Pop Life: El Maestro, Escovedo

Sometimes it takes more than just walkin’ away to find you’ve lost. Sometimes it doesn’t take a good friend to say, “it’s just time, and it goes.” But that’s the way it goes. It’s just the way it goes.

For those unfamiliar with the extraordinary body of work proffered by the incomparable Alejandro Escovedo, those opening lyrics to the Americana pioneer’s meditation on love, loss, and empty nostalgia from his “Thirteen Years” canon would seem to portend an evening of gloom and despair. Yet, as the relatively bantam but zealous crowd comprising the Lyric Theatre’s auditorium on Friday, Nov. 7, witnessed, this gorgeous, albeit somber, opening number served as a referendum on the times in which we live and immutably endure.

I watched and listened, transfixed, as Escovedo’s visceral emotion with which he sang emanated throughout the modest assembly, and realized that I was experiencing something special: an artist with such capacity for musical transcendence fashioning a foundation that so many of his contemporaries attempt in vain—a palpable connection with his audience.

However, any pervasive concerns that the showcase was intended to consist mostly of brooding and self-reflection were quickly allayed as Escovedo and the two other counterparts of his acoustic trio launched into a rabble-rousing rendition of “Always a Friend,” the opening track of Escovedo’s latest full-length offering, Real Animal. The number manifested a methodically juxtaposed paradox to the opening as the three belted the refrain, “Nobody gets hurt no, no. Nobody gets hurt!” The conclusion of the song resulted in a wild standing ovation from the sparse crowd, and from that point on, the tone of the evening was firmly established as Escovedo displayed genuine appreciation, which was equally reciprocated until the final note was played.

I was reminded of the old VH-1 Storytellers sessions as Escovedo took his time between numbers to chat up the crowd by regaling us with tales of his musical influences and origins, including his stint in San Francisco during the 1970s where he co-founded the punk band, The Nuns, (which would go on to open for the Sex Pistols before the punk icons’ final, and ultimately fateful, appearance in New York City).

He recalled that he and his band mates were so atrocious that audience members had to come up on stage and tune their instruments for them. (“No, that’s not a joke,” he informed the chuckling pack. “That actually happened.”) The intimate approach to the show was underscored by the amazing acoustics of the Lyric auditorium’s environs—a fact that did not go unnoticed by the troubadour himself. “You all have a really nice theater,” he remarked midway through. “It sounds great in here.”

Escovedo and crew promoted the cozy aesthetic further during the encore, in which they unplugged, left the stage all together, and played five pieces in the house—alternating between the two aisles until they wrapped things up below the proscenium by arriving full circle with “Slow Down,” a lamentation on the ephemeral quality of life’s most treasured moments. (“Slow down, it’s too fast. Live in this moment, but I’m tangled in the past.”)

I have to say that, although the intimacy of the evening was much more preferable to that of the raucousness associated with a coliseum-capacity crowd, I left the theater wondering why the attendance figures hadn’t been more prodigious. I mean, here was an occasion to see first-hand the artist that many consider to be the godfather of the “Alt Country” movement or “Americana” movement or whatever type of movement that you might choose to refer to it, and seemingly, few people in the New River Valley have any idea who he is.

Of course, the veracity of such an appellation is probably the last thing to which Escovedo himself would admit. To hear the man speak of his countless influences—ranging from Townes Van Zandt to Sid Vicious—so humbly and reverently accentuates his charm and appeal, considering he himself has been such an overwhelming source of inspiration for so many artists. From Uncle Tupelo (the birthplace of Wilco and Son Volt) to Ryan Adams to Los Lobos and even to Bruce Springsteen, his mark has been indelibly implanted in the American music lexicon.

And yet, on that pleasant fall evening in Blacksburg, only a fortunate few assembled to bear witness. Even worse, for those that bemoan the dearth of auspicious live music in our area, missing out on an event such as this simply compounds the number of foregone opportunities that may ultimately lead to the Lyric—a cherished local venue undergoing a major renaissance in restoring cultural proliferation to the valley—forestalling any future musical acts.

Part of the appreciation of music is fostered in the mere discovery. Among those lucky few in attendance that night with my wife and I were two friends of ours, another married couple. They had never heard of Alejandro Escovedo, but we coaxed them into joining us all the same, and they’re always up for being turned on to new music.

At the show’s conclusion, their smiles and exclamations (“That was awesome!”) were proof-positive of Escovedo’s ability to cultivate a new fan base. They were so impressed, they even bought a vinyl (yes, vinyl!) copy of Real Animal in the Lyric’s lobby … and had Escovedo sign it. I’m amazed that for someone whose career took root more than years ago, Escovedo continues to be a revelation.

Todd Guill encourages anyone interested in discovering Alejandro Escovedo’s work to pull up the ol’ iTunes and start anywhere in his library. “I Was Drunk” and “Break This Time” are just two highlights of many.

Todd Guill – New River Voice
November 17, 2008

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