Dante’s on a Saturday night is a lively place to be. It’s one of those joints where the action often spills out into the street by the witching hour, so if you happen to be walking by on your way to the latenight bus back across the river, coming from some Old Town drag burlesque or from that crazy-ass ever present line at Voodoo Doughnuts, there might be girls on the sidewalk in tight sequined sheaths pulling each other’s hair, or dudes in allblack (a color of its own, “allblack” — black boots, black pants, black jackets, black ink) standing near the entrance smoking cigarettes like they never went out of style.
Last Saturday, the lineup of Casey Neill and The Norway Rats, The Welfare State, and Fernando Viciconte graced the stage at Dante’s, a venue famous for its colorful Sinferno burlesque show, its generous slices of cheap pizza, and its live band-backed Karaoke from Hell. My arrival goes something like this: I get my hand stamped at the door, the bartenders live up to their reputation for notorious good looks, the waitress is an absolute doll, The Welfare State rocks out their last few numbers . . . and a couple gin and tonics later, Casey Neill and the Norway Rats step onto the stage.
Casey Neill’s strength comes from the storytelling aspect of his songs. I prefer the more the Neill Young and even Bob Dylan qualities of his voice and narratives to the Bruce Springsteen ones. But unlike the punk rock of my childhood — a clear influence on his more kilts-n-combats numbers — Casey Neill’s raspy crooning vocal style manages an articulation which allows one to follow lyrics, so sometimes it’s almost like listening to an epic poem or a script reading, something narrative and linear. That’s what good songs always do, of course; they lead you through a narrative, tell you a story that feels both familiar and new. And when you’ve found music that speaks to you, a narrative which rings true, you go back to it again and again, revisit it, let the lyrics and the music carry you through a number like someone leading you by the hand through a forest or a smoky room.
And good live shows like this one sweep you along, so by the end of the set, after your foot has been set stamping or your body swaying, the most memorable numbers are the ones you hum as you stagger to catch the last bus home. Saturday night — or more accurately, Sunday morning – after the Casey Neill show the songs running through my head are those narratives with their full story lines, especially the ones with a little pathos.
The pathos in Neill’s music draws from some pretty deep wells, with roots firmly nourished in the soils of old-world folk and new-world Appalachia and what in modern parlance is called “country.” Neill’s voice has a twang I personally adore, though it works best for me when it stays more Pogues than American West. The band’s current tour is in support of the Casey Neill and the Norway Rats release Goodbye to the Rank and File, and my favorite numbers of the evening are all recognizable high points from the album, like “Guttered” (“. . . Ain’t it like that when you’re guttered, and you walk the graveyard in the snow . . .”) and, somewhat unexpectedly, “Radio Montana” (“. . .Where bluebells reach their arms up to welcome the rain / A.M. frequency’s sweet refrain / Radio Montana . . .”).
But the song I’m humming, stomping rhythmically to as I walk across downtown Portland in the middle of a dry, mild February night, is “She Floated Away”: “She lifted her arms and she floated away. . . / Let me talk to you mother, for I must confess / Go ahead honey and wear the white dress / don’t let tradition stand in your way / She lifted her arms and she floated away. . .” See? Narrative speaking uncanny truth.
Recommended. Catch the show if you can. Tour dates on the band’s site.
(Portland, Oregon, Feb. 5, 2011)
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