R. Stevie Moore likes to stay home, we should have let him

R. Stevie Moore, who has recorded and released a reported 400 albums on his own and through very small, boutique labels, had never toured before the current schedule of dates that took him across the U.S. this summer.

Knowing little more than Moore’s name and that he was a quirky artist with an eclectic catalog, I supposed that this was simply in keeping with his eccentricity. But, having seen Moore perform Sunday night in Iowa City, I have a new theory: He didn’t tour because nobody bothered to ask him.

There is a reason that Moore has self-released his music. Actually, there are two. Taking no credit away from his do-it-yourself ethos, I’m sure that he was content, if not resolute, in releasing his own work. But that work is at best a bit off kilter, at worst nearly unlistenable.

All of that was on display in the live setting. Moore was clad in a pair of red pajamas and a green silk jacket with “Brooklyn” embroidered across the chest. He was backed by the Brooklyn band Tropical Ooze, an unfortunate name for a perplexing band. After a short set during which the band tried on a number of styles, none with much success, Moore joined them on stage. He played bass and read his lyrics off sheets stacked on a music stand (one item on the merch table was a $60 collection of CDRs promising 922 songs; given that output, he can be forgiven for needing assistance remembering his own work).

Things started promisingly. The songs had a melodic thread and instrumental verve that Tropical Ooze lacked when playing its own material. Moore was an oddly captivating presence, like a recluse who stepped out to get the morning paper only to be surprised when an instrument was thrust in his hands and a crowd materialized to watch his performance. But when he played the closest thing to a hit he has penned, the mid-80s oddity “I Like to Stay at Home,” it was clear this was not going to be a top-shelf show. Moore’s voice, never a clarion of pop perfection, seems to have largely abandoned him, leaving the singer to shout his lyrics angrily, changing the tenor of the song from content to sociopathic.

After just a handful of songs, the musicians left the stage. Tropical Ooze’s members took up spots in the crowd and Moore returned alone. He grabbed a guitar and started pacing back and forth across the stage, speaking (one couldn’t call it singing) into the microphone each time he passed. His strums occasionally resolving into chords, he began lyric that seemed to be about perusing the menu in a seafood restaurant. Great pop songs have been built on less – this wasn’t one of them.

When the next “song” continued in similar fashion, the lure of the pillow proved to be too great. Perhaps it was seeing Moore in his pajamas, but I was more interested at that point in sleep than in giving the mental energy necessary to find anything redeeming in Moore’s performance. So, take this criticism with a grain of salt. It’s possible that he pulled it together and absolutely killed in the latter half of his set. For the sake of the couple dozen people who were braver/more dedicated than I, I certainly hope that was the case.

If there is a silver lining, it is that I spent some time before the show familiarizing myself with Moore and his work. His is a name that floated around my periphery. I was aware of him but not necessarily his achievement. His web site has a lot of free material to peruse, and I’ll spend some more time with it in the coming weeks. Interest in Moore seems to be peaking, as far as that goes, with a documentary film in the works and some of his most high-profile releases having come in the past couple of years. It makes sense; when you last as long as Moore has, that simple fact generates interest. But it’s a shame that Moore wasn’t coaxed out onto the road a decade or two ago when he could perform in a way that lived up to, rather than tore down, his reputation.