Alasdair Roberts was raised in central Scotland, in the hamlet of Kilmahog (a name behind whose origin you just know there’s a good story). Roberts is fond of good stories himself, be they sanguinary or romantic, and on Wednesday evening (July 24) he trotted a bunch of them out on the Ice House stage in Minneapolis. Roberts played acoustic guitar, and was joined by Ben Reynolds on electric guitar and harmonica, and Stevie Jones on upright bass and backing vocals. Of the virtually limitless possibilities of what three people on a stage can do, it’s always interesting to sit back and observe not just what a trio chooses to do, but what a trio proves capable of doing. Roberts has garnered attention in the role of Scottish troubadour for some two decades now and it’s a role he appears to embody capably and with an easy assurance. He has released seven albums over that time, and on this evening he shared a few selections from the latest, called
A Wonder Working Stone.
Roberts and company began their set with the first two numbers off that latest album,
The Year of the Burning and
The Merry Wake, respectively (although appearing in reverse order on the album). These were followed by the well-known Scottish folk ballad,
The Fair Flower of Northumberland. Roberts sang in a lilting brogue that accorded well with the lyrics and melodies of the ballads and story-songs that were at times rollicking, at other times soulful, sometimes melancholy, and occasionally, playful.
Whatever the mood of the song being performed, the joy Roberts took in performing was always visible and palpable. The songs were, for the most part, acoustic ballads seasoned with licks on the Fender electric wielded by Reynolds, which much of the time had the sound and feel of retro rock and roll licks, a la Credence Clearwater or The Animals, sort of retro-fitted into the songs, rather than imparting any sort of elegiac or Scottish-tinged character, which might have been more apropos. Reynolds also whipped out a blues harp at various points, providing some pleasant accompaniments, although one might have hoped for him to crack open his cupped hands and get closer to the mike so as to more generously liberate, and share, the sounds he was producing.
Roberts was affable and chatty between songs, giving the song titles and even some background on each. He introduced his band members before launching into the third song (‘
Northumberland’), after which Reynolds on his blues harp ushered us into a tune whose melody was reminiscent of
Red River Valley, but which after a while went in different directions, especially during the climax, when Roberts flopped onto the floor of the stage and rolled around a bit with guitar in hand (you gotta love a playful Scottish troubadour).
When Roberts played the new album’s third track, titled
Fusion of Horizons, I couldn’t help hearing echoes of
Incense and Peppermints released by the group Strawberry Alarm Clock nearly fifty years ago. Once again, I detect this retro vibe from the days of rock and roll’s infancy, and wonder whether it is by design or just a natural by-product of the music these musicians have assimilated throughout their lives, which then becomes a part of their own musical expression. But whatever other musical influences may be contributing to the songs and performances of Alasdair Roberts, it is the Scottish inflected voice and Scottish folk tradition that takes center stage as the audience is treated to musical tales of bonnie lasses and merry wakes, tales that we somehow find familiar and endearing.
he sings from the heart
Roberts is an ordinary looking fellow, long-legged and gangly, and cuts an amusing figure when he becomes especially animated and begins hopping around the stage; neither his singing nor his playing is what one would call extraordinary; he sings and plays the guitar capably, as though it were easy and came naturally; his stage behavior, occasional spirited antics aside, is workmanlike: he is there to do a job and he sets about getting it done. But Roberts does his job with evident pleasure and he sings from the heart: that pleasure and those heart-stirrings made their way to the audience and they responded accordingly. Which is to say: favorably and enthusiastically.
That audience enthusiasm came in handy for the final tune. Introduced by Roberts as “a grisly old song from the old country,†the song is called
The Cruel Mother and afforded the audience the rare opportunity to participate in a sing-along on the subject of infanticide. Nobody seemed troubled by this, but instead, obediently and with gusto, sang the prescribed verses which alternated with the verses sung, a capella, by Roberts. The audience’s lines were the following:
The sun shines down on Carlisle Wall
And the lion shall be lord of all
This selection was special, and I don’t say that about every song about infanticide. There was something in Roberts’ humanity and air of vulnerability while standing alone at center stage and singing those naked verses that seemed to draw the audience closer to him; if you hadn’t appreciated him before this song, you did by the time it ended. Or at least so it seemed, judging from the rousing cheers that brought him back to perform one final song. When Roberts left the stage for the last time, the audience seemed well pleased with the lad from Kilmahog and what he had shared with them that evening; one feels that the spirit of Robert Burns, had it been present (and it seemed to be), could have been no less so.
The band that opened for Roberts was called Painted Saints. Their first tune was a haunting, discordant melody. Their second tune was
very discordant, featuring accordion and cello. The third number (and here I concede that the word
number may be pter than
tune), was somber, and featured lap slide guitar, with the pleasant-toned tenor of the singer rising and falling in smooth modulations. This band’s performance was uneven, to put it kindly, but they did successfully demonstrate the ability to create a distinctive mood, even if not one I’d like to inhabit too often or for too long. Throughout their set, the word that recurred in my mind was
haunting. A couple of the numbers struck me as the kind of music you might hear as the collection of dolls in your dead baby sister’s bedroom suddenly began stirring and coming to life. Which is to say: the stuff of Gothic horror films featuring ghosts. The singer’s whistling did nothing to dispel this effect but only heightened it. The ensemble, like that of Alasdair Roberts, was a trio: a fiddle/cello player, a banjo/lap guitar player, and the singer/frontman, Paul Fonfara, who played guitar, accordion and clarinet. The band is the brainchild of Fonfara, whose grubby little creative hands—as a glance at the band’s web site reveals—appear to keep busy in a number of varied artistic endeavors. Though as open to experimental music as the next guy, I felt the first half of the set managed to charm, while the second half, sorry to say, did harm. At one point between songs, Fonfara looked out over the audience and remarked that they seemed “a stern bunch.†If so, they must have had good cause, for the same stern souls were later whooping it up during Roberts’ set. Fonfara seemed a likable chap, tall and angular-featured, lean and lanky in down-to-earth Tom Joad-like attire, but the last couple of numbers, which featured an abrupt segue into an infelicitous record-and-playback gambit on clarinet, succeeded by a barrage of jarring and jolting guitar chords, resulted in the set ending, for this reviewer, on a winceworthy note. I am all for a good haunting, but like the good Mister Scrooge, I will cower in horror and grow more
stern when you shake your chains a bit too jarringly.
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