Frozen fingers, frozen toes. I actually had to borrow dry shoes and socks from Josh before braving the walk back out to Great Scott. But a little snow (and a lot of slush) weren’t about to deter us from the business at hand: namely, getting blown away by Erika Wennerstrom and the rest of the Heartless Bastards.
There’s been some sick press in the run up to the Heartless Bastards concert, coinciding with the release of their third album, The Mountain. And as ever, I tried to remain objective and skeptical before listening on my own. The MySpace page gives a little glimpse of what they sound like, and I listened through the four tracks and thought I had an idea of what we’d get.
In truth, I had no idea what we were in for. It was like gearing up for Grace Potter all over again, though that’s really where the similarities end. Well, that, and a super-talented female lead. But THAT’s where the similarities end.
With an assortment of Gibsons in easy reach, a perfect rosary of sweat glistening in a rare shaft of Great-Scott lighting, Wennerstrom (and co.) treated us to a startlingly fantastic performance. And man, it feels like I haven’t seen people sweat in an awfully long time. To see the Heartless Bastards get hot and sweaty as they ripped their fists across their strings was enough to warm a whole crowd through the night. Wennerstrom’s voice is surprising, and that’s the best I’ve been able to do to find a one-word descriptor. It isn’t a “pretty” voice, and it isn’t what you’d call traditionally feminine. Rather, it’s a well-worn, ciggies-and-whiskey voice, a first-thing-in-the-morning voice. It’s far back in the throat, clawing and gasping to get out, with just enough warble and shake to save you from sympathetic throat pains.
It’s magical.
The songwriting is similarly striking. This is rock, and there're no two ways about it. The Heartless Bastards write good melodic lines, and take full advantage of repetition. Lots of it. Songs generally start with a repeated line or two, and rather than be boring, or old, or tired, the repetition causes a trance-like, spellbinding effect. We get, not lulled, but snatched into the writing, with live performance so far outshining what is captured in the recordings, it’s almost hard to believe that they’re the same songs. Certainly my favorite performance of the night was on "Out at Sea," demonstrating perfectly the usefulness of repetition and smart, descriptive lyrics. Wicked bass and guitars, and some of the sickest drumming I’ve seen in Boston, rounded out a blazing winter’s night.
Opening up were Hoot and Hellmouth, a bearded concoction of old-timey goodness. Fantastic three-part harmonies are the name of the game, and enthusiastic mandolin’in was a great gear-up for the evening. Great Scott, great night.
