Peter Case

Eden On The Line–review of a show in Brighton!

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Now that I’m scheduled for another tour of the UK, I’m taking the opportunity to post a review from the last tour.

Peter Case in Brighton

transparent.pngTHURSDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2012 AT 4:06PM

The best of Peter Case’s songs suck you in to their own little worlds so deftly that you shiver with the final chord, like shaking awake from a dream. You’ve been there, inside, seeing what he’s been seeing…

‘Entella Hotel’ has a small crowd at Brighton’s Latest Bar rapt and, when it’s evocation of living the lowlife in San Francisco is over, Case’s collaborator tonight, Michael Weston King, speaks for us all:

‘That’s not just one of my favourite Peter Case songs, it’s one of my favourite songs by anyone, ever.’

There are barely thirty people in the room and Case is so good, that’s crazy. I shake his hand afterwards and tell him he should be playing to thousands. ‘Maybe in another life,’ he replies wryly.

He’s 58 now and has been making solo albums since his classic self-titled debut in 1986. Prior to that he played in a couple of punky bands the Nerves and the Plimsouls. He’s an accomplished guitarist, picking blues licks on an open-tuned acoustic with drive and no little finesse – but it’s feel and impact rather than scrupulous technique that he goes for. His voice is distinctive, clear and expressive, with occasional echoes of John Lennon; his look is equally his own – imagine a beatnik Willy Rushton after an all night session…

 

This is the last night of a short tour with Weston King, a British country singer-songwriter and formerly one of the Good Sons. The set up is like a folkfest workshop: the pair sitting next to each other and trading songs, occasionally joining in to accompany each other. They open with a fine joint reworking of Tom Russell’s ‘Blue Wing’. Weston King has a decent voice and is friendly and engaging, but Case’s songs are in a different league from his and so – like a folkfest workshop – the intensity and energy level in the room tends to fluctuate as the spotlight shifts.

Peter Case likes to tell stories between songs, as well as in them, and we get a long tale of buying in to Bob Dylan’s self-mytholigising of running away to hit the road as a child. And, since Case grew up in Buffalo, his route out was Highway 62 – which runs all the way to the Mexican border at El Paso, via the birthplaces of Woody Guthrie and Buddy Holly… Cue a splendid take on Dylan’s ‘Pledging My Time’, re-imagined as country blues.

He’s ready to mix in some old songs, like ‘Put Down The Gun’ (drawn, like ‘Entella Hotel’, from his second album Blue Guitar*) and even responds to a shouted request for the Plimsouls’ ‘Oldest Story In The World’. But he is clearly ambivalent about crowd-pleasing: he agonises over a request for ‘Old Blue Car’ and eventually turns in as an alternative, seemingly-improvised blues which he dubs ‘New Old Blue Car’.

He also conveniently forgets my bid for the great ‘Two Angels’. When I remind him afterwards he tells me that the song has just been featured in a TV show, providing the soundtrack as two vampires make love ‘which, amazingly enough, is exactly what I was thinking of when I wrote the song…’

My partner and I reflect on the way home on the entirely random way that audience size correlates to talent. OK, someone like Case is always likely to be in the cult hero bracket, rather than a household name. That said, the cult really ought to be a little less exclusive. She points out that Peter is just as a good a singer, songwriter and guitarist as, say, Steve Earle, and of a similar vintage. But Steve is capable of drawing an audience in Brighton about a hundred times the size of tonight’s. Go figure.

And go and see Peter Case at the very next opportunity: you won’t regret it.

 

*and if you’re not yet familiar with his second album’s full title, try this for size: The Man With The Blue Postmodern Fragmented Neo-traditionalist Guitar. Yep, that’s about it.

