Colin Meloy : Traveling Troubadour

January 29, 2005

When Colin Meloy played a pair of solo acoustic shows at the Hotel Cafe, it really wasn’t much of a stretch. While his main success is with the motley crue known as the Decemberists, his lonely early days in the Pacific Northwest consisted mostly of solo shows like these, in pretty much any venue he could book. After recording Castaways and Cutouts it was a solo acoustic set at a local showcase where Slim Moon signed him up on KillRockStars. Even today, at the beginning of each Decemberists encore, Meloy will return to the stage by himself to toss off a cover and a reading of “Red Right Ankle” before the rest of the band shows up.

The Hotel Cafe, once you cut out the bar and kitchen and stage, is about the size of my living room. Intimate doesn’t even really begin to describe it. Only about fifty people were allowed into the small venue, with a good chunk of folks being turned away at the door. You could tell Meloy was comfortable in this sort of environment, casually joking with the audience and telling background information to each song as if it were an episode of VH1 Storytellers.

He started with a trio of songs from the self-published 5 Songs EP, playing “Shiny,” “My Mother Was a Chinese Trapeze Artist,” and “Apology Song” in a straight run. The latter two garnered giggles and laughs from the audience. The arrangement for “Chinese Trapeze Artist” is so maudlin it’s easy to forget it’s completely ridiculous with its references to acrobats and spies and whorehouses and South Carolinian punk rockers. “Apology Song” is more obviously comedic, and was the first of many joyous singalongs of the evening.

Meloy’s also played a pair of songs from his tour only EP of Morrissey covers, the cleverly titled Colin Meloy Sings Morrissey EP. Before he started, he asked if Stephen Patrick Morrissey was in the audience, and requested the audience not to mention the EP to Mr. Morrissey if we ever ran into him at the supermarket. Why? “I don’t want to get sued,” Meloy deadpanned. “Sister, I’m a Poet” was punchy and cute and his version of “Jack The Ripper” sounded amazing on the twelve string.

He also played a fair share of songs from Picaresque, which he reminded us “comes out on March 22nd, FOR THOSE OF YOU THAT DON’T ALREADY HAVE IT.” He jokingly chided one guy who cheered a bit too much for the opening chords of “The Sporting Life,” snapping “Who was that? You owe me $10! You can pay me after the show.” He also rolled off the haunting “Eli the Barrow Boy,” and the whimsical B-side “Bandit Queen,” a song that didn’t make it on to Picaresque because “every take was ruined by a ridiculous tap dance solo.”

The singalongs continued with the more familiar tracks, including the audience romping through “Cautionary Song,” and navigating the tongue twisting feniculas and unique New Yorks of “Myla Goldberg.” The biggest response, of course, came from the biting “Los Angeles, I’m Yours.” The audience was elated not only to sing along, but to supply a perfect replication of Jenny Conlee’s keyboard and melodica solos. At least, as perfect as 50 off key motherfuckers trying to sing a melodica part can be. Meloy admitted “I’m always afraid of playing that here and catching a can to the head.” “It’s OK, we feel the same way. We hate it here,” was the only response from the crowd. OH HOW AMUSING SELF LOATHING CAN BE.

The main set concluded with a startling rendition of “California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade,” a song I never imagined could be performed solo. Meloy went at it full speed, playing every note of the ten minute marathon, including an instrumental bridge where he once again dropped the open note runs of R.E.M.’s “7 Chinese Brothers” and a few notes of the Replacement’s “Can’t Hardly Wait” as well. The encore came with traditional performances of “Grace Cathedral Hill” and “Red Right Ankle” before finally closing with a slowed down performance of Cheap Trick’s “Southern Girls.”

The performance was a real revelation to me, as good as any Decemberist show I’ve seen. I never felt like the songs were ever missing anything, as if these arrangements intended all along. The audience was as spellbound as any I’ve been in, a bookish and nerdy version of those zombified Dashboard crowds, hanging on each each awkward over-enunciated word and each couplet of purple poetry. It was absolutely magic, and as much as I love Crutchy McGee and the rest of the Decemberists, it’s pretty clear that Meloy is the Franchise. I don’t know how common these shows will be for the rest of Meloy’s career, but whore yourself or murder if necessary if he ever tours like this again.

Posted in From Blown Speakers