Handsome Family/ Jim & Jennie & the Pine Barons / Maxwells / Feb. 25, 2000

Chicago-based husband/ wife duo the Handsome Family offered a post-midnight Maxwells audience drifting rural folk, thrifty country-laced dirges, and surreal soft-rock ballads. Besides performing a solid hour of lonesome prairie waltzes, desperation-bound vignettes, and contemplative down home morsels, the Sparks’ kept everyone in attendance in stitches with their sharp sense of humor and scrappy Sonny & Cher-styled bickering.

Making fine use of banjo, dobro, melodica, and autoharp, Rennie Sparks filled out beau Brett’s somber acoustic arrangements. Brett’s flexible voice ranges from a deep-toned Merle Haggard-like baritone to a stately Richard Thompson-like croon. Highlights from this Friday night set included the sonic guitar turnabout, “Amelia Earhart Vs. The Dancing Bear,” and several newly waxed trax from the ambitious, delicately orchestrated In The Air (Carrot Top).

Diligently coalescing beauty and sadness with similar haunting intimacy to the Mekons’ Jon Langford and Sally Timms (whom they’ve toured with in the past), the Handsome Family continue to refine and rejuvenate their understated musings.

Beforehand, Jim & Jennie & the Pine Barons enthusiastically re-created old-timey bluegrass and rural back porch Country & Western with heartfelt assurance and an uncanny authenticity atypical for such young, fresh-faced practitioners. Within the span of a few songs, the wholesome quartet from Croydon, Pennsylvania, had loosened up fans gathered around the formerly empty spot at the foot of the stage. Huddled behind a single mike with banjo, upright bass, acoustic guitar, and mandolin, the rootsy combo broke into a few Flatt & Scruggs-like instrumental hoedowns and traditional fare by the Carter Family, Frank Wakefield, and others. The quick-paced “Hot Burrito Breakdown” (credited to the Country Gazette), a few rustic originals, and some silly between-song patter kept the set moving along briskly.

Girls Against Boys/ Mercury Lounge/ June 12, 2002

Since I last caught Girls Against Boys at a Bowery Ballroom gig a few years back, the NYC-via-DC quartet has become more visceral, assured, and compelling delivering vibrant, Industrial-strengthened post-punk seductions. Trading some of the suave, groove-oriented gloss of ‘98s Freak*on*ica for the sinister conviction and edgy tension of their belated follow-up, the bristling You Can’t Fight What You Can’t See, GVSB burst forward with a muscular sound as thick as this venue’s brick walls.

Allowing the electronic dance rock tendencies of its predecessor and ‘96s equally energetic, club-influenced House of GVSB to get kicked to the curb, the new tracks assaulted the audience like sonic reverberations emanating from a sweat-filled outer space metal lounge. At times, they seemed to be reverting back to the post-hardcore intrigue bedecking ‘93s breakthrough Venus Luxure No. 1 Baby. As usual, guitarist Scott Mc Cloud’s grainy voice had the same raw-throated grit and urgent determination Psychedelic Furs’ Richard Butler relied upon in the early ‘80s. And his sensual swagger, chiseled good looks, and comfortable stage presence quickly brought to mind Roxy Music heartthrob Bryan Ferry.

The rumbling low end of dual bassists’ Johnny Temple and Eli Janney seemed deeper and darker than ever while sure-handed drummer Alexis Fleisig increased the rhythmic propulsion immensely. But it’s the pervasive alluring sexuality, cigarette-stained lungs, and suggestive lyrical ennui of Mc Cloud that provided focus and gave this seasoned outfit a nearly unmatched emotional virility that makes girls cream their jeans and guys want to start a band.

Buddy Guy / Bowery Ballroom / June 1, 2001

After an apprenticeship in Muddy Waters band, authentic blues guitarist Buddy Guy took inspiration from B.B. King and Elmore James to become an extremely talented solo performer with a never-ending body of respected studio recordings. Late ‘60s solo albums such as A Man And The Blues and I Was Walkin’ Through The Woods established his reputation as one of the greatest post-World War II Chicago blues masters. Years hence, Guy continues to release astounding albums that build upon his legendary status.