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Can’t Stop Shakin’ & I Don’t Know Why

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conspiracies–I never thought about them on the grey November—in the backyard with a football—“the president’s been shot”—it never occurred until Rolling Stone started blowing on their trumpet—or maybe news of Garrison—as time passed I began to feel the enormity of the wounds of those killings—then, late nights alone, reading the lore—a quickening of all the senses—life—ah yes—and it made as much sense as the tale of a lone gunman—sympathy & identification with Oswald—not as a killer but as a young lost soul—then feeling the truth was being revealed—as waves of contradiction pursued across the airwaves—lines of print arranged to re-confuse? And explanations for the explanations: the theories soothe, help us deal with the mysterious uncontrollable forces—but the truth mattered & I know a little about that—the sense of truth seems to get stronger as I get older tho’ that may be an illusion—see? you will always struggle with these tales—making sense of evil is a tricky business—and now absurd theories of Clinton sex cults & murders—explain what?—Obama birth in Kenya explains…the theorist’s anxieties—away—a glimpse behind the veil—the curtain that dropped a long time ago—Jon said “watch who keeps winning no matter what.”

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Sugar

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so white & dry & innocent but evil—the sweetness that creates a sucking sound—a light in every dark heart—candy lives that go down easy  attention spans that spin at the sour—the dirty truth you have to get down on your hands & knees to ride—the faint trail in the dust that leads out through the lines—white footsteps in the green wet grass straight to—SUGAR ISLAND where the deal goes down—kill for a mouthful to bury this turpentine taste—the big size drinks at the asphalt corner stand—in a big plastic sweating cup—each sip leads unbearably to the next ’til yr teeth fall out, your waist is dragging like a swollen hula hoop—yr breath is shorter than a fullback’s book report. Sugar has its spot at the very top of the pyramid, like King Tut or the Sphinx—sugar the universal solvent—more potent than alcohol? A brighter name in the Poison Hall Of Fame—oh we all love to lick the pan—let our tongue lead the way through wisps & crisps of alleys & chiffon floating sweetness—her voice was thin & pinched everybody called HER sugar & she gave them something very sweet that soon rotted their teeth—its a ballast without it I fall sooner than later like learning to walk on Saturn or Jupiter where my weight is doubled but no float is for free—you pay in perfect pounds—its an aphrodisiac—or not? A replacement.

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Dylan (the gifts)

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The companionship of Watching The River Flow, later Tangled Up In Blue, and others—Dignity I pulled the car over when I first heard it on the radio—Jokerman–I brought home and alone listening was transfixed—it was riveting—so alive—earlier I learned that white & black folk music go together—that the sound of the words is as important as anything—somehow it led me to Shakespeare—Kerouac also a part of this—the WORD—Eliot as a kid—Stevens—now Notley—that life is an adventure, an opportunity, is important.    Life—is holy—Death so powerful—the mystery—anima—the invisible world—the champions of civil rights—the dignity & value & stature he brought to rock & roll & folk—music etc—is no small thing—he made me want to live, to strive, to contend—wisdom of the street—the vision the powerful sweep & scope—Chimes of Freedom—It’s All Right, Ma—Baby Blue—he sang for freedom of the spirit & the soul—”the guardians and protectors of the mind”–“it is not he or she or them or it that you belong to”– ““an’ mine shall be a strong loneliness dissolvin’ deep/t’ the depths of my freedom/an’ that, then, shall/
remain my song”

–“don’t put on any airs when you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue”—“when you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing to lose” —“she’s got everything she needs she’s an artist, she don’t look back” —“she never stumbles, she’s got no place to fall”–  like Bob in ’64-’65—(“he never stumbled” said Penny)– when I was a teen—“somebody got lucky but it was an accident”–  “goin’ back to New York City I do believe I’ve had enough”– (marvelling at the chaos of life & New York.) The beauty of Girl From The North Country—Went To See The Gypsy hit me in my 1971 isolation—at my biker friend Rose’s Cadillac dealership, waiting in the parking lot for her to get off work– in the days before I left town for good—the last song that moved me like that for a while—’til Billy—which also I loved & identified with–Billy’s trouble as I was on the lam 70’s style—so vivid & finally got that great inscription in the pink lyrics book perused at the SF bookstore two thousand miles from my home—“to all those high on life—from all corners of the wild blue yonder.”

