The Wake

If I were to be booked on a trip to my own musical hell, the itinerary may look something like this: “Come hear backporch bumpkin-bluegrass and the overtly-emotional musings of a young singer-songwriter in one evening of pure torture!” As one can imagine, given my unbridled enthusiasm for bluegrass and neo-folk, I jumped at the chance to cover such an abysmal musical manifestation . . . right. Nonetheless, I decided to make the trek to Coffman Union on November 22nd to check out the latest and greatest in the way of bluegrass (The Schwillbillies) and rising easy-listening stars (Howie Day) anyway.

I ventured into the Coffman Memorial Theater to check out “Harmonize for Hunger,” a benefit show featuring the bluegrass music of Madison-based act, The Schwillbillies. Joined on stage by Chris Castino of The Big Wu, the group managed to plow through each song with unrestrained grit. Sporting trucker hats, facial hair and plenty of flannel, the six Schwillbillies gathered ‘round a single microphone and, in true Soggy-Bottom Boys fashion, belted out songs about liquor, women and fast-lane country-livin’. Working their way through a smorgasbord of acoustic instruments – each band member could play multiple instruments – the guys delivered one virtuous performance after another. Whether flat-pickin’ on a six-string or finger-pickin’ on a banjo, it was obvious that these were quite accomplished musicians. Yet, despite their overwhelming musical prowess, The Schwillbillies performance was marred by technical problems and an old-fashioned persona that seemed tirelessly fabricated. After awhile, the act grew old.

So, I decided to go and check out the other concert of the evening, Howie Day. Day, a young singer-songwriter, was playing Coffman’s Great Hall, in front of a sell-out crowd. As I stepped into the teal-lit wonderland of the Great Hall, my ears took note of Day’s singing, which bore a modest resemblance the vocal lovechild of Boy George and Scott Stapp. Somewhere, in the midst of Day’s high-pitched moaning and emotional lyricism – tear – I managed to lose interest. After enduring thirty-seconds of the singer’s vocal blitzkrieg, I decided I would be better off listening to the cotton-mouthed delivery of The Schwillbillies.

Apparently, I had arrived just in time. After encountering another tuning glitch, The Schwillbillies had taken an extended backstage break; finally, the perfect opportunity to ponder the musical escapades of the evening. Sitting in my maroon-upholstered chair, I struggled to make sense of what was becoming an endless, all-night assault on my musical virtues. “What has become of all that is good and just in the musical world,” my brutally-honest, telepathic conscience screamed out.

With little hope left in my musical soul, I lazily waited out The Schwillbillies’ intermission. It was there, as I sat, surrounded by the tie-dyed remnants of a thinning bluegrass crowd, that I had a unique musical revelation. Somewhere, in the midst of this bearded-yuppie convention, someone had started playing Rubber Soul over the theater’s PA system. It was as though the hand of God himself had hit play in one divine act of musical salvation. In a single moment, I regained what had been my dying faith in music. In what was the highlight of the evening, I sat and listened to seven more songs off the album, decidedly content with the turn of events. As the closing notes of “Michelle” faded into sonic oblivion, The Shwillbillies came back on stage. With my faith in music reaffirmed, I left there and then, determined never again to have my musical faith tempted by such hellish demons.