Ames Progressive

After buying some overpriced, imported soap on the ped mall and joining an anti-war march I’d happened across, I sit in a coffee shop, read Colson Whitehead’s The Intuitionist (an old recommendation from JC), satisfy my ever-growing need for caffeine and await E’s arrival.

I call B, my last Iowa City contact who hasn’t moved to a larger city or gotten married, had children and become unfit for spontaneous visits. B says he is stranded beside the interstate, in some serious vehicular distress.

“These fuckin’ towtruck yokels can’t figure out how to handle the situation,” he says. I can hear exasperated conversation in the background. I wish him luck and say I’ll see him another time.

When E arrives, I give him a Nick Cave mix I made him the other day, relishing the role of musical-horizon expander that a handful of friends played for me when I was his age. We’ve met here to see a show by another songwriter I’ve turned him on to, Stuart Davis.

We sit at a glass table by the window, watching as sexy girls walk dogs and talk on garish cell phones. E, who’s in his first year of college, tells me stories of chemical-fueled debauchery that take me back to my own freshman campaign. Thinking back on all the drunks, highs and assorted altereds that seemed so astonishing but are now mostly just a blur of temps perdu, I tell him it would be fruitful to keep a journal of those experiences while they are fresh in his mind. Then, recalling the eventual fate of my own short-lived drug diary, I suggest he not bring it home when visiting his parents.

The Stuart Davis show will be E’s first, my 25th or so. He’ll be perhaps the dozenth person I’ve brought to see Stu for the first time. I’m not sure it affects them the same way it affects me, but I wouldn’t say any have been unimpressed.

At this show, E buys a CD during the intermission, then another after Stu’s second set. At my recommendation, he starts with the self-titled disc, often spoken of as the silver one (or the one with the naked cover, before Stu released another one with a naked cover). The same disc I bought after I first saw Stu, whom I’d never heard of, when he played an Amnesty International fundraiser in Des Moines in 2001. I sat on the floor that night and watched in increasing disbelief, feeling nearly hypnotized. I’d later discovered that he plays central Iowa frequently, having been born in Des Moines and having a dedicated following in the area.

I’ve seen him enough times that the concerts have blended together, as is the wont of a series of similar occasions. And that’s unfortunate, because even the least of those shows has contributed something special to my mindscape: the first time I was blown away by the percussive playing technique in “Universe Communion”, the tapped harmonics in “Bell”, his fingers spidering around the guitar neck during the chorus of “Nothing in Between” - I can’t point back to any of those occasions with any certainty.

Seeing the same artist so many times also affords one the chance to notice the entrance and exit of tunes from set lists (RIP, “Penguins”), the changes in lyrics or phrasing, the addition of a line or a verse or a solo that a singer will work out over the course of a song’s life.

And it occurs to me that I should follow the advice I gave E about his drug experiences and take tonight’s show as an opportunity for journaling - perhaps even the exhibitionistic sort of pseudo-journaling one writes for blogs or music rags in Ames.

I tell E that the silver album has a lot of classic songs but it was still a disappointment to me when I first played it. This shouldn’t surprise him; I’ve told him all along that the CDs don’t do justice to the concerts. Today’s show (3/29/08 at The Mill) marks the release of Something Simple, Stu’s tenth studio album. E and I have both previewed the tracks online. I hadn’t shared my opinion right away, lest it somehow taint his. So he was the first to say it: The album sounds too produced. Too slick, too eager to please.

The Stuart Davis hopeful have been saying for some time that their guy is about to make the big time. Like proud fishermen, they don’t specify the exact proportions of his nearing superstardom; if they are correct, at any rate, you can survey it for yourself once it’s finally reeled in.

Davis, well into his second decade as a professional singer-songwriter, certainly has a lot on the ball: in addition to his new album, new record deal and recent inclusion on a major motion picture soundtrack, he’s working on a book, a TV show, a movie script, an ongoing series of paintings, a line of clothing and a new language. It’s not that he doesn’t have what it takes to make it; if anything, he has too much to make it. A superabundance of creative energy with an edge unlikely to be embraced by the masses. A talent too big for the big time.

The Mill is approximately full to capacity. Anticipating this, I’d suggested to E that we show up early, enjoy some food and beer while we wait. Stu’s early sound check gives us a false hope that the show is starting earlier than the 9:00 advertised on the fliers (or the 8:30 E says he saw on the web site). Stu goes up there with a bass player and another guitar player. And there’s a drum kit: this will be a full-band show. I’ve never seen him play with more than two other musicians. I stifle some disappointment: I just don’t think his full-band performances ever match the power he effortlessly radiates when playing solo acoustic.

