Lower Manhattan's City Winery sports wooden columns befitting of an ale house and a dim, swank atmosphere that begs for jazz-era cigarette smoke. Chris Garneau's distinctive style filled the space nicely; it was as if in a parallel universe, we were watching a memorial service for a feudal lord with an affinity for kitsch. This is to say that there exists a sense of timelessness in the wide variance of Garneau's compositions; between legato swells of strings and brass in pieces suitable for a king's court, warm seventh chords and simplicity in more conventional pop songs, and clever vaudevillian arrangements laced with blats and clicks.
Two slow, brooding ballads opened the show, with a pair of lady cellists (introduced as "my old besties") bolstering Garneau's grand piano and another lady-friend's drums. Garneau employed puppyish yelps while zipping through a brief ditty about serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, the dichotomy of profundity and playfulness reminiscent in tone of Sufjan Stevens. The mood lightened a little when a violin, viola, trumpet, and trombone joined the ranks in a spirited version of "Dirty Night Clowns" which shone at its bridge and outro, showcasing the fullness and intricacy of the arrangement. Then there was "No More Pirates" when it got awfully Sufjan-y again, the comparison inevitable in Garneau's fusion of multi-voiced melodies and romantic brass harmonies.
Though his songs are most vibrant at these golden compositional moments, Garneau's voice is a compellingly intoxicating storytelling agent for sad visages of death and loss--themes which seem to underscore his oeuvre. His fluttering tenor vocals occasionally languished into whispers, as in the concluding bars of "Fireflies," providing somber punctuation to a gallop through clever tempo play and atonal clucks, the likes of Regina Spektor.
The breadth of Garneau's songwriting was further exhibited in the bluesy "Home Town Girls" and delicately crafted "Over and Over," two standouts from his 2009 release, El Radio. On the latter, Garneau belted, in his airy tone, notes that on the album sit tenderly in his falsetto, injecting a sense of urgency into the lyrics, "And it's all up to me now/There's a lot of work to do."
The set's end imminent, Garneau announced, "We're just going to do a few more songs and then get out of your way." He did so with a chilling rendition of "Things She Said," tiptoeing over mournful lyrics and seemingly suppressing sobs with opaque composure. The performance concluded with a segue into "Pirates Reprise," a rejuvenated version of the earlier buccaneer tune with a back beat. By the time he shuffled off stage, it was clear that though Garneau's sound sashays between his contemporaries in the baroque-pop genre, his inventiveness and honesty elevate it to a sweet, solemn pedestal all its own.
