Ah Holly Fam’ly broke the silence of a hushed Berbati’s Pan Thursday night and inadvertently transported the crowd to a lonely farm in Idaho, all clad in streams and dry grass and food-rearing mammals. At least that’s where I went. Suddenly, I had wildflowers adorning my pig-tail braids, a straw hat, denim overalls, and I was wandering in the meadow with my pet goat.
Back at Berbati’s, Ah Holly Fam’ly were drawing bows across violins, whispering into flutes, strumming acoustic guitars, and singing harmonies with the serenity and innocence of a children’s church choir. I half expected them to switch gears right into a version of The Farmer in the Dell or Old MacDonald, and by golly they did! Ending the set with a song called “EIEIO”, Ah Holly Fam’ly brought the pastoral image to a fresh and attractive level.
The wispy, sunny harmonies of AHF were soon to be quashed, however, by Tu Fawning’s mystifying and forewarning chants. Corinna Repp’s voice sounds lovelier live than recorded, and on stage she is a true force of nature.
Tu Fawning have something serious to tell us. They’re aware of a world to which most of us are blind and should perhaps be afraid of. Bathed in red lights, their cryptic message felt that much more urgent. Breaking through the dark clouds of their sound, “Out Like Bats” donned a sunshine-ray of handclaps (God bless the handclaps), and Repp even flashed a couple knowing smiles back to her keyboardist.
In perfect speed-dating style, Tu Fawning wrapped up their set, cleared the stage, and Norfolk and Western appeared like pop-up cowboy cutouts from an amusement park target practice game. Disappointingly, their live show is much like a frustrating game of target practice in trying to identify a distinctive sound. Neither folk nor western ("Nor Folk nor Western?") was immediately evident, which left them sounding elusive and stylistically timid, but their older albums were much like what one would expect from a band described as creaky, elegant, and intimate (their 2001 release, Winter Farewell fits this description nicely). If N&W were a politician running for office, I would vote ‘yes’ only if they promised to bring back more prominent lap steel and banjo sounds and fewer lengthy jam sessions.
Up next were The Dirty Three, a trio of old dudes from Australia who harness their talent as classically trained musicians to produce some of the most gorgeously heart wrenching instrumentations I have ever heard. Violinist Warren Ellis weaves around the stage playing his violin like an electric guitar—bowing and arching back, collapsing on the floor and kicking his legs in the air while his violin cried and whined ceaselessly. The band’s between-song banter was a welcome contrast to their melodramatic, tear-jerking harmonies. At one point Ellis summoned the sound guy to adjust the microphone to make him sound like Jim Morrison, and later introducing a song as being about looking into your corn flakes box and finding out that said rock star "stole your fucking mojo.” Yes, Warren, I hate it when that happens; but for goodness’ sake, just keep making music.
