So many words unspoken

When she quietly entered through the curtain last night, after two bands and almost two hours, almost no one in the crowd noticed. My sister asked, "Is that her?" Low slung jeans, bright ski cap, a cherubic face in the shadows. It was Mary Lou Lord, alright.

Seven years had gone by since my college girlfriend introduced me to her music. Ironically, we had broken up by then. But the chemistry of our musical tastes continued. Back in college, I was into "classic" rock, and then folk. During 1995 & 1996 I was listening to a lot of Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Zeppelin, Neil Young, as well as newer folks like Pete Droge and Sarah McLachlan. Rachel was into "indie" rock, 10,000 Maniacs, Guided by Voices, Helium, the Cranes, Mazzy Star, Lemonheads, and later Belle and Sebastian and Sleater-Kinney. Our musical worlds were not far apart, and in effect doubled through playing each other CDs and later, sending mix tapes.

So along comes this Boston-based singer who hung out in Seattle with Kurt Cobain, a folkie girl on Kill Rock Stars with a punk ethic. Which is pretty much the folk ethic - authentic, anti-materialist, do it yourself, independent, keep it simple stupid. Her first song I ever heard was "Some Jingle Jangle Morning":

"Song about a sunbeam, song about a girl
Her voice still rings and echoes in my mind
So many words unspoken, so many worlds apart
Your memory is all you left behind..."

I saw her twice in 1998, in San Francisco. The first time, she opened for Whiskeytown. The other time, the Raging Teens and Slim Dunlap from the Replacements opened for her. She covered Dylan, she covered Pete Droge, I never heard someone of such impeccable musical taste. For a singer, she was also 100% fan, and a huge fan and friend of Elliott Smith. That was the night of the Academy Awards, and Elliott performed "Miss Misery" from Good Will Hunting in front of half of America. That was 1998.

And now it's 2004. Elliott Smith is dead. Whiskeytown frontman Ryan Adams is the biggest and most brilliant thing in alt-country, big enough to spawn a backlash. One of the girls in opening act Sister South (think acoustic and pretty Dixie Chicks) wore a T-shirt that said, "Ryan Adams Sucks". I later found out that Ryan Adams himself puts out the shirts. Talk about beyond irony.

And Mary Lou Lord? Rehab, motherhood, still busking on the street... She just keeps on trucking, neither burning out nor fading away.

When she came out, I hoped that six years ago would tessllate into yesterday. Instead, I felt the full weight of six years had passed, a lot of water under the bridge. My interest in music waned and has recovered just recently. Other things took priority: teaching, law school, the real world. I only heard about the concert through Vicky, whom I had introduced to the novelty hit "His Indie World":

"I don't think I fit in to his indie world,
Guided by Voices and Velocity Girl
Eric's Trip and Rocketship, Rancid, Rocket From the Crypt
Bikini Kill and Built to Spill, it's plain to see that I don't fit..."

I remember the weirdly compelling music wafting from the dorms of my fellow frosh: Alice in Chains, Suede, Primus, Jane's Addiction. The same folks later tuned into Matchbox 20 and Asian pop. We like to yak about musicial integrity. What about the listener's musical integrity?

So many words unspoken, so many worlds apart... It's not just her tuneful ear, or her intimate voice, or the life she's chosen - a life dedicated to music - not just her music, but the music of the troubadour giants on whose shoulders she sings.

It's the noisy six-year silence to which I can relate only too well. I like to read more than I like to write. I'm also better at the former. The components that make me a writer (appreciation of language, respect for insight, a love of words) make me a bigger fan. When I read Jonathon Kozol's first-hand account of inner-city schools, Louise Gluck's poem on friendship between a believer and an unbeliever, or Natalia Ginzburg's meditation on real virtues, I want to give a shout out to their vision. But I also lose the desire to share mine with its similar but duller perspective.

One way to clear my inferiority complex would be not to read anything by professional writers. Ignorance is bliss, right? Because poor writing or thinking agitates me as much as its superior counterpart leaves me in thrall. I get depressed when I read Michael Kinsley claim in Time that "Greed is good" for the economy (then why aren't people investing in WorldCom or Martha Stewart Omnimedia?) or NPR's Rob Gifford compare Roh Moo-hyun and Chun Doo-hwan as if they were fellow presidents tainted by similar scandals (Roh violated a parliamentary technicality, while Chun overthrew the government and imprisoned his political opponents). Actually it's the inability to respond with equal measure. People who think their weblogs are doing something are fooling themselves. But if you write or shout or sing out of love, or hate, or a need to purge your soul, then yeah, bring it on.