Stu later introduces the band. It’s Dirk Freymuth on guitar, the same drummer who always plays with him (Matt?) and a bass player I’ve never heard of.

I do a better job of remembering the set list:
1. Rock Stars and Models
2. Fault Lines
3. Wand
4. Parker Posey
5. Already Free
6. Good Wyrd
7. Twisted Mystery
8. Deity Freak
9. AC/DC
10. Grace
11. Invincible
(break)
1. Amsterdam
2. The River
3. Universe Communion
4. Dresden
5. Sugar Bullets
6. Sexy Messiah
7. Doppelganger Body Donor
8. Fall Awake
9. Fear of Light
10. Swim
The only possible transposition on the list is “Good Wyrd” and “Deity Freak”. I don’t recall with certainty whether my mnemonic was “weird twisted freak” or “freak, twisted, weird.”

Stu’s funniest banter is about punctuation, ending with a reference to getting an exclamation point in the colon.

The full band works for me the least on “Universe Communion”. Being unable to hear all Stu’s guitar sounds seems to defeat the purpose of the song. But he’s played it at almost every show for more than a decade - I’m sure he needs to mix it up now and again to keep it fresh.

A little too loud. My ears rang later.

The bass player was most effective on “Deity Freak” and on a slightly sped-up version of “Good Wyrd”, probably the best performance of the night. The last two songs of each set were solo acoustic, and all quite affecting. His vocals on “Grace” were louder than usual, almost shouted in parts.

With the exception of the reworked old tunes, all the songs from the new album were first-time performances to my ears. As expected, I liked them better, and it’s helped me appreciate the performances on the disc (which I bought during the break). E apparently felt the same. After “Already Free”, which he hadn’t seemed impressed by when he’d heard it online, he turned to me and said, “The only word I can use to describe that song is ‘pretty’.” And yes, it’s quite a pretty pop song, as are “The River” and “Twisted Mystery”.

I spoke briefly with Stu, and he wrote IS glyphs on the CD booklet. I gave him a hug that was somewhat awkward, as I was reaching for a piece of paper and he thought I was initiating the hug.

I was surprised not to see anyone I recognized in the crowd. I thought for a moment I saw MD; I even said his name as he walked by, but he didn’t respond. Wouldn’t have made sense for him to be in Iowa City. A doppelganger, apparently.

I was tortured all night by the presence of a woman who looked eerily like W, and was revealing quite a mass of quivering cleavage to boot (or just enjoy from afar). I wanted to talk to her but would inevitably have asked why she left me.

The place was crowded, and the line to buy CDs and chat with Stu was long and slow-moving. E and I were away from our table for perhaps half an hour, and when we returned it’d been taken by a large man and a petite woman. We agree to share the table. They share their appetizer basket, and he offers to buy us beers. E declines; I request a Red Stripe.

The big guy used to work here, he tells me, and he’s seen Stu a number of times. His date, of some Asian descent, has not.

During the second set, they annoy me by talking too much and too loudly. It’s like he’s trying to impress her with his knowledge, such as it is. He tells her that one of the teenage girls running the merch table is Stuart’s wife. She says she can’t believe he’s married someone so young.

During “Fear of Light”, I think of shushing them, but don’t. During “Swim”, I do. I’m always bothered by people who blather inanely during the quiet songs. They stop talking, but the meathead goes on to sing along with the rest of the song, though he doesn’t know all the words. After the set, his date apologizes to me for talking too loud, and I say “no hard feelings.”

E and I thought for a time we wouldn’t be charged for our food; we finished eating and we never got a bill. But as the show wound down, the wait staff demonstrated an impressive recollection of everyone’s orders.

Immediately after the show, our waiter surprised us by approaching our table and asking, “Who wants to do some shots?” Like he’s specifically chosen us to join his after-show party.

E, who has been drinking by virtue of a fake ID, declines, noting that he has a drive ahead of him. I have a drive as well, and I’ve had two Boddingtons and a Red Stripe. But I don’t refuse the booze. He brings me a double shot of chilled Crown Royal, and I leave with quite a buzz (on top of the general, existential buzz with which I always leave Stu’s shows).

As we head toward the parking garage, I tell E of Dharmapalooza, seeing if he might be interested. I’d like, if I go again, to have some company. He says he’s always wanted to go to Boulder.

I try to help him remember the way back to the interstate, and we part company. In the car, the bag of Turkish coffee I bought earlier proves impossibly, maddeningly fragrant. I listen to “Something Simple” with renewed interest. On the road I try to call T and then C, but in each case I have to leave a message. I am in that rare mood in which I actually want to do so.

But I ought, I reluctantly suppose, to put my phone away and focus on the road. No need to wind up like B, stranded, at the mercy of towtruck yokels.