Sets from Johnston, Crenshaw are showcases for master songwriters

Back when we were dating, I wooed my wife with occasional mixtapes (yes, I’m that old). On an early one, I included (perhaps even began with) Freedy Johnston’s “Two Lovers Stop.” I did so because it’s a great song, a driving little pop number that was among the most accessible on his then-new album. Listening once, she asked me, “Should I be worried that you put a song on here about a couple committing suicide together?” Somewhat horrified, I assured her that she shouldn’t, and vowed to pay a bit more attention to the lyrical content of the songs I gave her.

That points out, as clearly as anything, that I’m into music for the music. If a clever lyric snags my attention, so much the better, but I need a big fat hook to grab me or all bets are off. Having learned my lesson, I was smart enough a couple of years later to put Johnston’s “You Get Me Lost,” a clear-cut love song, on a subsequent tape.

This came to mind because, as I sat listening to Johnston perform a solo set last night, I was struck by the words to songs I’d heard for 20 years. A song like “Mortician’s Daughter,” performed because he was playing at the Yacht Club, housed in what was once an Iowa City funeral home, has depths that I’d never really plumbed. It’s a melancholy little gem, with keen details about the singer and the girl in question drawing hearts on dusty coffin lids. But, really listening to the song for the first time — as opposed to just hearing the melody and music — I heard the short-story worthy tale being told.

As a writer, I marveled at the economy of Johnston’s lyrics, able to convey complex emotional situations in a line or two.  That’s a big part of why his music continues to resonate. Yes, it lodges in the ear because it’s catch and unique, but it has permanence because there’s always something new to discover and marvel over. In a set that hit high points from throughout his career, he proved himself to be a remarkably consistent  songwriter.

His set (not in exact order): We Will Shine/Remember Me/Lonely Penny/Cruel to Be Kind (Nick Lowe)/The Morticians Daughter/Underwater Life/Don’t Fall in Love with a Lonely Girl/You Get Me Lost/Bad Reputation

My fandom of Marshall Crenshaw has gone on even longer than that for Johnston. I first encountered Crenshaw when I was in high school and checked out the vinyl album Attack of the Killer B’s from my library. It was a compilation of B-sides from Warner Brothers artists, released in 1983. I probably picked it up in 1985 or so, tempted by a rarity by then-new discovery Talking Heads. But it was Crenshaw’s “You’re My Favorite Waste of Time” that hooked me. Oddly, it didn’t lead me to go get his first album, but I did pick up a copy of Downtown on cassette for cheap not long after.

I’ve since acquired Crenshaw’s entire catalog, and save for his last couple of albums that aren’t quite as immediate for me, there’s nary a bad song  in the bunch, and a whole lot of classics. Crenshaw’s set last night began with a mix of relatively recent material, and I found myself appreciating it more in this setting. The hooks aren’t as towering, but like contemporary Nick Lowe, he has found a way to offer a more subtle, no less satisfying take on roots-inflected pop.

As the set continued, he began to salt it with more “old stuff,” playing a good chunk of his debut album. He avoided much of his middle catalog, however, opting only to indulge a shouted request for “Like a Vague Memory” and zipping through “Fantastic Planet of Love” from the underappreciated Life’s Too Short. His guitar playing was stellar and clearly the focus. His vocals took on a jazzier tone, with oft-times different phrasing from what fans have heard on record for years.

His set (Not in order and not complete): Someday Someway/Girls/Cynical Girl/Mary Anne/Like a Vague Memory/Fantastic Planet of Love/What Do You Dream Of?/2541/Dime a Dozen Guy/Television Light/Passing Through/Live and Learn/My Favorite Waste of Time/Something’s Gonna Happen/Nervous Breakdown (Eddie Cochran)/Crying, Waiting, Hoping (Buddy Holly)

The marvel of this show is how intimate it was. Each performed alone standing on a six-inch stage in the corner of what is essentially a basement, about 60 people scattered about taking it in. At one time, each man was slated for bigger things, but each proved to be a blip on the pop culture radar rather than a fixture. That meant a harder life for them, but surely a more creatively satisfying one as well. And it meant being a few feet away from two of the best songwriters of the past 20 years (30 in Crenshaw’s case) for a night of great song after great song.