Dropping the contemporary slickness debasing the otherwise superb Damn Right I Got The Blues for the raw Mississippi backwoods earthiness consuming latent Fat Possum Records’ discoveries R.L. Burnside, T-Model Ford, and the late Junior Kimbrough (whose “Baby Please Don’t Leave Me” and “Done Got Old” Guy rendered convincingly live as well as on record), this sly 65-year old wizard gets back to the vintage sound of his rural Delta upbringing. And ‘01s tradition-minded Sweet Tea is the unadulterated result.

Wearing overalls (his usual attire) and a processed hairdo at this Lower Manhattan hotspot, Guy dug deep into his emotional reservoir, moanin’ and groanin’ ‘bout pain and suffering like it’s nobody’s business. He delved into a host of worrisome songs made richer by a terrific band of experienced bluesmen. It was during the solo break in the soulful mantra, “Tramp” (not the Otis Redding and Carla Thomas’ standard), that Guy did what he loves to do best: walk through the crowd while unleashing some blistering guitar chords that drifted into the foggy air.

Remarkably, Guy always knows how to counter despair-ridden moodiness with humorous, casual asides, teasing the audience while gaining their trust. He also knows how to build intensity by going from fast and loud to slow and soft within the confines of a song. To offset his thick, creamy baritone, he sometimes reached for quivering falsetto notes that handsomely recalled Al Green or Prince in their prime. For the contemplative “Stay All Night,” he balanced hope and desire with anxiety and loneliness like only the best blues men can. His generous two-hour set was so funky you could smell it.

When Guy realized the midnight curfew was closing in, he put together an economical medley of blues standards that included his former mentor’s “Mannish Boy.” Make sure you don’t let Guy slip by. He’s a must see with talent to burn and more energy and verve than performers half his age.

Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci / Mercury Lounge / November 6, 1999

Never hemmed in by conventional ‘90s indie rock boundaries, versatile Welch band Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci was in the Big Apple to promote Spanish Dance Troupe, their breakthrough American release. While fellow compatriots from Wales, the Super Furry Animals, clashed loud, fuzzy, sonic feedback with high voltage rock playing the more spacious Bowery Ballroom a few months back, Gorky’s sound usually drifts through soft acoustical retreats with melancholic folk melodies. They remain a diamond in the rough gigging at the much smaller, more intimate Mercury Lounge.

With brown curly hair that covered his eyes when he leaned into the mike, youthful lead singer Euros Childs manipulated the keyboard while sister Megan glided her down home fiddle into traditional country and Classical folk territory. A brilliant, still maturing songwriter/ arranger, Euros slyly managed to skirt easy comparisons to soft-focus psychedelia, paisley glam-rock, and subtly shaded Velvet Underground sub-pop. Though at times he sang in a carefree, romantic style reminiscent of Bryan Ferry circa Roxy Music’s For The Country or yelped in an anxious, epileptic tone reminiscent of David Byrne’s earliest Talking Heads daze, Euros terse, witty originals gained a hazy dramatic tension all their own.

Early on, Euros’ insouciance pervaded this nights’ most rockin’ tune, “Poodle Rockin’,” a goofy dance party ditty that would have fit in nicely on Talking Heads ‘77. His whimsical mannerisms, witty verses, and sadly romantic understatements were second only to his sharp musical instinct. Though the humble band never engaged the audience with comforting between song remarks, asides, or rambling banter to break up the delicate tension, they handled themselves (and sundry instruments) professionally.

Surprisingly, they never appeared for an encore, even though the crowd clapped in unison and the soundman waited a few minutes before turning on the house lights and cranking up pre-recorded music. Nevertheless, between Euros’ compelling songs and his bands’ austere ability to interpret them well, the work they put into six underrated albums may finally be paying off.

FOREWORD: It’s unfortunate the Paramus Picture Show no longer exists. I didn’t have to drive from Ramsey to Hoboken or Manhattan for entertainment. This 2004 concert featured Loudon Wainwright and his increasingly popular daughter, Martha, doing separate sets. Martha’s folksy ’05 full-length debut was still in the works at this date. She’d follow that up with ‘08s even more compelling I Know You’re Married But I’ve Got Feelings Too.

