The owner of the bird laundromat on Fourth Street is humming to himself as he replaces detergent in the corner dispenser at 10 oclock on Wednesday night. I’m stopping in to see the place on the way to the Burrito Union next door. I used to wash diapers here after schlepping them down through lower Chester Park fifteen years ago.
The cages along the west wall seem empty, though the nesting boxes and green plants are still there. But the man filling the detergent dispenser says no, "this time of night they’re mostly hiding."
And as if in answer to my question three or four little grey finches with orange beaks pop out and fly to the wire fencing, singing their hearts out.
Next door the skinny guy from the Bitter Spills is hanging by the door with a few guitar cases, metal, patched fiberboard, on the damp sidewalk. He’s half out of the slow cold drizzle under the eaves of the Union, and he’s got a cigarette to finish before going in.
Sarah Morgan is already singing at her Suzuki keyboard, long legs in skinny jeans wrapped around each other. Her electric voice is almost leaping out of her throat. It’s a little more wired than might be comfortable for the comfortable, but it’s very comfortable for those who like things a little extreme. Her high glissandos are just a little mad, and the vibrato lifts her right off her note into microtonal girlness.
All goes smoothly until a second singer sets up to play with Morgan; this throws the sound off. It might be wise for the Union to invest in a sound person. The sound problems–undermiked voices, overamped guitars, echo and reverb, feedback–will continue all evening to greater and lesser degrees.
The audience appreciates Morgan’s inventive lyrics and wild voice, and a bunch leave when she’s done. Next up is Uncle Kenny, or Kenny Kalligher, who has even more sound problems than Morgan. His act is dependent on the lyrics of his songs, which are indistinct; and he’d like more audience participation, which is hard to drum up. The stage-less nature of the Union makes it harder for artists to command the attention of the crowd.
But it’s not impossible: the Bitter Spills (Baby Grant Johnson and Rich Mattson), impressive musicians both, play really traditional folk in tight unison or close harmony, playing a range of guitars (dobro, acoustic six-string and twelve-string, solid-body electric for a Johnny Cash take) and harmonica, while singing the words of the dead.
Something about trad folk like this must be liberating for musicians. You’re not making anything up. You’re playing the Revised Standard Version. You’ve got a right to your ringing chords, you’re responsible to the words, you owe them the clearest articulation. You can trust the tune to carry you as long as you carry the tune.
Their version of "Shenandoah" is particularly fine, a whole new reading that gives the thing emotional weight. So different from the one we sang in third-grade music class . . .
