Eclectic Company: Jubilation Day

One of the most satisfying moments in last night’s entirely delicious, pointillistically-paced concert by Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers happened like this: The Rangers, having just wrung us out with a four-part a cappella gospel number in gorgeous layers of climbing spirals of ecstatic sound, were handed lyric sheets by Martin, who herded them center-stage around the vocal mic once again to sing close harmony with him on “Atheists Have No Songs,” his bathetic lament for a hymnless people. I nearly wet my pants whooping and hollering away in the third row, as the chorus counted off the ways that religious groups use music to express their faith, and with faux sympathy concluding that Atheists may have the blues and rock and roll, but they’ve got nothing truly spiritual. In their open-throated shirts and natty modern suits, the Rangers nevertheless managed to look like Confederate soldiers just stepped out of a daguerreotype, while Martin in spectacles and impeccable tailoring looked like an Academy Awards emcee. Together, they were priceless.

Starting with his low-key welcome, and ending with a final encore of his GRAMMY-winning “King Tut,” the show was Martin’s, as he emceed, conducted, and starred in smooth, smart, and unhurried arrangements and choreography designed to showcase his and the Steep Canyon Rangers’ strengths, down to the very last syllable of their spontaneous exchanges. The single long set moved along smartly but unhurried through many of the standouts on Martin’s 2009 album The Crow (he shined when frailing the album’s medley of trad tunes in a quiet solo slot, and when fingerpicking subtle lead lines on his self-penned numbers) and included some of his new instrumentals and serious/funny lovesongs, including “Jubilation Day,” about the end of a relationship, and the sweetly chorused “You,” whose message was a little harder to follow without a lyric sheet or a double take. Look for both of those numbers to make it to his next record, to be recorded this time in tandem with the Rangers.

But if Martin’s music and banjo-playing provided the raison d’etre and framework for the show, the Steep Canyon Rangers’ fancy fretwork put flesh on the bone, as the band turned in flawless instrumental and vocal solos, duets, and ensemble numbers, making my hair stand on end with glorious, effortless part-singing. During their spotlight mini-set midway through the evening, I wanted to shout for my favorites from the Rangers’ 2009 record Deep In The Shade, but I refrained and they delivered on their own choices, especially “Turn Up The Bottle [And Drink It Down].” And that a cappella number? Who knew that twinkling lanky fiddler Nicky Sanders had such a muscular treetop tenor? How could I guess that slender banjo player Graham Sharp (who managed no mean feat, pulling a guitar solo like a rabbit out of his banjo) could sing bass like Sha-Na-Na’s Bowser? Or that guitarist and lead vocalist Woody Platt could channel Tim O’Brien when called upon?

When we got to the end of the set, Martin told us that no prior audience had been able to resist giving the band a standing ovation for their performances on his “Calico Train,” a number that let every instrument pick enough to draw roars for virtuosity, especially Charles Humphrey III’s slap bass solo, and Mike Guggino’s lightning-round mandolin chording. As Martin had urged, the audience surged to its feet for an extended ovation, with cries for encores. Which was where the evening went right over the top. With Sanders’ kickoff on fiddle and vocal train whistles, we were treated to a wild ride on the “Orange Blossom Special,” which practically sawed through Sanders’ violin bow’s hair. I asked later how he managed on the road, playing such fiery licks. “I carry three bows with me,” he said. “How many are left?” I worried, knowing they were on their way to a Jazzfest gig immediately followed by several days performing at a stellar bluegrass event, Merlefest. “I only have one left,” Sanders admitted. “But I’ll be able to get fixed up as soon as I get to North Carolina,” he smiled. Oh right, bluegrass festival. He should be able to get fixed up right in the parking lot.

Afterwards, not wanting to lose the musical buzz, I made my way downtown to Sylvia’s for more aural entertainment. There I planned to listen to Lisa Marshall, a pint-sized big-voiced R&B singer breezing through town from Austin. Ms. Marshall was already done with her own music when I arrived, but a few stalwarts were jamming with her to please the late-night pizza-eating crowd, including Duston Erwin on moody sax, and Ned “King” Alexander on world class harmonica. With another guitarist and bassplayer for lead and rhythm, the quintet were wailing away on some old blues covers.

King Alexander is an often overlooked harmonicat, blues singer and guitarman, but he should never ever be discounted. In prior years I’ve taken many a white blues performer to task for having little or no soul to back up his postured hunching and grunting, as if effort is all it takes to play true blues. But Alexander doesn’t have to fake it. Hardworking lawyer by day, he goes to another place when he settles his hat and straps on an axe. Years ago, I regularly heard country blues harmonicist Sonny Terry, who with his guitar-playing partner Brownie McGhee defined the tropes and trails of traditional acoustic blues. I am not exaggerating when I say that Alexander stands tall alongside those memorable performers and their musical legacy. Word is that he’s going to be leading a blues band at Sylvia’s on Friday nights; you should make a special effort to get out and hear him, so you can build up a library of sense memories like I have. And while you’re there, go for the Happy Hippie Pizza next door, courtesy of new owner/chef Jennifer Dwyer. I had to come back two nights in a row to eat the white pizza (various cheeses and spices, no tomato sauce). You must realize that I am a bona fide pizza snob, having grown up in Far Rockaway, New York scarfing down Gino’s eighteen-inch pie slices on my way to Hebrew School at least three afternoons a week for years. Well the Happy Hippie’s got the soul and the will, so I predict her pizza will be approaching perfection real soon. In the meantime, it’s good enough for folk music; in fact, it’s just like the blues.