Getting the word that I would be covering a constant favorite of mine, Ray LaMontagne, at the Providence Performing Arts Center (pronounced: Pee-Pak) was probably the highlight of whatever day it was. It's too bad reality would play a cruel game with me on that night. Who would have thought that I would feel trapped in the ornately spacious confines of such a beautiful place?
As a concert photographer, you're constantly at the mercy of the powers that be. Some artists, labels and venues feel the need to limit your ability to correctly capture a show, because... well, honestly I have no idea why. Perhaps music journalists and bloggers are lumped in with muck-raking tabloid types. Maybe they just don't get that allowing a professional to capture their product (yes musicians, you are a product) and promote it is a thousand times better than having iPhone pictures of that same performance proliferate the internet as the first thing fans will see. I could go on, but then again, I already have. So I'll spare you most of the rant. Just let me say this, having only three songs to capture an entire show is difficult enough. Demanding all shots be taken from the same exact location? Well that's just plain stupid. Good thing I have little respect for authority.
The crowd filling PPAC was as diverse as I've ever seen. Mohawks stood next to mohair, business suits made way for leisure suits and sweat suits. If it's true that the best way to judge the longevity of a musician is by the variance in their audience, it would seem Ray is going to be around for a good long while.
For those who've never seen LaMontagne play live with a band, there's usually very little dialogue (save for a few barbs sent the audience's way for one thing or another), but the musical performance itself is a prime example of impassioned musicianship. His solo acoustic shows, as I found out that evening, are filled both with musical passion and conversation.
Showing off his ability to be a lovable New England prick (I can say that because I'm one, too), you never quite knew for sure if he was laughing with you or laughing at you. It may sound a little strange, but his abrasiveness is what seems to endear him to a lot of people. His first target was one of his own crew. After his opener, "Be Here Now," he seemed distraught about his guitar being out of tune. "It's that E, that sharp E. See you like your Es a little sharper and I like 'em a little flat. Maybe it's because you're Canadian," he quipped at his guitar tech. But it wasn't long before the audience got involved. After some of the crowd became vocal during a break in the performance, with a shake of the head he exclaimed, "I just love people. I just love 'em. Love 'em, love 'em... love 'em up."
Aside from the jokes, LaMontagne's propensity to talk more when he's alone on stage allowed for a peek into his personal life. A story about his uncle's love of music (and life in general) lead to a beautiful cover of Townes VanZandt's "Loretta." And a story about an old friend, brought back into his thoughts through a picture in a newspaper, turned into the dedication of the final encore of the evening "All the Wild Horses."
Other highlights of the evening included a performance of the original, stripped-down version of "You Are The Best Thing," shiver-inducing versions of "Jolene" and "Burn," and the guy behind me singing loudly and completely out of tune with nearly every song, and at times, laughing uncontrollably. To be able to say this show was enjoyable despite that torture is a statement in itself. Seriously man, whoever you were, it seems you got your money's worth out of that nitrous, and I appreciate your passion but please, please, for the love of all that's good, stick to private performances in the shower and spare the rest of us the agony.
See? I told I could be a lovable New England prick.
