This blog has always had a soft spot for iconoclasts – songwriters who operate about a half-bubble off of plumb, a quietly defiant side-step out of the mainstream. Perhaps the best example of this is Warren Zevon, who left us with an indelible legacy of great songs before his untimely death in 2003. Take this deliciously skewed verse from 1991’s Mr. Bad Example album:
LeRoy says there’s something you should know
Not everybody has a place to go
And home is just a place to hang your head
Dream of things to do in Denver when you’re dead
Despite his prodigious musical talent, Zevon was no saint. I highly recommend reading “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead”, the unflinching (and authorized) biography written by his ex-wife Crystal. Warren Zevon’s interpersonal relationships were best described as ‘strained’, substance abuse occasionally derailed his career, and he had a quirky character that must have infuriated those closest to him. And yet he was able to succinctly express himself with his songs. Perhaps that’s why this craven hermit is so able to identify with him…
At any rate, I recently found myself rolling around Denver all day. I was in town for a concert at Red Rocks Amphitheatre (more on that below), so I arrived a couple of days early to do some hiking and sight-seeing. Inevitably, I started with an afternoon of trawling through Denver’s finest record shops. First up was Twist & Shout Records on East Colfax Avenue. I was impressed by the breadth of their new & used musical inventory – they stock pretty much everything from rock and soul to country and electronic music, from Taylor Swift to the seriously obscure. And their cavernous walls were adorned with all manner of rock paraphernalia.
Next up was Wax Trax Records on East 13th Avenue. This was more of an indie emporium, specializing in punk and the edgier fringes of new-wave. Mostly used records, but with enough new vinyl to keep me interested. As I scoured the racks for rare gems, I gleefully eavesdropped on the three hipsters behind the counter. It was a scene straight out of the film High Fidelity, with emphatically curated Top 5 lists and sarcastic comments galore. At one point they were debating which Rolling Stones album cover is the best (the correct answer, of course, is Let It Bleed). I gave one of the shopkeepers partial marks for his earnest defence of “Gimme Shelter” as the Stones’ finest hour, even though “Sympathy for the Devil” and “Monkey Man” are obviously a tiny bit better 🙂
All told, I came home with six new records for my collection. I was thrilled to snag a copy of the recently reissued debut by Manic Street Preachers. Only 500 copies of Generation Terrorists have been pressed on 180g black vinyl; one of those copies now resides with me! I was also overjoyed to pick up the new pressing of Matthew Sweet’s brilliantly engaging 100% Fun, now expanded onto a second 45 rpm platter with seven bonus tracks. I finally tracked down a copy of Eels’ broken-hearted masterpiece Electro-Shock Blues, the bleakness of which I partially offset with Blitzen Trapper’s live set from Third Man Records. There’s a new singles collection from the dearly departed Aretha Franklin that I can’t wait to spin, plus I made a rare foray into used LPs to pick up a copy of my favourite Split Enz songs. It was a productive and relaxing afternoon.
Most of Monday and Tuesday were spent shopping for hiking gear and walking around Denver, Lakewood, and Golden. My original intent was to spend a full day hiking in the mountains, but the weather conspired against me. Hiking in unfamiliar territory in the rain while the temperature flirts with the freezing point is not my idea of 100% fun. However, by show time on Tuesday I was itching to get outdoors, so I hiked the Trading Post Trail north of Morrison. I could hear the opening act sound-checking as I navigated my way between the massive red stone outcroppings.
The sun was setting behind the Rockies as concert-goers ascended the mist-enshrouded south ramp into Red Rocks Amphitheatre. The cold and damp weather was easily overlooked as we breathlessly anticipated a performance by The National, one of America’s finest rock bands. This was the scene about twenty minutes before show time:
Sharon van Etten opened the show with a 50-minute set. I’m not overly familiar with her music, but the songs I’ve heard over the years are pretty rootsy and mellow. Which meant I was pleasantly surprised that her band’s performance on this night employed lots of electronic textures and percussion. It was an excellent amuse-bouche for the headliners, who strode onto the stage in fingerless gloves at about 8:45 pm.
The National have been one of my favourite bands ever since I first saw them open for R.E.M. in Burnaby, BC all those years ago. At the time I enjoyed their Boxer and Alligator albums, but you really need to see these fellows in concert to truly appreciate their intensity. On record, The National’s music can seem a bit introspective, but in concert their emotions and personalities are on full display. And so it was on this drizzly October evening as the band played several songs from their latest, Grammy-winning album Sleep Well Beast.
The set was rounded out by a well-paced assortment of tracks from The National’s impeccable back-catalogue. For me, the highlights were “Bloodbuzz Ohio”, “Lemonworld”, and “Conversation 16”, all from their magnum opus High Violet. On this night they didn’t play my favourite song, “England”, but I consoled myself by patting Matt Berninger on the back as he wandered through my row singing “Sea of Love”. Matt’s mic cable roadie might just have the toughest gig in all of rock ‘n’ roll. I also gained a new appreciation for the sonic textures that brothers Bryce and Aaron Dessner conjure on stage, having finally watched them perform from close up.
The night closed with a barnstorming version of “Mr. November”, in which Matt expressed his disgust with the orange-hued pathological liar allegedly ‘leading’ his country (without naming any names). “Terrible Love” restored a sense of dignity to the proceedings, before an a cappella version of “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks” united the band and crowd in a full-throated sing-a-long.
As I made my way down the many, many slippery stone steps to my rental car, the songs reverberated in my head. The National’s tales of defiant melancholy and grace under pressure followed me onto the plane back home on Wednesday, and have stayed with me ever since. This craven hermit knows he’s very fortunate to make the occasional road trip to see his iconoclastic musical heroes. I can’t wait to pack my bags again.
Craven Hermit 