And
then the ordinarily goofy and placid Bart Davenport loses his shit for
a second. "SHUT UP," he barks.
A crowded, boisterous German
restaurant is abruptly silenced. He pauses
to assess the situation for a fifteen-second interval, his face
reverting back to its childlike gape, his eyes wide with wonder. He has
fascinating hair. (He must go to Nedelle's barber.) He looks like a
Monkee.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP," he adds.
"It's an acoustic show."
Bart has a point here. The
Thursday night crowd at Speisekammer,
Alameda's preeminent (read: sole) German restaurant, has ostensibly
gathered for an evening of coyly quiet (read: twee) indie pop, a genre
not renowned for its volume.
And Speisekammer, while
lovely, is not renowned as a concert venue --
it has no stage, so the performers are literally backed into a corner.
Those not in the first three rows of standing patrons have a hell of a
time seeing anything, which compels them to lose interest and strike up
conversations at sports-bar volume and intensity, at which point
everyone has a hell of a time hearing anything.
These people needed to shut
the fuck up. And now they have, and now Bart can sing softly about the
saddest day of his life.
In the Wimpy White Guys with
Guitars pantheon, Bart Davenport is a good
egg, sunny side way up. He strums his guitar and croons like a man
trapped in the wrong decade (preferably the '70s), if not on the wrong
continent (Europe). He offers not gritty confessionals or cathartic
emo-bitchin', but classic makeout music that flaunts his eerie ability
to mimic various singer-songwriters of yore: "Into Music," the most
arresting tune on his third solo album, Maroon Cocoon, channels
James Taylor to an absolutely terrifying degree.
His lyrics, to put it
mildly, tend toward optimism. Here's Bart on race relations:
A closet bigot stepped
outside today
Went strolling down
Martin Luther King Jr. Way
His mind was blown by
rainbow-colored laughter
Abandoning his hate
forever after
He still calls it Grove
Street anyway
This is not the sort of
gentleman predisposed to shouting SHUT THE FUCK
UP in a crowded German restaurant. But the yakking masses had already
drowned out two opening acts, one to its detriment, one to its credit.
The dueling Moore Brothers deserved better -- their double helix
harmonies and corny dance moves are always worthy of full attention.
That Go with the light
tune is a monster, and dedicating "Now Is the Time for Love" to ailing
Subtle keyboardist Dax Pierson -- to whom this whole evening is, in
fact, dedicated (see page 60) -- is a splendid touch.
Too bad you were too busy
looking cool, ye chattering philistines,
although your rowdy behavior during Call and Response was far less
objectionable: Oy. This second act was too smug, too light, too
indistinct, and too prone to flubbing the bassline. And if the din
obliterated all attempts at stage banter, yawning between their own
songs got the point across just as effectively.
Bart fared far better.
"Clara" illustrates how disinterested he is in projecting "cool," with
its Clara/I love you/Clara chorus buttressed by robust la la
la la las, myriad Wow, dude, I'm onstage
facial expressions, and kitschy arena rock poses. All at once, it hits
you whom this guy is slowly morphing into: Jonathan Richman. (Coming
soon to a lesbian bar near you.) The Moore Brothers hopped back onstage
for a three-man sing-along finale, commanding the crowd for the first
time that night.
The planned headliner for
this hoedown was the Kings of Convenience, a
hushed Norwegian folk duo well acquainted with the sounds of silence.
But some last-minute drama knocked one King from the bill, leaving
Erlend Řye to fend for himself. Erlend looks as if he has been asleep
behind Speisekammer's bar since 5:30. He has fascinating hair. (He must
go to Napoleon Dynamite's barber.) He looks as if he has been recently
attacked by monkeys.
Erlend does not project the
image of an arresting performer, let alone
one with a Pitchfork-praised dance-music double life thanks to last
year's DJ Kicks
album. And he struggles for quite a while here, plinking his acoustic
guitar and cooing (occasionally in Norwegian) to a respectful silence
borne more of Bart's outburst than Erlend's stage presence. He slips
behind the venue's white baby grand piano, candles flickering gently,
but though he yoinks the chorus of Pavement's "Range Life" as a
crowd-pleasing gesture, that doesn't really work either. He is
endearing, but far from enrapturing.
For just one song -- his
last -- he bowls a perfect game. He dedicates
the Kings tune "Stay Out of Trouble" to Dax as well, and his goodwill
earns him instant karma. The suddenly-perked-up crowd eagerly whistles
the viola line. Erlend, an ordinarily stand-and-deliver deadpan guy,
starts strutting around a bit, Bart-style. And a joyous campfire
sing-along lifts up the chorus: Stay out of trouble/Stay in
touch/Try not to think about me too much.
It sails along a cappella
for a few minutes, Bart providing harmony
from the back of the room, Erlend adding a few ad lib James Brown
shouts. The tune merrily dissolves, the DJ throws on Bonnie "Prince"
Billy's "Just to See My Holly Home," and all showgoers evacuate the
premises, strolling past a nearby upholstery shop with a homemade sign
in the window announcing "Closed due to injury."
In the deep Alameda
night, rainbow-colored laughter is faintly audible. If you can't hear
it, shut the fuck up.