Black Francis + Bobby Bare Jr. + Moondoggies - Dante’s (MFNW 2009; Sept. 19)

After the funky exploration of Portugal. The Man, I knew my horoscope was leading me in the directions of Dante’s and one of the godfathers of alternative rock, Mr. Frank Black or as you might know him, and the name he was playing under that night, Black Francis.

Dante’s already had quite a few heads to peer over when I found my way in; probably people who just like me wouldn’t mind hearing a Pixies number or two. But first, we had to make it through the openers, who actually made it particularly easy on us.

The Moondoggies, who were on when I walked in, were a band that bore more than a passing resemblance to The Band. Maybe it was the heavy organ influence on the sound or perhaps it was the backwoodsy demeanor and lyrics like “Trees going to sing my song,” but I couldn’t drag my mind away from Canada’s finest. Armed with a little bit of crunch, this was straight forward bar rock, and because it wasn’t too labor intensive for my mind at this stage of the game, it was more than welcome. Plus, you can’t shake off bluesy rock in a small room: that’s where it makes a home.

Between the Moondoggies and the next act, I heard a mildly intoxicated man, very nice, testify about the power of a Bobby Bare Jr. show and was told that he was a man straight out of Memphis who knew the ways of rhythm and blues. I pictured a cool, older black man behind the keys à la Pinetop Perkins. But what came out, was anything but. Here was a man, curly hair, barrel chested, and unpretentiously adorned in a San Diego t-shirt. He was flanked on both sides by a keyboard and a pedal steel guitar, immersed in a blood-red light.

He started by grasping his scratched, straight-from-the-porch style acoustic guitar and standing alone at the mic. What came out of his mouth was a subtle, breezy song that sauntered along like it was going for a nice walk in the park. People seemed happy, but their faces lit up when he reached the chorus, making a cheeky lip pop as a slow Latin line from two trumpets filled the room. He had us.

People didn’t know where the sound was coming from, and you could see the smiles creeping up their faces as their eyes finally found two members of his band, one playing from the catwalk that hung above our heads and the other, feet planted and belting from atop the bar. It was a beautiful moment and maybe my favorite of the festival, and Bobby knew it was so nice that he told them to play it twice. This is how the man opened his show and now I’m a fan.

After the opener, the trumpet players took their positions on either side of Bobby and out came a drummer. They were now ready to proceed. What was obvious was that Bobby liked to savor his notes, and they created a mix of Americana and folk. It was really, really good. At one point, in the middle of a song, a lip pop was sounded and the trumpets kicked back in, sounding something like a battle cry, or as I wrote down, “like the king has returned to the castle.” He played the standard 45 minuts that was allotted to most of the non-headliners, and left an audience still excitedly in the palm of his hand.

Finally, the moment had arrived, and I wish I had been more excited, but by that point, I had seen eight bands, been going to shows since 3:30 after writing a review all morning, and most of what I could muster was a tired shuffle from foot to foot.

The stage Black Francis would take was to be for him and him alone. All that was up there was a large yellow Vox amp, a natural grain Telecaster, and that red light. He walked out, face unwavering in a leather jacket, black shirt, and black sunglasses with orange tint, and this is how he looked throughout the rest of the show. I remember thinking to myself how fitting it was that I was covering a Boston transplant that moved to Oregon, as some of the brass at melophobe are Bostonian to Oregonians (and vice versa, and back and forth), as well.

He opened with a solo number that I was completely ignorant of, but as the sound drifted out, I felt happy in the knowledge that he was just one of those people that could sing anything and I would listen to it. The crowd cheered and gave him the idol roar after the song, and bellowed out deeper when he launched into “Crackity Jones.” And for a while, that’s how it went: One solo, one Pixies, kind of a one for me, one for you type of deal, because while the crowd liked his solo material, if you compared the sound differentials at the end of each song, it was substantially louder post-Pixies. My favorite Pixies song played was “Caribou,” especially when was almost one in the morning and there was a man on stage screaming “repent!” at you.

What was equally impressive is how he could maintain complete control over that stage while being the only man on it. Switching back and forth from guitar only to guitar and harmonica (worn around the neck like Dylan), Black Francis played his songs, but I couldn’t help but get the feeling that he didn’t give a shit about the people out there. I don’t know the man, of course, so this is pure speculation, but only he talked once, making a joke about how he wasn’t forgetting lyrics because he was drinking smart water, but besides that it was a stern face and the songs. I guess it was the face that led me this way. He seemed standoffish, but I guess if I was in his position, in a room full of people that probably only wanted to hear one part of my artistic life, I might fall into the frustrated category faster than most men. It’s probably hard to only be one thing to people. 

I can’t tell you how it ended because I left after about an hour, as my eyes were starting to close and I didn’t want to start knocking people off inadvertently up on the sidewalk. It was cool from what I saw, and even though I just got done sympathizing with him for people putting him into a box, I’m crossing my fingers and hoping I get to go to the Pixies show coming up so I can see that box in full.

I’m an ass. 

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