Mary Lou Lord @ Club Spaceland, March 13, 2004

First impressions: I thought she seemed a bit nervous and/or tipsy. Or maybe just plain tired. (Turns out she and the band Gingersol have been playing every day for nineteen consecutive days! I didn't know.) She told the crowd she has spasmodic dysphonia, a neurological disorder she described as writer's cramp for the voice. She apologized for her condition. So the first few songs - Western Union Desperate, His N.D. World (the Americana version, and a request on her second song), He'd Be A Diamond - she sang the low notes instead of the high ones. Sometime she sprechstimme-d in a sweet growl - think Renee Zellweger. More than once she remarked, "I’m getting too old for this shit..."

And then she shut out her worries, the chatty El Lay barflies, the cheapo guitar, and let her music take over her voice.

It started to happen with a cover of "1952 Vincent Black Lightning", by the great Richard Thompson. Her voice was still clipped but she never faltered in singing of a love between a British gangster, a girl, and the title motorcyle. The intricate melody drew me to notice her proficient guitar-playing too.

After ten or so songs, she brought on the previous band, Gingersol, to back her electric set. She sang "Stars Burn Out" (dedicated no doubt to her friend-muses Kurt, Elliott, et al), 43, and then "Aim Low". Despite the tricky sound system and the drowning power of her band, the indie soul of her last great song (2000) shone brightly. It's like Mount Kilimanjaro, a musical peak standing by itself. Why not more? Maybe it's as the song says: "You can't lose if you don't take part." Sigh.

Despite making the "Real Life Rock Top 10" (with a bullet!) of Greil Marcus, the art critic and fellow alum (class of '63 I think), I can 't find the full lyrics anywhere on the web. I found the line above on a Brazilian's blog, listed as her "Frase do momento" for February 23rd. That day, she was listening to "Aim Low", had just watched "Peixe Grande" ("Fish Great" says the universal translator), and ate Sesame Chicken. Sounds like an American girl to me.

Speaking of American girls, the song reminds me of a few:

"I never asked you if you'd like to go dancing
It saved hearing that you might decline
I never told you that I wanted to be with you
I aimed low when you walked on by."

She followed with "Lights Are Changing", which like the previous three, were written by or co-written with Nick Saloman of the famously obscure Bevis Frond. As an interpreter, she is always confident and loose. The opening chords are familiar, she quipped, and sang "I was born in a small town". Then she repeated it to the tune of "There she goes", before starting the song in earnest. The band was sharp, especially drummer John Florance, whose mighty drum rolls even caused the band once to turn their heads.

The only full-band song she sang of her own was "Some Jingle Jangle Morning". But she has made the others her own, while ironically, her song alludes to Nirvana, Guns and Roses, and Bob Dylan (and their songs that allude to drugs). Nonetheless, the lyrics are intensely personal and defy easy interpretation. For me it conveys a feeling of love and realization of loss - realizing a part of your life is irretrievably gone. It may be an old lover, or the Northwest scene, or the person you were way back when. I can identify with the song now in ways unknown when I first heard it.

Lord went solo acoustic again, and played "Sayonara" which I had never heard before. She followed with "I Figured You Out", "Camden Town Rain" and "Birthday Boy" - probably the three songs of hers I listen to most. Elliott Smith wrote "I Figured You Out", but never recorded it - he once said at a concert that "I thought it sounded like the Eagles and I thought it sucked. So here, check it out, see what you think." As she finished, she added, "And no, it doesn't sound like the Eagles."

By the latter two songs, I noticed she had regained her range, probably during the electric set. Her voice soared without losing a whisper of intimacy. Along with "Some Jingle Jangle Morning, "Camden Town Rain" is among the finest songs she has written. They also place the bulk of her most memorable work in the early 1990s. I suppose there's nothing wrong with that. Right, Pearl Jam?

I wonder if the handful of fans who she recognized had followed her for a decade. They were slightly older than me, so it's possible. She even dedicated "Birthday Boy" to Daniel, by personalizing four familiar lines.

Before we left Club Spaceland, I stopped to say hi. I heard her say to a fan that her new album was "pretty good" with a half-satisfied look on her face. I told her I'd last seen her in SF, at Bottom of the Hill. It was Academy Awards night. Rachel came out to see you. "Oh, Rachel," she said. Yes, she remembered the show. She had somebody tell her when Elliott would be performing on TV.

She is only a troubadour, soul sister of Dylan, before Dylan changed the rules, and she has survived the angst. Look: she has just walked onto the plaform, smiling at the subway riders, strumming a guitar. She's got the heart to back it up.