deeplyshallow // run aground

run aground

The Troubadour was a little underwhelming. I forget, probably because taking a three-hour drive to see a show assigns the venue more importance than it probably deserves, that most of these L.A. clubs we drive to are little holes. Concrete floors, chipped paint on primitive wooden walls and staircases, bathroom doors with hinges but no knobs and a direct line of sight from the urinal to the crowded main floor.

I maintain that, of all of the shows I’ve been to as an adult, I have enjoyed myself most when I’ve seen Kathleen Edwards play. Hard to say why this is, except that in the case of most shows I’ve been to, I’ve been watching a group that interests me but that’s generally it. There’s something I’ve never been able to adequately explain about why Kathleen’s music is any more personal to me than any other artist. But it is. It’s not just her voice; it’s the writing, which is so scratchy and unpretentious, and sometimes reads like the first chapter of a Richard Russo novel. And it’s not only the writing, either — the backing band is damned good, particularly Colin Cripps, who plays a wicked slide, and Joel Anderson, whose drumming I can only describe as shambling. That’s not the best word to describe it; I’m not even sure how it fits, but it does.

Friday night’s show was easily the best of the three times I’ve seen Kathleen. She and the band had just rushed back from recording their spot on The Tonight Show, and they were energetic and loose and despite no time for a sound check, they nailed the opening song, “Independent Thief,” and kept things hopping. Kathleen sang more strongly than I’d seen her sing in the past, and played with an insane level of confidence, kicking around the stage like Angus Young more than once. That was probably the key: the band was obviously having fun.

And so were we. Felicia and I got there in time to catch the overly-distorted opening act, some woman whose other half of the band didn’t show up. She played the lap steel set against a track of pre-recorded songs. For one song she invited a local drummer onstage, and then that was enough of that — back to the song loops. She joins the ranks of Kathleen’s two previous opening acts (the ones I’ve seen, that is): average, but far from interesting.

The high point of the night this time was, like the last show I saw, “Alicia Ross”. The band took a break while Kathleen played this one solo. I’ve written about the song before; it’s an intense and horrible song based on the true story of a Canadian girl who was murdered. Felicia asked me later if I thought that playing a song like that, over and over, would somehow desensitize you to it. It’s possible, I agreed, but it was obvious on Friday night that Kathleen Edwards hasn’t yet gone numb to this one. From where we stood you could see her struggling to not cry, and failing a little, once.

Second-best part of the show was finally getting to see her whip out the fiddle and saw through a couple of numbers, including the second-to-last song of the encore, “Goodnight, California,” which was just a little perplexing. The band seemed a little behind on that one, and a couple of off-notes weren’t lost in the noise, and Kathleen sang with the look of a woman with a migraine, and kept pressing her fist against her head. So yeah, maybe the low point, though they pulled it out with the kickass “Back to Me” at the end.

I love road trips. Love them to death. But working a full day, and still low-energy from a late one the previous night, will sap me faster than usual. Driving back from L.A. I found myself so completely exhausted that before we even hit the 405 I was listing a little. Felicia’s the best co-pilot I’ve ever had, stirring up some conversation or another, getting me talking so animatedly that I forget I’m tired. As we came through the hills toward Buellton, she went to sleep, confident that I was alright. And I was, until just before Santa Maria. I pulled off the road and slept for seven or eight minutes, until the backwash of an eighteen-wheeler rocked me awake. We finally pulled into the driveway at nearly four a.m. Next road trip I swear we’re planning a little better.

Yesterday we headed to SLO and watched a rookie bout of the two Central Coast roller derby teams, the Sweethearts and the Heartbreakers. The whole thing felt a little weak — girls halfheartedly bumping into one another, slow skating — until one of the older women went down pretty hard, and the EMTs pulled off her skate to reveal an ankle jutting in the wrong direction. Things roughened up a bit after that, though part of it was just an illusion created by rookie skaters taking bad steps and dropping onto their bellies a little too often. Felicia’s still itching to try out, but that ankle threw her resolve just a tiny bit. She’s small, so she worries she’ll get knocked around a lot. I tell her she’s small, she’ll be versatile and quick, but she’s having none of it. Look at those women, she says. They could eat me whole.