“To survive, you must tell stories.”
- Umberto Eco
Although I've been to my share, especially in an earlier age, I've never been a real fan of stadium/arena concerts and all that goes with them. In younger years when life was a game-on, up-for-anything world, okay. But now, I'd rather not. I much prefer the more intimate settings of a small club/hall/mid-size theatre or listening room. They lend themselves to a closer connection between artist and audience. In the best settings, with performers that are good at it, there can be a real chemistry developed.
I could reel off several examples of musicians I've seen that engage with their gathered followers and seem like they're enjoying it all. You can too, I'm sure. The best I've ever seen, no exception, was Todd Snider, who we lost recently. He was a master storyteller. He also lived a lifestyle that cultivated the circumstances for making good stories. His shows were half stories, half songs. I've seen him tell a ten-minute story setting up a three-minute song. He was incredible.
Then there's the flip side of that. I'm sure you've experienced somebody phoning it in and going through the motions. My worst case of that was back in August of 1995. Matthew Sweet was a hot property in the alternative music scene at the time. I had his Girlfriend album which I loved and still do, by the way. It was filled with interesting, grunge-adjacent stuff and the album cover was a stunning photograph of the oh-so-beautiful actress Tuesday Weld, adorned in a fur-hooded coat. It's framed and hangs on our music wall to this day. So, there was much to like about Matthew Sweet.
When I learned he was playing the New Daisy Theatre on Beale in Memphis, I snatched up a couple of tickets. I asked my music friend Tom if he'd like to go. He wasn't familiar with Sweet but he was pleased to attend. Go we did.
Matthew Sweet played straight through for an hour. He changed out guitars every song, I'm not kidding, every single song and, I don't remember him saying one word to us, the paying members of the audience who came out to see him. I mean, not so much as a “Hey, Memphis, how's it going?" I don't know, maybe his dog had just died, or his girlfriend ran off with one of the roadies, or he was off his face stoned. Whatever the case, DISAPPOINTING. I'm not sure what Tom took from it. At least I recognized the tunes.
I realized that night how much the relationship between the player and the played-to means to me. Without it, what's the point of being there? Talk to me just a little bit; that's all I'm askin'. I still love that album, though.