CONTEST: I have two copies of Everyone Loves You When You’re Dead to give away. To enter, leave a comment with the name of your favorite rock writer or favorite profile of an artist, and let us know why. I’ll draw two names at random on July 8.

Before reading Everyone Loves You When You’re Dead, my previous experience with Neil Strauss was limited. I knew that he had written for several publications, and that he had written books about Motley Crue, Jenna Jameson and pickup artists. His work for the former didn’t catch my eye in such a way that made me seek out his work the way I do that of folks like Greil Marcus or Ben Ratliff. And his work on the latter probably steered me the other direction. Strauss had cast his lot with those on the sleaze end of the spectrum, so I didn’t look to him for serious journalism.

The litany of names on the cover of his book made me curious enough to ask  the folks at !t Books for a review copy. When you’re promised interviews with R.E.M., Radiohead, Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, etc., it’s clear you’ll probably find something of interest. What I did not expect to do was read this cover to cover, nor did I expect to take away true insights. I did both, and in doing so, quickly realized that this is the best book about music I have read in years.

Why? Well, as Strauss tells it, it is because he did this right, which means that before he had done it wrong. As he writes in the introduction, once the interview is done, the writer is pressed by deadlines, the stylistic constraints of the publication and the whims of the editors. The real person gets lost.

He went back to the 3,000 interviews he has conducted and “searched for the truth or essence behind each person, story or experience. Often it came from something I had previously ignored: An uncomfortable silent, a small misunderstanding or a scattered thought that had been compressed into a soundbite.”

That might sound strange; isn’t that what profile writers try to do the first time around? Yes, that’s the idea every writer subscribes to, but it doesn’t happen very often. As you’ll find while reading this book, these are the snippets that get left behind when the narrative is crafted, the rough edges. For the most part, these feel like the rare moments when these artists were real. An interview is a dance, with the subjects working hard to put forth the version of themselves they want people to see, and the writers working hard to penetrate that shell.

The fascinating thing is to see Strauss, who I associate with caddish behavior if for no other reason than the company he keeps, being a sympathetic ear. If these transcriptions are truly accurate, then he is among the most gifted interviewers I’ve read, able to show true empathy and understanding. His genuine interest and positively gentle approach (or so I assume; it’s hard to fully glean that from words on the page) cause these artists to let down their defenses are share genuine thoughts and feelings.

As if that wasn’t enough, Strauss also won me over with the book’s format. It seemed too clever by half at first blush, interview snippets broken up throughout the book, ostensibly grouped in thematic bunches. But it works. You’ll get two pages of an interview with Robert Plant and Jimmy Page where they discuss the co-opting of their sound by artists like Lenny Kravitz, followed immediately by two pages of Kravitz expressing disbelief that anyone could hear Led Zeppelin in his music. All of the material from one interview may be spread over half a dozen snippets peppered throughout this 500-page tome, but as you pick up the rhythm of Strauss’ organization, you’ll find yourself surfing through this effortlessly, marveling at the connections being made from one artist to the next.

Even the index is entertaining, as Strauss eschews the typical listing of famous names to instead include entries for “Best car wash in L.A.” and “Guys who say they are never going to date models or actresses but then end up engaged to one.”

At the outset I said I didn’t seek out Strauss’ work the way I did my favorite writers and critics. With Everyone Loves You When You’re Dead, Strauss has vaulted to the top of that list. The interesting thing will be, now that he knows the right way to do things, will his profiles reflect it?

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.

Pablo D’Stair’s novella this letter to Norman Court, which was serialized across several blogs over the past few weeks (including this one) wrapped up today with the 22nd and final installment over at David Cranmer’s blog, Education of a Pulp Writer. Thus wraps up one of the more interesting crime fiction-related happenings of the year.

Did you fall behind? Did you never catch on in the first place? Never fret. There are several ways to go about reading this compelling work. First, you can skip blog to blog like the rest of us did and follow the story. Pablo offers a handy guide here. Or, if you can’t stand the thought of clicking through all of those sites (though their owners would surely thank you), Pablo makes it even easier: You can download an ebook of this letter to Norman Court at Smashwords, for free. That’s right — for damn near any possible ereader there is out there, Pablo’s novella is free.

