By: Pat O'Brien
Sometimes I surprise other people when I tell them I like a certain band, but I hardly ever surprise myself. It happened three times in quick succession on Saturday night but there was no getting around it: I like country. Well, some of it. But this wasn't necessarily all country, either. Not the way the modern world looks upon it at least. The aesthetic was there: no-frills lyrics, a workhorse ethic toward the music; but there was something in all of these bands that left little fractures in my jaded musical soul.
The first thing that struck me about Western Fifth was how much they didn't “look” like a country band. That was a good thing, as cowboy hats and giant belt buckles would have sent me scrambling for an exit. The black tees, Chuck Taylors and occasional beard betrayed what they were about to tell the audience, but it made a little bit more of an impact when they did. Much of their stuff was like listening to The Replacements if they had hired Steve Earle to do their arrangements for them, and then tossed a trumpet in from time to time to round things out. The lyrics were rich in imagery and the music was spare at turns, despite having six group members onstage, but as they got rolling it sort of felt like you'd been hit in the head with a bar of soap shoved into a sock—it was a lot to digest, emotionally. The songs had a worn, frayed-at-the-edges feel as if they had emerged, fully formed, from the drawer of some long-forgotten piece of furniture in the basement of an even longer-forgotten, broken-down farmhouse.
Maybe lead singer Ryan Holweger has had his heart plucked from his chest and tossed into the nearest muddy ditch and maybe he hasn't, but if the latter is true, I'd be amazed. The lyrics were some of the saddest, most broken-hearted I had ever heard, save for the chorus of “Lose Yourself” (“Go ahead and lose yourself, you'll be found by someone else”), which was, comparatively, this band's equivalent of an uplifting pop song. Holweger sounds a bit like the 'Mats Paul Westerberg at times too, which added to the grizzled, gritty feel of the music, and by the end of their 40-minute set, I was a fan.
Madison, Wisc. natives Brown Derby looked like they had just stepped out of the Sun Records studios, circa 1957. Lead singer John Kunert had a western shirt adorned with big, smiling oranges on the shoulders and on the back. There were beards galore and I think I spotted a pair of overalls. While some of the crowd, this writer included, debated where you might procure a shirt like Kunert's (eBay, as it turns out), they started in with a brand of country that I happen to like, a lot. It reminded me of George Jones without all—well, as much of—the drinkin' (their album is titled This Drinkin' Life, after all), Waylon and Hank Sr. This was straight ahead, grandpappy's-record-collection country: not a trace of irony, down on its luck, and soaked in whiskey.
Kristen Kehl's mandolin lent a haunting tone to a few of the songs and her harmonizing with Kunert was what really won me over. It's not what's “hip” these days, necessarily, but it was certainly no less deserving of attention. Lately, it seems that this genre is being looked at again for inspiration, and for good reason. I could go on all day about “modern” country and its downfalls, but this was modern—they are a brand new band. None of it was calculated, none of it designed to gatecrash the country charts or take the world by storm. It was from the heart. Much of today's country has very little of that.
The Ashtray Hearts hurt, and they want you to hurt along with them. The wounded-soul balladry of their music crept up on me as their set wore on. At first, it seemed they were the alt.country version of The Hold Steady; later they seemed like a less guilt-ridden Gear Daddies. While there were traces of both of those bands, though, they were staunchly set on looking further back than that. They recorded their last album on vintage analog equipment, and they use an accordion and an organ, which immediately makes me think of the '50s (or at least my grandparents).
The music would be right at home in one of those downer road-type movies from the '70s. Hearing “Exits” made me think of the end of Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, that buddy movie from 1974 with Eastwood and Jeff Bridges that ends with Jeff Bridges dying in the passenger seat of a convertible after enduring a brutal beating. “You don't look so good, kid,” says Eastwood, and just pulls the car into drive, disappearing down the sun-drenched highway. The music is sad like that (and “Exits” could have scored that scene perfectly) but, unlike the movie which just fades to black, there's hope at the end the songs; like maybe just talking it out will solve everything or at least make us feel a little bit better about what's to come, whether it be a tempest or a whimper. I walked away from the show with a few scars healed, but a couple of old wounds were attempting to open back up—and that's what good music is supposed to do.
Location Info:
Uptown Bar and Café
Artist Info: Brown Derby, The Ashtray Hearts, Western Fifth
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