Second opener Michael John (the owner of Spring's label, Homerecorded Culture) played an odd and exquisitely gloomy set. Barefoot and wearing a dog collar (for the second anniversary of his dog's death), the Artist Formerly Known as Kind, Confused Man delivered a handful of baroque acoustic pieces that were not so much songs as fugues with vocals laid on top of them. Accompanied by Amelia Lynn--an otherworldly chanteuse in a Kmart dress--and in front of a backdrop of Seattle artist John Black's sullenly freakish cartoon paintings, the candlelit scene was remarkable, and drew me deeply into John's music (also released on a CD titled American Gothic) for the first time. The sincerity of John's theatrical vocal stylings is more apparent live than on a record; he is at his best when he just lets go and yells. John told the audience he was in "a bad mood," and as he seemed to let go of control, his "shitty set" of delicate, mopey songs was allowed to shine above concern. All in all John was restrained, highlighting his promise (which is mostly as yet unfulfilled); his performance hinted at hidden worlds and did not overstay its welcome.
When he took the stage (in comic, dime-store sunglasses)--with John behind a kit of congas and shakers, backed by the splendid Michael Hallett playing a steel acoustic guitar--Spring launched into a powerful selection from his record Meet the Sea... or Be Washed Up, a dozen devastating, complex, authoritative sea shanties of urban disconsolation. These Arizona natives (Spring and John) have a whole demimonde's story to tell, of motel courts and minimum wage, of drifting between an undifferentiated series of fluorescent-lit highway nightscapes. Unlike Tom Waits, Spring romanticizes nothing. One feels this world has always been on the periphery of his life. This is Boys Don't Cry without the hook of the transgression--just the unmoored sadness.
Spring also has the dead-right approach to playing covers: taking "Carry Me Away" from the lame original by Concrete Blonde and letting it bloom to its full height. When two vinyl guitar strings broke halfway through the plaintive "The Old Javelina," Spring stopped cold and resorted to a tiny steel-string guitar that looked like an outsize ukulele, playing a couple of songs from his folky debut Dashboard Tallies, Pedestrian Kills, followed by a slew of new material that was absolutely electrifying.
It was in the final 20 or so minutes of new songs that this artist's possibilities seemed more exciting than ever. Onstage at the Tractor he played the stripped-down, basic, unplugged elements of a powerful, full rock band, and that band is exactly what Spring's largesse really demands so desperately. I found myself thinking of the last live recordings of Jeff Buckley, where the swirl of emotions is given breath and noise in the loud, light arena of rock and roll. Spring's songs are at least as good as Buckley's, though he is no diva. But toward the end of his set the music took on a possessive force, particularly on "Santa Domingo," the closing number, which bookended with the sound-alike "Washed Up" that began the set. While 30 people blabbed and beer-bonged in the bar, the audience of 10 or 15 in front of the stage were going wild. Giving in to their demands, Spring stepped back up with his little guitar and effortlessly hammered out a lovely grace note, Bowie's "Rock and Roll Suicide."
The rare occasions when a band plays a perfect set (whatever that may mean: some force, a synchronicity between the songs) are an amazing experience. One feels incredibly lucky to have witnessed a special thing developing, just finding its feet. That experience was available on Wednesday night at the Tractor for those who were listening. Meet the Sea... or Be Washed Up is quite simply the best local record since Modest Mouse's second album. The record that begins with "Santa Domingo" is going to be better than best; it will be a classic.