But that’s not all. The book is part of a five-book set, called the Trevor English Series, and the second in the series, Mister Trot from Tin Street, also is available in ebook form from SmashWords. Get it here.

The third of the series, Helen Topaz, Henry Dollar, will be serialized starting the first week of July at Thunderdome, with sections posted twice weekly.

Last but not least, for those of us who still revel in words printed on honest-to-goodness pages, Pablo has what you need. Paperback copies of the first two novellas straight from Amazon will be available for $3.95 as of July 1.

That’s a lot of reading to be had at a great price, no matter your preferred format. So, log on and get reading.

It’s funny; the term “singer-songwriter” is casually tossed around to indicate a certain sound, as if a guy singing his own songs sounds just like another doing the same thing. I’ve been guilty as much as anyone, falling back on the shorthand when searching for a way to describe something. Thing is, most people probably conjure something specific when they hear the term, something quiet, introspective. Maybe just a singer and a sensitively plucked acoustic guitar.

That serves as the base for one of two artists with new albums out now. Peter Bradley Adams is a quiet, introspective performer. His songs are sweet — sometimes falling toward the bitter end of that sweetness scale — and rarely rise above a polite decibel level. The other artist, Chris Velan, is positively raucous in comparison. Of course, that means he’s not terrible raucous at all, but his album is a spirited affair, a jaunty collection of songs that shake, shimmy and occasionally swagger.

So, why write about both of these guys at the same time? They have the same publicist who sent their albums for review at roughly the same time, and they were released around the same time. But the real reason is to point out the limitations of the “singer-songwriter” tag. These two would fit comfortably together on a bill, but no one would suggest that they sound alike.

Adams has the higher profile of the two, having been part of the acclaimed duo Eastmountainsouth. His new album, Between Us, is his fourth under his own name, and it ranks among his best. Adams moved from Nashville to New York between his last release and this one, and whilie there is nothing harried or urban about it, you can hear a change in songs. I might be reading into this, but there seems to be a longing here, a sense of loneliness that can only be experienced by someone isolated in a sea of people.

That solitude is conveyed in understated, gorgeous fashion. Adams is often joined by female vocalists here, including his former Eastmountainsouth mate Kate Maslich-Bode and Crooked Still’s Aoife O’Donovan. The only drawback is that there is a sameness in tone here. It would be nice to hear Adams tackle something with a backbeat, but he does what he does very well, so it’s understandable that he would want to stick with that.

Velan, in comparison, mixes things up. His fourth album, Fables for Fighters, is a spirited affair. The disc opens with the bouncy “Any Number of Ways,” a tune built on ukelele and handclaps.  That segues into “Oceans Ago,” a tune with the kind of beat I’d like to see Adams attempt. Nothing radical, but one that’ll have your head shaking while you hum along with Velan’s infectious melody.

Attempting to put my finger on the added ingredient in Velan’s sound, I hit upon it when reading a glowing review of his work on Jambase. While there is no aimless noodling here, I can see how Velan’s music would be embraced by jamband fans. His tunes are light and fun and are probably a blast to hear live. Listening, I’m put in the mind of a less-polished Guster fronted by Gary Jules.

Both artists seem to be hitting their stride on these fourth outings. they are very different — Velan offers a Saturday night record, while Adams’ soundtracks the following Sunday morning. Whatever you choose to call them, these two singers of their own songs are worth watching.

 

I don’t usually draw attention to things on other blogs, figuring the rest of the web will take care of that while I cobble together my occasional (and increasingly rare) missives about whatever is interesting me at the moment. But a post (and the term does his effort a disservice) at Ethan Iverson’s blog Do the Math is worth noting.

Iverson is the pianist for the modern jazz trio the Bad Plus. As if that’s not enough talent for one man, he is also a very sharp observer of and commenter on mystery and crime fiction . He was granted an audience with Lawrence Block recently, and, as he writes, “He’s been interviewed so much:  what new questions could I possibly ask him?”

The answer? A “blindfold test.” Anyone who has read a jazz magazine is familiar with the concept. There, a musician is played songs by other artists and is asked to comment. The twist is that the person in the hot seat is given no information about the work, so any preconceived notions are lessened. In addition, it is always interesting to read about musicians who are so well-versed in the work of their peers that they can discern within a few notes the work of another.