*  Long Time Gone, an early Dylan song, from my cd “HWY 62” on Omnivore Recordings, 2016.

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The Plimsouls With Horns!

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(The first track on our first album, “Lost Time,”  featured legendary arranger/ musician Harold Battiste leading a horn section that also included Jackie Kelso from Gene Vincent & the Bluecaps. The horns at one point in the tune backed up a screaming feedback solo from Eddie Munoz. The Plimsouls were hard to categorize but they always rocked. Below is the story of our first ever session with the horns, played by Steve Berlin, and Marty Jourard)

Out in Paramount—south of the city–rain in torrents—sandwiched between Downy’s old school working-class and Compton’s black working class & struggle—the main drag—Rosecrans Avenue—on an industrial mini-mall—a rented shell of a room we shared with a band called the Apples—driving in the slanting rain with the wipers full blast dry in the car but all my clothes are damp—from the backseat of Eddies VW bug—Steve Berlin our friend with the tight pants and the tucked in shirt—serious—& Marty from the Motels—each with golden brass saxophones—and we stood in a circle & began to play—Otis & Wilson & the sound of the horns was big & bright & fat & full of wind & force of pride & power—the music came up from under my ribs & lower & burst full color into the rain soaked atmosphere—the humidity which made the whole experience that much heavier—the smell of cigarette smoke & wet hair—the lack of any comfort in the room mattered not—the water was rising in the parking lot, coming up over the sidewalk—a flood—but the band with horns—blasting—crying—calling in glory of a sound we made that amazed us—heart beats quickened—playing on and on—‘cause it just sounded so big & good & real—the antidote to everything—every poison—forever.

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Puppy

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in my arms a warm & quivering vibration of life and heat & emotions—the smell of dust & fields in summertime—a scent of shampoo—the soft funny rising of the ears at sounds  wiggling & waggling & settling into my fold—her eyes are bright & glittering—innocent in their return—the tail a pointed snaky thing—a flag on a stick—black paws—soft & shiny—leathern—and pure white pointed teeth—sharp— a slight little gnawing & your hand is drawing back in a hurry the crunching teeth on a wooden toy—she leaps up & kisses me on the mouth—wetness all over—& pfui—I don’t want her germs in my mouth—but it’s ok & her wet nose against my dry skin—it’s cool—she’s down & running circles until I’m dizzy—spinning & dodging through our feet—barking a high pitched yip & a yowl like talking—I feel calm & happy holding her our love begins to kindle.

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Tour’s over/ Bill Evans

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Bill Evans if you’ve ever fallen in love with someone and its late at night & time stops–the futures beautiful but sad and pretty complicated the way the moments of glory become the next moments of doubt–life & death putting off the disaster–the reckoning–the bill will come due–the piper will be paid in full at midnight—tho’ the air is clear the horns are muted the traffic outside occasional–a whoosh & the moon crawls over–the stars wheel & you fall asleep earlier than me it’s all worth it to be here with you–it’s ok we’ll pay & live to see another day–some better & some worse blue shades drawn green sky at dawn & the moments balanced on a crescent. A kiss the touch of your skin the beating of our hearts–our breaths entwined it’s good now & true forever as the clock turns eternity on its wheel [head] I don’t know what will happen–we’ve thrown the dice–picked up the phone & dialed heaven—there will be a moment and a series & an epoch—the night will answer our fears & it’s on our side no running now stand up and take it–three a.m. forever–melts into lessons–trials melt into sentences–sentences into freedom and we’re free to love forever, tonight

Blue In Green:

