Reviewed onTuesday December 6
I’m ever so slightly ashamed to admit this was my first Newtown Social gig. But then, who better to experience in its unassuming confines than the man venerated by many as a saving grace on the songwriter landscape, Cass McCombs?
Casting a singular figure against a backdrop of hardware, Ela Stiles was on hand for support, presenting an intriguing performance of layered and processed vocals that brought to mind the lighter side of minimal wave. Just as the audience was starting to feel inclined, her set ended abruptly for reasons unknown.
McCombs’ most recent album Mangy Love is regarded by many as his most accessible. Tuesday night’s gig, invested with a surprising brightness and airiness, only served to reaffirm this universal feeling. Where was that sparing, wearied poet, that wandering melancholy?
Still very much there, as ‘Don’t Vote’ would attest. Lauded for his lyricism, McCombs’ unexpectedly direct approach further emboldened his words. The casually delivered lyric, “Could you imagine this could drag on four more years?” was especially pregnant with meaning in these troubled times. Rich, warm bass, steady percussion and refreshingly resonant keyboard inflections seemed to grant even greater affinity to McCombs’ conscious musing.
Appropriately, it was following the lilting sweetness of ‘Brighter!’ that the show really clicked into gear and McCombs’ arrangements really came to life. The playful guitar lick of ‘Run Sister Run’, reminiscent ever so slightly of an Afrobeat fill, seemed especially poignant in light of the song’s reference to British Columbia’s tragic Highway of Tears; as it was with the wistful melodic riff of ‘Bum Bum Bum’, in which he gently wavered, “No, it ain’t no dream, it’s all too real / How long until this river of blood congeals?” These are simple, evocative social narratives dressed in a deliberate disguise.
Closing it out was ‘County Line’ – once a bittersweet ballad now transformed into a tastefully dub-inflected session. McCombs’ band members had, by this stage, found their voices, a respectful nod acknowledging each of their solos in turn. This was hardly self-indulgence; if anything, the bubbling energy – though occasionally threatening to ensconce its lyrical driver – was punctuated by its restraint.
In reflection, I’d be the first to admit I’d prepared for the introverted, wearied troubadour, and wrongfully ignored the diversity of his output and the scope and space within his arrangements. Lent new life in a live setting, this was McCombs affording himself a wry smile.