For this feature, Iverson photocopied the first few pages of a dozen mystery and crime fiction novels, blacked out the titles and authors, and asked Block to read and comment. In some cases, he knows the work and offers interesting anecdotes. In others, he is stumped, but, once the creator is revealed, has fascinating things to say about the work or the author.

As a long-time fan of Block, I have read dozens and dozens of interviews (and have conducted a few of my own), so I must admit that I have skimmed some of the coverage that has been afforded his wonderful return with A Drop of the Hard Stuff.

For me, it is most interesting to see how the Block of today is different from the Block of old. In 2007, he told me there was one more out-of-print book coming from Hard Case Crime (A Diet of Treacle), but, “I don’t think there are any others I’d be happy to see reprinted, but greed does have a way of triumphing over principles, so we’ll have to see.”

Greed won, of course, as the then-still novel idea of publishing books exclusively in ebook form allowed Block to bring a couple dozen old book back into the marketplace.

Such analysis doesn’t necessarily add anything new, however. Iverson’s work, in contrast, does. I won’t spoil things and reveal the books or authors that he puts in front of Block, but suffice to say it sparks some very interesting conversation. If you want to take the blindfold test yourself, go here before you read the interview.

Having driven four hours to see them last time, undertaking a one-hour jaunt to catch the Baseball Project was a no-brainer. That first show was so good, it still ranks among my favorite shows two years later.

Last night, the Baseball Project added another show to that list. Improbable as it may seem for someone who has only a passing interest in baseball (the fact that current coverage of my favorite team boasts headlines like “What has happened to the Dodgers?” doesn’t help), I love this band.

Most of that affection comes because of my being a big fan of its two principles: Steve Wynn and Scott McCaughey. I’ve been a fan of McCaughey’s longer, having picked up my first Young Fresh Fellows LP back in ’86, but I’ve become a huge fan of Wynn’s over the past decade. The two together, augmented by the stoic Peter Buck (playing bass in a busman’s holiday of sorts from his other band) and the comely Linda Pitmon (that’s Mrs. Wynn to you), are dynamite. These may be songs about baseball, but they are Wynn and McCaughey songs first, and the tunes found on the band’s two platters (three when you count the limited Broadside Ballads collection) are among the best work either has done.

Thursday night at the Rock Island Brewing Co. in Rock Island, Ill., the band faced a line-up change: Peter Buck was out (benched? on the DL?), and his R.E.M. compatriot Mike Mills was in. Casting no aspersions on Buck, one of my favorite musicians of the past 30 years, Mills more than held his own. Playing his natural instrument (while guitarist Buck is not) and contributing those trademark high harmonies (where Buck doesn’t sing a lick), he brought an added dimension to the sound. Couple that with the addition of a keyboard player this time out, and this was even more musically satisfying than the last time out.

The band stuck to its two officially released albums at the start, opening with “Past Time” from Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails. They also tore through “Ted Fucking Williams,” “Gratitude (For Curt Flood),” “Broken Man,” “Jackie’s Lament,” and “Harvey Haddix” from that first album. The second album, High and Inside, yielded “1976,” “Panda and the Freak,” “Fair Weather Fans” (with a new verse from Mills to sub for Buck’s deadpan shout-out to the Washington Senators), “Don’t Call Them Twinkies,” “Chin Music,” “Ichiro Goes to the Moon” and “The Straw That Stirs the Drink.”

McCaughey only fronted one non-Baseball Project song, ripping through the Minus 5 romp “Aw Shit, Man!” Two, if you count the impromptu cover of Johnny Cash’s “I Still Miss Someone” that came between the set and the encore (“I’m not going off stage,” McCaughey said. “It’s too much work.”). Wynn, in contrast, had a lot more mic time, doing the Dream Syndicate classics “That’s What You Always Say” and “Days of Wine and Roses,” as well as his solo track “Amphetamine.”

The best crowd response, however, came for the millionaire among us. Mills opened the encore with a spirited version of R.E.M.’s “(Don’t Go Back To) Rockville.” The band seemed to be having a lot of fun on the classic, and it was fun to see Mills play the song in the kind of clubs his band left behind a long time ago.

