Live Shots
Fri., May 16, 1997
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MARY CHAPIN CARPENTER
Paramount Theatre, May 2
A Mary Chapin Carpenter show sure seems like the last place that a round of golf would break out, but sure enough, her show at the Paramount was a little like the Masters; not because the racial make-up of the crowd was as monochromatic as that of the gallery on the 18th at Augusta National, but rather because a guy behind me was wearing a green jacket, and about a half-dozen songs into the evening, Carpenter took time to introduce her band and called her bass player -- in fine Fuzzy Zoeller fashion -- "A fine boy." In case you weren't there or couldn't see, Carpenter's bass player is black. Now, nobody got up and walked out in disgust. Nobody rushed the stage to tattoo Carpenter with a giant scarlet "R." And this is pure speculation here, but it's probably safe to guess that Carpenter hasn't lost any lucrative corporate sponsorships (if she had any) due to the remark, nor has she canceled future shows until she apologizes to whichever groups she's supposed to apologize to for things like that. Then again, the CNN cameras weren't around. Anyway, as for the actual show, Carpenter played plenty of material from her latest, A Place in the World, as well as the obligatory string of hits ("Passionate Kisses," "I Take My Chances," etc). It was all very pretty, but pretty in a surreal way. Everything -- the songs, the arrangements, even the humor -- was so well choreographed and rehearsed that it took on an artificial hue. Removing all the risk removed the spark that a live show is supposed to have. The whole experience felt like watching a sterilized video version of the concert instead of an actual concert. Actually, the crowd was so eager to enjoy it, Carpenter could have easily beamed the whole thing in and gotten a similar response. Thank heavens, then, for Dwight Yoakam, who stepped out on stage during the dream-sequence portion of "I Feel Lucky" where Carpenter fantasizes that Yoakam and Lyle Lovett are checking her out. His appearance, and a spontaneous Marge Gunderson imitation by Carpenter (oh, and the quasi-racial gaffe), were the only indications that this show was indeed a unique event. -- Michael Bertin
JULIANNA SHEFFIELD
Speakeasy, May 3
Finesse. Not just a shampoo anymore, it's something Julianna Sheffield and her four sidemen had plenty of on a Saturday night in Austin -- not that the crowd at the Speakeasy was interested in the least. All they wanted was to get drunk and get laid. Hard as it may be for any woman who ever dragged her glassy-eyed boyfriend away from an 81/2 Souvenirs show to believe, Sheffield was not the center of attention. She wasn't exactly in the background, mind you; with that voice, she never could be. Elusive and engrossing as her elfin eyes, Sheffield's voice caresses each lyric like a precious memory from childhood: delicate, priceless, and enduring. It lit her from within on "So Nice To Come Home To" and "Our Love Is Here to Stay," a soft glow illuminating familiar words and feelings. A bit on the mezzo-soprano side of alto, her voice is still husky enough to throw a little competition Erykah Badu's way -- R&B's current It Girl isn't the only comely young Texan who knows her way around a Lady Day song. Veering from the straight Harlem shuffle of "I Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good)" to the languid Latin pulse of "When a Love Affair Is Over" followed by an exquisite "Mood Indigo," Sheffield knew exactly when to let her voice take control, and when to slink back, smile mysteriously, and let the horn players do their thing. Trumpeter Ephraim Owens and guitarist Darren Lane shone throughout, especially on "Love Affair"; bassist Luis Guerra and drummer Conrad Meissner waited 'til "Time After Time" to really go off, whipping up a steamy rhythm break that actually made more than the few people who were dancing pay attention. Drum solos always do that. Sheffield could've done all jazz arrangements of Misfits and Minor Threat songs and the majority of the audience would have snapped their fingers and puffed their cigars just like back home when they practice in front of the mirror to that Squirrel Nut Zippers video on MTV. See how much they missed?
