liner notes

by lynn rapoport

Gods and monsters

THE LAST TIME I saw John Doe, he was telling teen angel Liz Parker she couldn't see her alien boyfriend Max anymore. They'd driven across state line to knock over a liquor store housing a crashed-down UFO in the basement. It ended in the courts, with a district attorney who needed a scapegoat, and Liz went behind bars for the second time in two years. John Doe didn't have to know Max was from really far up north to know he was nothing but trouble.

I wonder how many of the people who came to Doe and Neko Case's Noise Pop country gig at the Great American also know about his secret life as a regular joe on Roswell, laid-back father to a girl with stars in her eyes? Maybe they know, but they'd rather not think about it. I don't mind. But then, I'm only a little bit country and one hell of a TV watcher.

Reception hasn't been so good since our cable access got redistributed, but I did catch a few horizontal stripes of Doe crooning in spangles and fringe for a senior citizens party at the Crashdown. He has a gentle side, and he respects his elders, and I appreciate that, even though it's only TV, and not even reality TV.

It's a sign of how easily I come unhinged, but I was shocked the other night at the show when Doe snarled at a drunk for telling him to shut up and play. Punk rock. Wrong scene. Actually, Doe challenged the guy to a fight. I don't think he meant it (mostly), but male aggression at shows sometimes embarrasses me, and I end up leaning against a pole and staring at nothing. That's OK, though – I couldn't have seen anything onstage no matter what I was staring at. Neko Case has a lot of tall would-be boyfriends, I think. Her voice makes me think of honky-tonks I'll never dance in. I wish I could hear her sing "Stand by Your Man." By which I mean, her own songs don't kill me, but I'd love for her to prove me a fool.

Doe was about to explain about him and Case, and how they ended up there, singing pretty songs I can't remember now. I was feeling let down; it wasn't quite like seeing God. Or X, I imagine. Then he got sidetracked by a guy who may have gone home to choke on his own vomit. Unless it really was Case's husband, like she said, in which case maybe she held his hair back while he puked. Anyway, I felt for Doe. What's mouthy attitude got to do with slow-moving country (David Allan Coe notwithstanding)? I hate to be the voice of conservatism, but I am a fan of context.

In most contexts. Exceptions, like Nate Denver, occur. Mostly my context for folk music is my bedroom with the door shut. But you can't stay home all the time, and the Mission Creek Cafe was a fine place to see Nate Denver's Neck last week. Denver's secret life is his Neck, which moonlights while off-duty from Total Shutdown. Except that everybody seems to know about it, and nobody gets out of line when Denver brings monsters and machines to what I'll call folk, since he does, and I like to stay on good terms with people who house Satan and wild beasts in their throat. Secretly, though, Nate Denver's Neck is more like one guy singing in falsetto about God and man and the menace of inanimate objects while recorded samples alternately back-talk and back him up. Plus animals.