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CONCERT REVIEW: Wussy @ North Star Bar 3/8
The most underappreciated band (say I and all members of the tribe) of our young century is smoothing out the edges, hitting the road with purpose, and noising up as they go.
CONCERT REVIEW: Wussy @ North Star Bar 3/8
“Happiness bleeds,” growls Cleaver.
“All over,” comes in Lisa Walker high and sweet.
“You and me,” returns Chuck, this time with an adlibbed “motherfucker” that signals both the lyric’s specificity and diffuseness. Funny for one, painful for another, real for all, which if you know them is standard Wussy.
The most underappreciated band (say I and all members of the tribe) of our young century is smoothing out the edges, hitting the road with purpose, and noising up as they go. New drummer Joe Klug pushes the pre-Strawberry stuff into a new context, insisting the band’s melodic beauty can rock with abandon. He beats their sonic forms into new shapes, giving their sound a new almost tactile quality. The addition of Klug and old Ass Pony John Erhardt on steel guitar turn the once plaintive “Hairbrained Horse” into a cri de coeur, infuse pretty ditty “Maglite” with punky din, and blow up Strawberry cut “Pizza King” into an explosion of drum and drone.
The audience of 80 or so at North Star Bar seemed to be either true believers — one devotee had managed to see Cleaver live when he was still an Ass Pony — or people who were dragged along by believers; and in the small venue one could really see the group’s internal dynamics. Bassist/multi-instrumentalist Mark Messerly’s oddball humor and hyperactive style play against Walker’s sarcasm, and they both play against Cleaver’s focused absorption. Sometimes when they let themselves go, when they indulge in those guitar sounds that don’t quit, Cleaver seems transported, hair a mess, sweating, eyes sometimes closed. Walker is a potent lead, always magnetic, whether she’s tuning her guitar in late on “Pulverized”, shouting and gesturing wild eyed on “Airborne,” or projecting that incredible alto right through the band’s roar.
They encore (never left the stage because, quipped Messerly, “the walk’s too fucking far”) with Funeral Dress finale “Don’t Leave Just Now,” where Cleaver stretches the twang of his wobbly falsetto, and close with their no bullshit “cure for rigor mortis” which damned if death be the end proclaims that the band will drone on and on and on and on. Long Live Wussy.
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