The band stuck around after the show to chat and sign things, and we had long discussions about music, baseball and the incredible response to the band. McCaughey engaged in some analysis of the band members’ first-pitch performance at a number of major and minor league ballgames, and marveled at the spread afforded the band in a luxury suite at three consecutive Milwaukee Brewers games. They’re among the nicest people in rock, and deserve whatever success — or meat and cheese trays — that brings.

Today on TIRBD: A rare guest post, this one from writer Pablo D’Stair, who is serializing his captivating novella, this letter to Norman Court, across several blogs and sites over the course of the the next few weeks. Take it away, Pablo:

this letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each around 1250 words) I am releasing by way of the following experiment: I am trying to serialize the piece across blogs, by reader request.  If you read and enjoy the section below and have a blog the readers of which you think would enjoy a selection, as well, please get in touch with me to be an upcoming host.  A little hub site is set up at www.normancourt.wordpress.com that has a listing of the blogs that have featured or will feature sections—please give it a look, get yourself all caught up if the below piques your interest.

It is my simple hope to use this as a casual, unobtrusive way to release this material to parties interested.  There is some suspense, in that if a new host does not appear after each posting, the train comes to a halt (back tracking to previous hosts is not an option in this game).  So, if you enjoy what you read and would like to host an upcoming selection, please get in touch with me via unburiedcomments@gmail.com.  (As of now, 4 slots remain out of the 22) I welcome not only invitations, but any and all comments on the piece (positive, negative, or ambivalent) or general correspondence about matters literary.

Cheers,
Pablo D’Stair

—————————————-

This letter to Norman Court, part 8

Before I left to wait around would Lawrence show up, I ducked into my room with the new photocopy I’d made of the letter, the motel office.  I debated should I slip it in the original envelope, or how exactly should I play it?  With Klia, it’d been almost obvious I’d give her the original letter, at least some hope at peace of mind, but the thing was different here as flat fact I was only gaming Lawrence with a replica.  It didn’t mean he was any less in tight he didn’t pay me out the two thousand I’d be charging, but this little tick of propriety held me up, especially through the blur of the second handful of medicine tablets getting up over me.

Shouldn’t I save the envelope for Herman, some connection to the actual—yes, I decided finally, touching at my lip to find it wet, a sleeve of mucus over it, if there was someone to keep up appearances for it was Herman, Lawrence more a sitting duck I just needed to give the spook to, nothing much of consequence.

I took a seat on some shop steps across from the movie theatre, the plumbing shop in view kind of peripheral, mostly obscured by a shut closed kiosk set to the sidewalk. I smoked and shivered, any chirp of wind a bit different in pitch taking my attention.

It was getting ten past eleven when headlights came up against the theatre face, over the kiosk, little ugly car parked, shut off, the driver keeping put.  When no one’d emerged after five minutes, I made a casual stroll to the plumbing shop door, gave it a tug, started to walk away after a glance at the car window I couldn’t see through—behind me heard it open, thump shut a dull crack kept mute by the chill, was around the corner, new cigarette just going when Lawrence wandered around.

-If I’m to believe everything I read, you’re quite the kisser.

He seemed terrified, not at all the sort I’d pegged him for, easy flab to him, relaxed into his role as husband and daddy.

-How old’s the youngest? I asked, a little tense he’d not gone ahead with so much as a What do you want? in the minute already he’d been there.

-She’s four.

-Thing here is I can have as many of these made as I feel like, print them up one a week enough I’d get quite a following I managed to get place let me leave them around.

I handed him the photocopied pages.

-Klia’s good with words, don’t know if it’s flattery or what, but she knows how to fill a page—page five’s a real example, you get there yet?

He hadn’t even looked through them, so I suppose he had the idea.  I stifled a rising sneeze, sucked phlegm and spit, a long string of it thick from over my chin to my coat sleeve, didn’t bother with tugging at it, just took a bit in with a slurp and went right on.

-You can see I’d rather be taking sick time, just today, so we’ll do this easy—you get me two thousand, it’s the last you’ll have to think about it.

It was like it hadn’t occurred to him this was going to be the thing, he seemed at a loss.

-When?

I wiped my palm up over my nose, roughed it into the coat over my ribs.

