by Louis Black
I’m standing in the back of a ballroom in the cellar of the Toronto Hilton this
past weekend in Canada, during the second North by Northeast Music and Media
Conference (NXNE) watching the songwriters panel. It is not really a panel, as
each songwriter performs a few songs. Even those who are usually rockers get up
with a guitar and give the “I wrote this song one afternoon in Montreal…” or
“I wrote this song because…” introduction, and play and sing — good
songwriters all. Then Hamell on Trial gets up and explodes, with machine-gun
guitar playing and beat talking and rhythmic street storytelling propelled by
unusually powerful singing. He rips the place apart. North by Northeast is co-sponsored by Now magazine from Toronto and we
are simply American partners assisting this Canadian event. Standing in the
back of a panel at a conference — any conference — I tend to lose track of
where I am. What city, which conference, what time, and who: Who is this I’m
talking to and who am I? Between SXSW, NXNE, and North by Northwest in
Portland, Oregon, and other side projects thrown in, SXSW has overseen 25 or so
separate events in the last 10 years, (and each and every one of those weeks
there was also an issue of the Chronicle to be published). These all run
together and fall on top of each other, eventually. At some meetings, I keep
myself awake by trying to remember which hotel room goes with which city. But
as I’m standing there watching Hamell, I’m startled into a clarity I rarely
maintain. This is not just a performance: This is an assault. Hamell is in
control, Hamell is changing the rules, Hamell knows what he is doing. During
the song tears begin welling in my eyes, whether because of the intensity of
the assault or because I’m close to an exhausted emotional meltdown, I’m not
sure.
There is the music — this big, ripping, steadfast sound, and I drift back to
the first time I saw Ed Hamell, one night on ACTV while channel surfing. There
he was — the same intensity, the same sure-footed speed story-telling. What a
surprise, then, catching him again and again on different access shows. Seeing
him live. Watching him build a following, become a star, play the Austin Music
Awards, sign a contract, move away. Here, in Toronto, he is leveling the house.
I think about Austin, but not too much. I think about music, but only a
little. Mostly, I slide into the song and stop thinking, stop focusing. Alert
and present, I roll with the song and for a few minutes, there is no job, the
terrible longing for my family is eased, there are no thoughts of this paper
and all its responsibilities — business and editorial and personal — there is
only the music, in all its surprising and purifying power. A man and a guitar
in a hotel ballroom, taking us all along for his wild ride. n
This article appears in June 21 • 1996 and June 21 • 1996 (Cover).