.. VIC CHESNUTT'S LITTLE CULT
“These people are so the NPR (National Public Radio) crowd,” remarked the man with the Napoleon complex.
This said in the meat of Vic Chesnutt’s sold out performance at Ballard’s Tractor Tavern. He had no one to gripe to so ingratiating himself with insecure muttering was the only avenue he had.
Everyone else was there in silent devotion to a southern spectacle of innocence, wit and sincerity. Counter-sound was the night’s sign of appreciation. At 10:00 p.m., when people were readjusting their soundframe to administer the coming cripple being hoisted onto the stage, there was this raunchiness left hanging from the Hank Williams cover band that had ‘warmed up’. The sound was a muting of sound and then a breaking of silence. Maybe it was a burp on Vic’s part, or maybe it was the scuttling of the mini-acoustic (w/pick up) against the microphone or chair. No, no. It was Vic stuttering to find the right way to welcome the crowd.
He shuffled back and forth for a couple of minutes trying to find the spot on the stage where he could park his wheelchair. Pretty delicately balanced, he ended up posted to the right of a Yamaha Keyboard, to the left of his wife and in the standard pocket of microphone and guitar. And then:
“I’m going to play some songs off my new album.”
<Warm Reception>
“That wasn’t very enthusiastic,” he said.
<Shit searing reception>
Vic Chesnutt looks old by music business standards, maybe late-thirties. Token information: Athens, Georgia based and on tour to promote a new album. He is quirky and for it his fans bring a little extra to the show. Eccentric adoration and restrained appreciation come from all corners of the venue. Some of the fans were jonesin just to git lit by his goofy grin. Others, particularly an older woman and a younger man went to greater extents. But before any of that happened, before the first song was played Vic had already presented himself. Like this:
“I don’t know what to do up here… y’all want to watch me beat off?” he cucked.
From the first flickering strums of “Maiden”, the crowd was sold. Was it the wit, the delicacy or the craftwork? His songwriting is based on working creatively within very strict boundaries. With the help of a wrist-mounted pick, he manages to pull the notes from the gut of his guitar. Everything else musical about Vic comes out of his mouth. Over the course of the night, he buzzed his lips to play trumpet, played percussion hits with his lips and sang the gamut of his unpredictable vocal range; sometimes as high and graceful as a choirgirl, often creepy as a street drunk but usually as Vic as Vic. His delivery is too unique to compare to others.
And the words… something about she has great fashion sense… she shops like a nazi and another one about throwing caution to the fan. All his lyrics work on two levels. The first is the unassuming (then charming, then heartbreaking) storytelling quality. That works in coincidental coordination with the delivery, which is as important to the meaning as the meaning itself. Vic can turn a song about depression into a laugh and a song about laughing into something far beyond depressing. Live, this really comes out.
Live, the fans pick up on all his intangibles. They pick up on the burping and the quirks and the playfulness. One of them even picks up on the fact that they are full able to get up on stage. Actually, two do. No, no: three.
The first is a black woman in her thirties (probably). She storms on stage between songs to knight Vic with a giant metal-caste medallion bearing his name. Putting the giant gold chain around his neck, the woman almost crushes Vic’s nose, but doesn’t. Vic would show his gratitude for the gift at the end of the set, when he lifted it to his mouth to make the meanest face forgeable by a sweet man.
Then there was two and three. Three came first but left before two and Vic got started. See, two and three had been heckling to hear a song called Steve Willoughby. Vic swore he wouldn’t be able to remember it but suggested that maybe it could be played with a little help. Three was a gorgeous black-haired woman with soft, fair skin. She got pressured to go up on stage by the crowd and made it up there to confess that even she couldn’t remember the words. Vic “kicked” her off the stage, he said, “Get the fuck off the stage, you fucking lied to me.” Potty mouth was showcasing his sense of humour, the sense that was appreciated by the 300 people in attendance.
Two was on stage when three got booted. Two was a white male in his twenties wearing a blue patagonia. His fandom shone out via a perfectly mimicked Vic accent. He sang like Vic, stuttered like Vic, forgot like Vic and in the end pulled off a festive duet with Vic (from his knees).
Not shortly afterwards, the show was over (some two hours after it began). Vic thanked the “amazing crowd.” He hit the spit there. Somehow the audience and the singer managed to bounce energy off each other all night, and it made all pleasurable for all involved.
The end of the peel...
... throwing caution to the fan