Satirical entertainer Loudon Wainwright III and offspring Martha Wainwright took to Paramus Picture Show’s stage November 15^th for a snug acoustic affair. A witty troubadour inspired by Bob Dylan’s early ‘60s Greenwich Village gigs, patriarch Loudon has taken small acting roles (as M.A.S.H. singing surgeon Captain Calvin Spaldling; Big Fish Alabama mayor; Undeclared college dad; Grounded For Life urologist) while recording over a dozen respectable albums in 35 years.

Live, he blends hilarious topical one-liners and lyrical lampoonery with familial keepsakes and serious enumerations, free to wallow in his own crapulence like a wryly be-smirked Dean Martin, giddily blaming light audience turnout on a non-existent snowstorm after teasingly ridiculing two late patrons. His contorted facial expressions buttress the jive talkin’ glibness and sassy misanthropic requiems put forth so confidently, whether alluding to an obsessive 400 pound fan more enamored with Neil Young and Dylan, his hard-drinking namesake grandfather, or ‘no goody-two-skates’ Tonya Harding. On crazily paradoxical “Hank And Fred,” he recollects visiting Hank Williams grave on the day Mr. Rogers dies. Jersey beatnik/ ex-wife Suzze Roche and daughter Lucy unexpectedly took the stage ‘tween numbers for effacing duo caper “G Chord Song” and, reaching back to Loudon’s self-titled ’70 debut, offspring Martha helped out on a spiffy duet of “School Days.” Taking requests, he then did tragicomedy campfire absurdity “So Damn Happy” (from his most recent ’03 release). Before launching into Marty Robbins’ conventional Country comforter “End Of a Lonely Day,” he chortled ‘bout ’73 semi-hit “Dead Skunk” paying “a lot of child support,” but only gave us one verse of the roadkill parody to hang onto.

As for daughter Martha Wainwright, whom I first caught in ’98 at her initial New York show at defunct St. Mark’s club, Coney Island High, she opened the program with weepy reflections and childlike confessionals spanning three EP’s. Then a blossoming shorthaired late teen, now a sumptuous full-grown knock-out (check the tasteful bare cover of current Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole), melodramatic prince Rufus Wainwright’s voluptuous kid sister delicately fingered hollow-bodied acoustic with caressing restraint, allowing tactful sensitivity to enter each hushed performance. Bending quavering high notes into naked emotional anecdotes, Martha’s sad introspective lamentations faultlessly captured weary heartbroken serenity with utmost frustrated pathos. More dejectedly resolute though less theatrical than Rufus, and just as eloquently plaintive as Canadian singer-songwriter mother, Kate Mc Garrigle, the Brooklyn-based lass embraces tear-stained solemnity with the acute accuracy of an experienced bard. On the above-mentioned EP, elliptical post-Ragtime piano lullaby “How Soon,” dark Cathedral séance “It’s Over,” and strummed cross-gender titular complaint, “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole” instill longingly shadowy anguish in the listeners’ cranium. True admirers should seek out cherished genealogical aggregation The Mc Garrigle Hour.

Black Crowes/ Beacon Theatre/ February 25, 1999

Rarely have I seen so many rabid, diehard fans so consumed with a band like I did this snowy eve at the Beacon Theatre. But for those about to rock, the Black Crowes certainly salute you. And after seeing them live, I’m convinced they’re undoubtedly one of life’s great bohemian experiences.

Like a reborn Lynyrd Skynyrd sans the Confederate schtick, the Crowes came out offering their pot-toking thirtysomething fans a soulful, voodoo-like “Remedy” underneath the veneer of a silky silver backdrop and perfectly timed lighting. Most folks would agree the Rolling Stones severely influenced these honky tonkin’ roots-rockers. Just one look at guitarist Rich Robinson’s unkempt, free flowing locks, wiry frame, and dapper strut will convince you he’s doing a first class Keith Richards impersonation while his brother, flamboyant singer/ harpist Chris Robinson (decked out in a glittery magenta women’s jump suit), swaggers about and prances to and fro like fellow Glimmer Twin Mick Jagger.

But more often, the Crowes boozy roadhouse ramblers, rumbling boogie stompers (one track from the recent By Your Side skillfully recalled “Call Me The Breeze”), and two soulful backup female singers with maracas, brought back startling images of Skynyrd in their prime. And when the current stress track, the slide-glazed “Kicking My Heart Around,” began to roar from the speakers midset, several uninhibited chicks began dancing wildly in the aisles.