-- Christopher Gray
NATALIE COLE
Paramount Theatre, May 6
"Well, it's only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea, but it wouldn't be make-believe, if you believed in me." Oh, I believed alright, fool that I am. Sitting with a sold-out house in Austin's regal Paramount Theatre, dazzled by the green bandstand, orchestra of 30, and elegant white drapings hanging from the ceiling, visions danced in my head; my grandmother's stories of jazz orchestras serenading her and my grandfather in San Antonio way back in the Thirties and Forties -- cobweb scenes of a time long-past and romance to make the heart ache. Poof! Gone the moment Natalie Cole entered duetting with her father, Nat King Cole. Christ, talk about hokey. Yes, yes, we know it's now possible for performers to sing with someone 30 years dead, but one has only to offer the Beatles' "Free As a Bird" as evidence that this technological breakthrough might be right up there with splitting atoms. Next, "Paper Moon" was sung without the hint of irony that I was already feeling. "We're gonna make some kind of love to you tonight," said Cole in her cooing, babydoll voice, "sometimes fast, sometimes slow." In that dress, honey, you're on, but with that music, wake me when you're done. "These are the most unforgettable songs of all time." True, songs like "Orange Colored Sky," "Stardust," "Route 66," as well as tunes stamped with the imprints of Peggy Lee ("Without You"), Ella Fitzgerald ("A-Tisket, A-Tasket"), and Sarah Vaughan ("Send in the Clowns") are classic, but as sung by Cole, the stage set had more personality. The crowd roared when she sang Ella, and "Send in the Clowns" did Sarah proud, but mostly, Cole is all mid-range, devoid of highs and lows. And who said jazz divas have to be all sultry `n' spice? They're allowed to belt it out. Just ask local Connie Kirk. Yet every time Cole let loose a bit, she'd reign it back in, content to swing within imaginary boundaries -- possibly the same boundaries set by her "Daddy" all those years ago: middle-of-the-road hokum. (Yes, his early stuff is classic, but as the years passed so did his fire.) And the set-ending, Cole-on-Cole duet of "Unforgettable," complete with video memorial? Right out of VH-1. After a 70-minute main set, Cole cut the first encore, "Avalon," short, seemingly unable to get out of Austin fast enough. That's fine. We remember, honey, before Unforgettable, when you were just another R&B diva littering the landscape of the Seventies. We remember, "It's a Barnum & Bailey world, just as phony as it could be."
-- Raoul Hernandez
DIANA JONES
Cactus Cafe, May 7
Brian's Song, the demise of the Pixies, red onions, Billie Holiday's "Good Morning Heartache," thoughts of my old dog Sid, a sharp stick, and now Diana Jones. Is there no end to the list of things that can make a body weep? Unabashed emotional outpouring, languishment, longing, and massive coronary breakdown permeate all of her songs for a cerebral whipping you won't soon forget. Heartbreak moves through the center of her catalog like a slowly rending iceberg, and the gathering of self from the diluvial wreckage is the process from which Jones' songs are born. She has a knack for the ethereally poetic; an effortless turn of a phrase in its juxtaposition between subject matter and delivery will put a lump in your throat faster than a bean-filled tamale. Her voice falls somewhere between (to keep the references pseudo-local, like Jones herself who is originally from New York) the sultry croon of Julianna Sheffield and the breathy-sweet lilt of Shawn Colvin. In her feistier moments, Jones slides from high and clean on down to a growl with intentional dramatic effect, while the other 95% of the time she maintains a pure tonal range that never falters. She seems the consummate professional and the studied singer-songwriter, staying within American folk parameters while using blues and country elements that complement rather than alter. Occasionally, as in "Wild Country," a song written about Tucson before she'd been there, the pain seems a bit too real -- heartfelt to the point of hypersensitivity. But even then, sentiment doesn't sink to sap, buoyed by her flawless playing and engaging stage presence. Unfortunately, this was Jones' last performance until September, as she's heading back to New York for the dry season . So long to another beautiful batch of eastwardly-escaping music that will have to wait out the hot Texas summer in the back reaches of my mind.
-- Christopher Hess
KATHY MCCARTY
Flipnotics, May 8
Ever the picture of perfect composure, Kathy McCarty explodes at jarring random intervals with bursts of spit and bile not typically characteristic of most women as primly coiffed and as mild-mannered appearing as she -- our ultimate Nineties Gibson Girl. Actually, she's been wielding a Guild acoustic of late, her electric Gibson and Fender retired for the time being. Her acoustic duo with guitarist Kris Nelson (who's toured with both McCarty and Lena Lovich) is the perfect forum for fleshing out new songs that cry and bend, wind and sigh with the same pulsating intensity as her signature works like Glass Eye's "Christine" or Daniel Johnston's "Living Life." Over a third of each live set highlights new, tortured torch songs like "Obelisk," about something "smooth, round, hard and black" hanging in her chest, or "Summer Country," which jabs like an obelisk in my chest every time I hear her mention foreign lands in lyrics imploring, "Stay with me...." Her truly funny between-song patter usually consists of some pithy remark about how this or that number is also about how much life sucks or how Jon Dee Graham inspired a certain song ("You wouldn't believe how many of my songs are inspired by that bastard."). She reminds me so much of Jo Carol Pierce between songs and even sometimes right in the middle of them with her heartstabbing concussions of real life. McCarty happens to cover Jon Dee and Jo Carol in her set along with Duke Ellington, Spinal Tap, and even the goddamned Pixies. Surprisingly, she doesn't cover any Richard Thompson, who also bleeds in tune and in some distant way might be channeled by McCarty. Lest you think her repertoire a total downer, let me assure, Kathy McCarty is probably one of the least cynical people you'll ever have the pleasure of hearing. It's just that the flush of her anguish has such a nice ring to it. -- Kate X Messer