-Anytime works for you, Stephanie, or what else it’ll be is right now, what do you think when?

-I don’t have two thousand dollars.

-Even I have two thousand dollars, it can’t be that hard to come by.

-Not in cash.

I spit a long dribble down onto the pavement, made a real thing out of leaning forward, stubbing my cigarette in it, tapping down on it dainty with my shoe toe.

-This town have a bank, cash machine?

-I can’t take out two thousand.

I sneezed, two lines of mucus I felt them slick out my nose, a sheet over my upper lip, didn’t touch to clear the mess, stepped in close to Lawrence.

-You might think it’s something people’d think charming  you’re out getting some dowdy housewife to feel she’s found that secret someone while meanwhile your own wife’s at home growing your kids up, but I don’t think generally it’ll play off that way.  You think I think you own a shop and there’s not some two thousand dollars cash you can get your hands on in a pinch?  I’d start thinking with your head right, because that’s just exactly what this is, understand me?

And sick to death of the words tasting of wet salt, I scooped at my face, a loose handful, wiped it a streak across Lawrence’s coat front.  This seemed to put the matter to him a bit more pointedly, because like a light had gone off his arms came up appeasing.

-Alright, yes, I hadn’t been thinking that.  There’s money.

-Golly, is there?  You keep that here or the store?

-The store.

I nudged my nose he should turn and walk and as he got the door open, just after I told him I’d wait in front, he said I don’t have money, this isn’t my money, really, this is payroll, I wasn’t thinking about it.

-That sounds like it’ll be a real headache, Larry—hey, maybe I’ll put a rock through the window to make it look suspect for you, alright?

He seemed he almost thought the offer was serious, probably he’d swing back by later, do just that very thing except he seemed just smart enough it’d occur to him someone probably was watching us one of these little town windows and that was bad enough, some gossip might make it back his wife’s way, no need to give himself any more to dig up out of.

The whole time he was in the shop, I was sneezing, both hands over my face, warm bursts of breath up over my eyes, spilled over my cheeks, three sneezes I’d have a good fistful of slop, kept roughing it on the brick by the glass of the window.

He handed me the letter back with the money, so I gave it back across, but he stepped away, head shaking, wanted nothing to do with it, didn’t even want to chance getting rid of it himself in case some little sliver would set off an alarm.

-There’s over three grand in there, you’ll see, alright?  There isn’t anything else.

I eyed him, peeked in the bag he’d given me, just as quickly knelt and trundled it into my duffle.

-That’s payroll, right, nothing really to do with you. There a cash machine around?

He looked like he was going to cry. I thought of Klia, but really the comparison was ugly—she’d at least seemed devastated, this guy just seemed a kid I’d outsmarted him he thought he’d drink one soda already while reading the magazines then just pay for another to take with him.

-You said two thousand, there’s almost four in there.

-Then I’m sure another five hundred’ll make it four and’ll save me even thinking about a return trip any time soon, right?

He said Klia’s name, but it was a weird blurt, I couldn’t catch any tone of context in it, might’ve even been he’d been telling me Go get the rest from her.  But he fell in to step, I followed him up the way to a cash machine outside the bank, snorting and feeling my stomach loose and ready to turn, hand to grit my teeth and clench my buttocks.

He practically slapped the money at me so I struck him across the mouth with the side of my fist, not hard enough it’d hurt him, I didn’t think, but he just kept there, face to the wall like he was seething but knew what’d happen he lost check.

-In fact you put your head against that little wall and you count two hundred, Steph.  I’m walking that way, but I give your house a call twenty minutes, it’d better be you picks up.

I ran my hand over his shoulder a last time like I was using him as a tissue, though I wasn’t, sneezed in to that same hand by the time I was half block off in whatever random direction I’d went.

Pablo D’Stair is a writer of novels, shorts stories, and essays.  Founder of Brown Paper Publishing (which is closing its doors in 2012) and co-founder of KUBOA (an independent press launching July 2011) he also conducts the book-length dialogue series Predicate.  His four existential noir novellas (Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate; i poisoned you; twelve ELEVEN thirteen; man standing behind) will be re-issued through KUBOA as individual novellas and in the collection they say the owl was a baker’s daughter: four existential noirs.

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.