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Dionysius–calling on line 2

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the one who led you on into the night following a musical call—we poured our hearts out into the charge of the air—gave up the separations & intellectual positions & walls of reserve—it melted at the pitch & we all went with it—there was no right or wrong—no individuals, just waterfalls of roaring sound—a surrender to the light & the rumble of quick silver, mercury, molten steel, red elastic, death defeated just for a while, lost the voice talking to me now its drained out—these were the moments we chased—loud electric rock & roll—a mess—no concise message but a big fat head & mouth—rewarded by the love & charm of the crowd—they crushed together too, in the heat, the jostling, the tight contact of bodies—nothing reserved nothing hidden—& the music hit moments where it seemed to create itself—spring out of there with new power—I’d always hold a little back—style in these moments—the jacket shed     the hair      sweaty & messed  the roar of guitar feedback  & drum rolls      Dionysius—God against death—the poison the trance the escape—

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I didn’t know…

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what I didn’t know

where the roads through town wound up

how far away you could get in just a little time

people would smile but not mean what they say

others would frown but not let you down

the power of even the smallest creature in the world

I didn’t know why I should go to school

or why it was time to go home

who shot the Kennedys and Martin Luther King

what they were doing upstairs

made a lot of noise but the sounds were strange

I didn’t know I’d remember you for the rest of my life

I didn’t know I’d regret the way I didn’t step up or out

I was a coward then I didn’t want to be alone

I never really got back then that we all grow old & die

or how fast the stream of time rolls by

I thought I could handle the juice

but it would manhandle me

I didn’t know how much I’d struggle

to carry that old guitar

those days we’d traipse across the city long

with a guitar stretching my arm

I still didn’t know

what the people upstairs were up to

with that crazy electric sound

that the old people hadn’t always been old

that the big war was fought just a few short years before

why he wanted me to move in at the house

we’d stop talking & run

didn’t know the world could feel this dangerous

that he’d be shouting at the end of his speech

how little I’d remember of the things that meant so much

how much I could love a dog

the city I knew vanished when I went down South

a lot of these times would become stories

and the stories became cliches

I didn’t know they’d have to operate

didn’t know I’d feel this beat

didn’t know the trends I thought were bad

would rise up & take control

I didn’t know I’d need to know your birthday

didn’t know I’d get so blue

didn’t know relief was just a prayer away

I could ask at any time for relief

all you got to do is ask

I could start my day again

didn’t know to start this one right

didn’t know I’d need gratitude.

I thought I knew but didn’t

who was coming down the street

or listening from the back of the room

or that day we said goodbye on Broadway

was the last time that we’d ever meet

didn’t know I’d be wondering about you

didn’t think I could know what to do

life is lived in the moments

lines are collected on scraps

friends are all friends forever

there are places you can’t find on maps

there are secrets that won’t be

I didn’t know I’d have enough money

to survive even tho’ I went broke

I couldn’t see how my mother & father

could have acted that way & not choked

the ones that we paid scant attention

are the ones who would bring the house down

I didn’t know I coulda taken it easy

& let the whole world come my way

I was confused & deceived in my thinking

somehow I gave all my power away

oh well there’s always…today.

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What I sing about…

• Events, Notebook • 5 Comments

my themes from the first— time passing, watching the clock in a confined and false reality—trusted friends, soldier boys who stand aloof from the world—love as masquerade—hanging in & hangin’ on—hoping for a change a miracle–looking romance in the eye—watching the streets & the horizons—for a shift—resentment at police pressure on my dream life & physical existence—time and distance—seemingly impossible to bridge—stranded—need for love—the escape of prisoners—the dream going bust after going for broke–a magic touch—impossible situations against terrible odds, slim chances seized—escape routes in everyday life—justice—it’s perversion and potential—desperate situations met with a plea for simple magic-like talk—reaching out to the sidewalk refugees & closet suicides offering a spiritual solution & some companionship—the surrealism of Big Town Saturday Night  America, of small town walkers on that same big evening—staying out all night avoiding the curfew—under stars & streetlights  the waxing & waning moons—desperate attempts against time, isolation, “normal” life, longing for beauty contact & love with the sympathetic spirits—the victims of violence struggle for sanity, serenity, dreams, visions, reality.

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