Iron & (Fine) Wine

I approached last night's Iron & Wine show like any other: with a hypercritical mind full of skepticism that Sam Beam and co. could possibly rise to the occasion of recreating the magic that they made on last year's second most addicting album (next to In Rainbows), The Shepherd's Dog. After Beam's so-so solo performance at this year's inaugural Rothbury Festival, an acoustic greatest hits show complete with charmingly sincere and humble banter, I wasn't sure that the album could translate to the full band forum. From the first note, I knew that my doubts were completely unfounded.

Beam took the stage with his acoustic guitar in one hand and his sister, Sarah, in the other, and what ensued were some of the most hushed and tender harmonies that I have ever witnessed two people create. The Beams were so earnest, so genuine in their delivery of the acoustic set, that it was hard to believe that they've played those songs hundreds of times for tens-of-thousands of people. The moment of truth, though, was when the band slowly added themselves to the mix. First piano, then electric guitar and bass. The drums subtly complemented the build, and remained -- as they are on Iron & Wine’s studio work -- low in the mix, a fluttering undercurrent of tom rolls; and finally Sarah Beam picked up a violin and the band launched into the more expansive Shepherd's Dog songs.

And launch is really the way to describe it. The build was slow and steady, and once the band slipped their moors the music shot right into the stratosphere. By the time I&W reached a climax with "Wolves (Song of the Shepherd's Dog)," Beam's electric rhythm guitar was a driving prominent force and the meditative acoustic set had all but worn off. When one heckler called for "Freebird," Beam was tempted to oblige, and even jokingly played the opening few bars to the Skynyrd classic. They mixed a surprising number of the acoustic-tending Our Endless Numbered Days, which they managed to spice up with an especially interesting and instrumentally diverse structured jam on On Your Wings and a heartwrenchingly honest version of Sodom, South Georgia. It is this honesty, Beam's ability to practically reach inside and touch the audience's collective soul and convey his fears joys losses loves heartbreaks, that truly defines him as a songwriter and performer. His voice, while as hollow as the marimba that was on stage with him, has a very distinctive timbre that lends itself well to both his lone wolf and his band leader personae, especially when combined with that of his sister (or, for that matter, her violin and accordion).

Part of my concern leading up to the concert was all the negative press that the venue Terminal 5, was getting. From the poor acoustics, to the deficient soundman, the main complaint was the quality of what came out of the speakers, not the quality of what was being put into them. I stood downstairs across from the stage for Blitzen Trapper's entertaining opening set and watched most of the I&W concert from the balcony with the swaying, less claustrophobic masses, and I can say that from where I stood the sound was very much like any other mid-large venue. Enough to hear the music being made as long as everyone around you wasn't yapping away. I chalk any complaints about Terminal 5 up to the fact that New Yorkers tend to prattle on constantly, even when it's not welcome, and especially during concerts.

When all was said and done, and with promises of a not-too-distant return, the Beams devolved from the complexity of Iron & Wine into their most natural selves. Standing at the microphones, Sam with guitar in hand, they somberly and evocatively sang a characteristically wispy "The Trapeze Swinger," and left the noisy crowd in silenced awe.

The Dirty Mac (featuring Mitch Mitchell)

In 1968, with the Beatles still at the height of their power and riding the wave of The White Album, John Lennon was called upon by Mick Jagger, host of the BBC TV Special The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus, to perform a song in front of an audience. Though The Beatles had not played a live concert in over two years since the inception of sampling and looping during the Revolver recordings in 1966, Lennon took it upon himself to join Jagger's Circus.

The '60s were chock full o' collaboration, and given The Beatles' inability to perform their electronically complex music in a live forum, Lennon decided to be the first member to deviate from the group . Enter: The Dirty Mac. As a play on the ever popular Fleetwood Mac, Lennon formed a supergroup of rockers that has been virtually unrivaled in the 40 years since, save for the Traveling Wilburys. For Dirty Mac, Lennon chose Rolling Stones bassist Keith Richards, Cream guitarist Eric Clapton, and Jimi Hendrix Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell.

It is Mitchell's recent death that lead me to discover Dirty Mac. Despite my penchant for Beatles history and that of 1960s rock in general, the group had somehow slipped under my radar. Perhaps it is because it only had one performance, and it was of a Beatles song ("Yer Blues") that had been released only a few months earlier on The White Album (the band also backed Yoko Ono and violinist Ivry Hitlis for the set's second and final song), but given the amount I've read about the the late 1960s, the Lennon-Ono fiasco, and the subsequent Beatles' breakup, a riveting performance of a Beatles' song by a band other than The Beatles at the height of their popularity seems a rare and exciting event.

What truly sets this performance apart from a Beatles' performance is, of course, the players. Surely McCartney and Richards are at an equal level of skill, and Harrison was, at the time, arguably a better guitarist than Clapton, but Mitchell is leagues better than Ringo Starr. I'm no Ringo basher -- more of an admirer, really -- but Mitchell is pure dirty blues. With his relentlessly hardhitting style, he takes "Yer Blues" to a very different place than Starr did. Mitchell's heavyhandedness lends the lyrical touch that, in this case in particular, Starr's lacks. Again, I mean this not to discount the original beat, which carries the song well, but only to accentuate the appropriateness of Mitchell's harder blues. Lennon's lyrics are some of his darkest to that point, drawing heavily on the pain he felt from his heroin withdrawal (or so the story goes) and intense self-loathing, as evidenced by his screeching "even hate my rock and roll, yes I'm lonely, wanna die..."

After Liberty DeVitto, Mitchell was the second drummer whose style I melded into my own and his work on songs as intense as "Fire" and airy as "Hey Joe" are still very obvious influences on most drummers that play the blues today. Most impressive was his rare ability to capture the musicality of the song and the songwriter, a skill that most drummers would do well to work harder at developing. Whether the rapid eighth notes that kick off Hendrix's "Machine Gun" or the awkward breakdown that comes towards the end of the "Yer Blues" guitar solo, Mitchell was a champion and pioneer of melodic drumming in rock and blues.