vocal hooks, driving rhythms and demented, carnival-in-hell-sounding keyboards. Lead singer Ty Tomson constantly thrashed wildly by the edge of the stage, threatening to fall at any moment; Sovus Radio’s music was similar, always on the verge of plummeting into some kind of musical psychosis.

Sounding like Syd Barrett Pink Floyd meets the “White Album” Beatles, Sovus Radio changes tempos, rhythms and volumes within songs with a precision most bands can’t handle after 20 years, much less after the three years this band has been together. Often, it sounds like the band has moved on to another song, and while you’re enjoying the new sound they return to the original hook and you realize you’ve been through the different frequencies of Sovus Radio.

The crowd was indie girls in expensive, trendy haircuts and indie boys in expensive girls’ jeans. They were only about 40 strong but were increasingly captivated by the band. Each song got a better response than the last and by the end of the set the crowd appeared to be won over by the band. A particularly stimulated fan was a self-described “one-man mosh pit,” who cleared a 10-square-foot dance space directly in front of the stage by wild break dancing, sprinting in constant circles, and hitting his mouth on a large iron beam in the middle of the room. It was unclear after a brief interview whether he was moved purely by the band’s music or if other “motives” were involved.

As for the headliners of the show—The Manchester Orchestra—the world of rock has asked me to give them this message: “We like what you do and you guys seem sweet, but we already have a Modest Mouse. We’re very sorry, but we won’t be requiring your services at this time.”

And this is where Sovus Radio steps up to outshine their comrades. The sound is fresh, wild and energetic; the main hook is that you never know what’s coming around the next corner, or even where the next corner will be. It’s refreshing in this age when even bands trying to stay away from cookie-cutter pop songs still, like Manchester Orchestra, find themselves just lesser versions of the bands they imitate.

Sovus Radio brings the excitement of knowing that after the next note, everything could change dramatically. The lead singer could topple off the stage, the music could melt into oblivion, or maybe—just maybe—they’ll take you somewhere you’ve never been before.

—David Rogers

Album Review: Harvey Milk, "Special Wishes"

“How do you think old glory feels/displayed over battlefields/after so long folded away?” asks Harvey Milk front man and mastermind Creston Spiers in the opening lines of “Silly and Small,” one of his new album’s flagship songs. A reference to “old glory” in Special Wishes, being the first new Harvey Milk album in eight years, might as well be aimed at the Athens, Ga three-piece itself as it is our red, white, and blue. Andee Connors of Tumult records, who re-issued Harvey Milk’s limited-production second album Courtesy and Good Will Toward Men on CD in 2000, once said that Harvey Milk was “too heavy to be post-rock; too weird to be metal; too everything to be anything.” Indeed, on Special Wishes the band displays ripping classic rock-style guitar leads (“Once in a While”), gentle acoustic passages (“Silly and Small”), suffocating time-changes amid tar-pit fumed slow-and-low heaviness (“War”), epic chord progressions evoking the end credits of some apocalyptic space-war film (“Mother’s Day”), and throat-ripping bluesy vocals (“Love Swing”), then juggles them all like flaming chainsaws. The band has always drawn comparisons to The Melvins (whom they openly revere), and this is unlikely to change with Special Wishes, but there also remains an especially off-kilter, gut-wrenching quality that they have always had which propels them far beyond the status of mere hero-worshippers.

Harvey Milk have never been ahead of their time or behind the times; they have always operated strictly by their own calendar, which has lead the small number of die-hards that they’ve attracted in their fourteen years to frequently bemoan their “criminally overlooked” status. With this new album, an opening slot for The Melvins back on October 28th at the 40 Watt, and another re-issues of Courtesy… via metal juggernaut Relapse Records just a couple of months ago, the band might be about to receive some of that credit past-due. However, Harvey Milk are as beautiful and profound as they are because they have always been more concerned with making music as a manner of breathing than as a manner of achieving externally delivered hallmarks. With Special Wishes, this old glory makes it clear that they never really left the battlefield, and that no matter who does or doesn’t want to write their name in the sky, they will remain amid the mud and the blood below, smashing perceptions of what rock music is and should be from the skulls of anyone within hammer strike.

—Jace Bartet

Another Take: Hfags and Packway #2

Having just returned home from a major 10-week U.S. tour, the bluegrass troubadours of Athens, Ga’s Packway Handle Band rounded up their local junkyard minstrel compatriots Hope for agoldensummer for an old time homecoming at the 40 Watt Club on this crisp and cool Saturday night. As I walked into the venue about thirty minutes before show time, there on the stage already stood the many instruments that served as the wands with which Hope would weave their earthy magic on the crowd. Both groups are common headliners locally, but the petty politics of who-plays-when had no place in the 40 Watt this evening. This show was a solid double-header, not a setup for one particular act over another.

When Hope took their seats on the stage, most of the crowd was seated as well. Those who were standing were doing so at the bar ordering drinks, and much of the room was similarly engaged in chatter that congealed into a white noise bouncing mercilessly throughout the 40 Watt, often above the band’s inspired take on group folk. However, Hope fought this noise gracefully simply by playing with the invigorating passion that is their hallmark.

A heavy focus was placed on material from their forthcoming second album, much of which left cellist Will Taylor sitting with legs crossed sipping a beer but looking satisfied. This wasn’t surprising, for as more people trickled into the club and seating space diminished, a standing crowd swelled at the foot of the stage. In this city, which is often and ironically so ambivalent toward music despite it’s reputation as a “music town,” actually drawing people toward the stage can be a major accomplishment. The Campbell sisters Claire and Page even managed to silence the background buzz during their show-stealing a cappella-plus-schoolyard-handclaps song “Time Will Tell.”

In the relatively short time between the two acts, an interesting thing began to happen. Many of those who had been so enraptured and attentive during Hope’s set either withdrew from the stage or left altogether. The musical differences between Packway and Hope are not dramatic; while Hope are more experimental and ambitious, falling closer to contemporary folk territory than anything country or bluegrass, and Packway are as retro a throwback as young bluegrass musicians are likely to get these days, both rely on stripped down, organic instrumentation and lush vocal harmonies to convey their heart’s desires.

The disparity in crowds is probably explained in presentation and appearance rather than anything musical. Hope’s crowd included many disheveled, angular-haired types that give greater reverence to an overall DIY aesthetic than any particular musical qualities, reflecting to some degree the scruffy, come-as-you-are appearance of the band. The dapper Packway boys in their full suits played to more Polo shirts and Bulldog apparel than Hope have likely ever seen in one building at the same time.

And play they certainly did. Packway’s crowd arrived ready to have their feet moved rather than their hearts. The band’s playing was flawless, and aside from electric bass in place of upright, utterly authentic. Specializing in uptempo barnstormers, Packway only faltered when pandering to that sizeable sector of their crowd that for some reason tends to get excited about gimmicky bluegrass renditions of contemporary songs, in tonight’s case a flat take on Joe Cocker’s “Never Tear Us Apart” that had the audience singing along regardless.

Still, Packway were genius this evening, and that genius rested in their ability to craft truly effective ebbs and tides in the pace of their lengthy (nearly an hour and a half) set. Whenever the crowd seemed to be getting tired, the band recognized this and obliged them with slower tunes for a while before building things back up into a frenzy. By the end, there was nary an unshuffled foot or unjigged knee in the house.

With a chill in the night air, the classy, down-home sounds of each group perfectly complimented one another like apple cider and pumpkin pie. Walking outside, I took in a breath of autumn decay and realized that this was an event tailor-made for the perfect month of October.

—Jace Bartet