Dirty Three + Chris Brokaw - Crocodile (Seattle, WA; Sept 18, 2009)

Friday night at 8:30, in the newly renovated, virtually unrecognizable, and more succinctly-named Crocodile, the balcony’s front line was already claimed in preparation for Dirty Three. The stage lights were being tested, individually and in combinations, which lent a multi-hued strobe effect to the showroom. Though the impact of the renovation is truly revelatory, there is not a chair or stool in the place. Looking out across the floor from where I stood against the wall, it became sadly apparent that the show goers (myself included), were a whole bunch of people standing around in little clusters, in a square-shaped room, with no point of focus. We remained that way for quite some time, as the opener did not emerge until after 10:00. 

Off the bat, opener Chris Brokaw employed an effect on the guitar that sounded as if he were playing on the other side of a propeller or an industrial strength fan. There was something reminiscent of Eric Burdon’s “Sky Pilot,” one of my favorite childhood songs. But is there an innately 90s quality to the lone singer/electric guitarist? In this case, yes. After that somewhat promising introduction, Brokaw sounded dated in the worst way. Overall, his sound was not up to the task of entertaining a mid-sized, well-packed venue. In the balcony, where I stood amongst chatters, attention to the stage was achieved only once: when Brokaw created a wordless soundscape of distortion. The moment he opened his mouth to sing again, it became clear that his vocals lack the ability to engage. I ducked out to eat some nachos at Shorty’s. 

As a general rule, I’m not a huge fan of instrumental music. Over the years however, I’ve heard Dirty Three here and there, and even without a vocal line to grab on to, their songs proved compelling and memorable. I’d also heard an impressive thing or two about their live shows.

Perhaps taking a tip from compatriot Nick Cave, Warren Ellis (violin) and Jim White (drums) looked rather dashing in suits, unruly beards and tousled hairdos notwithstanding. “It’s good to be back, ladies and gentlemen, after four years. And guess what? We haven’t written a single fucking new song.” Which is forgivable. Dirty Three, including guitarist Mick Turner, all live on separate continents, after all. “This song is called, ‘Jim Morrison took my fucking mo-jo, give it back you motherfucker.’” Ellis struck Morrison-esque poses while plucking at his violin strings, animatronically. He is a marvel of jigging, dancing, furious sawing away of bow to strings, and grasshopper-style high kicks. I’d say his mo-jo is still alive and well, or else he was channeling the spirit of Morrison, as he tried—ignobly but nonetheless charmingly—to coerce certain attractive women up front away from their boyfriends. “Move on, sweetheart,” he persuaded, with all the panache of a well-dressed, elfin punk.

Layers of engagement stood out immediately as a credit to Dirty Three’s performance; the obvious level of collaboration amongst the three musicians, in conjunction with the connection between the audience and the band, created an overall sense of allegiance. These fans are dedicated, enraptured, and often bearded. Ellis’ spasmodic movements, such as his employment of the iconic Townshend windmill technique, are simply icing to the band’s talent: unnecessary, but toothsome and enchanting.

Ellis explained, in nonspecifics, “This is a song about stuff from the last century. There’s a lot of shit in my head and then there’s stuff that I don’t want to know about at fucking all.” White drove the momentum with big, soft mallets. The rhythm was softly exciting, like night swimming in a blue lagoon, with bats swooping low overhead. Ellis’ sporadic, rapturous yell was not mic’ed, which heightened its exultance. Turner’s guitar added extra depth and texture to the already weighty duo of violin and drums.

“This is a song about setting yourself on fire. This is a song of hope,” introduced Ellis, as he grabbed his crotch in solidarity. This is a song that I know from a mix tape that was made for my sister in 1996. The song is, in fact, called “Hope.” It is the soundtrack to a mournful scene on a windy prairie. Ellis and White were two marionettes engaged in a dramatic, wordless banter. Ellis tensed up, then crumbled to his knees. I noticed a small, white feather appear above the stage and watched it glide down like a tiny cradle.

“This is a song about good things. Looking up into the sky and realizing that, in the scheme of things, you’re very small.” White’s arms moved like slow whips cracking. Over the course of the night, I caught two song titles: “The Zenith” and “Sea Above, Sky Below.” The overarching theme was Western, and it was as though we were all on the best kinds of drugs at a barn-raising party. My one complaint is that at 1:00 AM, this kind of music puts me to sleep, even during its most raucous arrangements. I felt like I was tiredly rushing down rapids on my back and careening head-first into a beautiful dream, which is an inappropriate mental place to be while standing upright in public.

The encore brought Ellis back as a snake charmer, of sorts. He advanced through the song like a belly dancing conductor. At the close of the final song, “Everything is Fucked,” there was a fade out, a thank you, and a collapse, in no particular order.

DOWNLOAD: Dirty Three - Great Waves (MP3) or Follow us for more Dirty Three MP3s (Twitter)

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