By Todd Lavoie
Bowler hats, banjos, backwoods hollers, and burlesque hawkers - sounds like old-timey goodness to me. San Diego's mountain music-loving vaudeville-revivalists the Silent Comedy will be dishing out sepia-toned balladry and carny-shouted hootenannies to the Café du Nord crowd Friday, Nov. 21.
It should be one hell of a rompin'-stompin', suspender-slappin' shindig. Whether or not the band will share their homebrewed bathtub-gin onstage remains to be seen, but they're certain to be generous with everything else you might need for a round or two of Prohibition-era revelry. OK, the bathtub-gin thing is pure speculation on my part; what else could possibly be fueling their deliciously unbridled rip-ups?
The quintet, formed in 2005 by brothers J. John and J. Benjamin from the remnants of their San Diego post-punk band Dehra Dun, is rooted in acoustic-based roots music - banjo, mandolin, and violin figure prominently - but indie rock has clearly played a significant role in shaping how they approach country and folk idioms.
Electric guitars and keyboards find their way into the Silent Comedy game plan as well, and the guys seem just as comfortable in rock-out mode as they are in evoking images of decades gone by. Their sound has also been largely informed by the brothers' discovery that their great-grandparents were vaudeville performers; much of their work swaggers with a boozy carnival-shout recalling (inevitably) moments of Tom Waits, or perhaps more accurately, Man Man or later-period Modest Mouse.
Onstage, bowler hats and suspenders, antique button-shirts and tailored slacks - and when is the last time you've seen the word "slacks" in print, honestly? Titillated? You should be! - tend to be part of the deal, as is an old-time-religion/snake-oil salesmen level of theatricality. If the original Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus took a trek up to Walton's Mountain - armed with a thorough knowledge of Nineties and Oughties indie history - the resulting after-hours barn dance would perhaps sound much like the Silent Comedy.
The year's self-titled EP (Singleton) presents ample sweat-streaked testimony to such assertions; it also offers convincing evidence of the band's versatility. Opening track "Daisy," for example, is a graceful, swelling ballad - somewhere between American Music Club and Damien Jurado in feel - boasting a potent pairing of loping piano chords, courtesy of J. Benjamin, and tear-stained banjo from J. Michael. On top of it all, I. Forbes' violin tugs and sighs in equal measures - a glorious backdrop, then, for J. John's yearning vocals. The chorus - "shake, shake, Daisy, add some salt, add some salt and shake me up" - feels simultaneously like a come-on, a taunt, and a cry of resignation.
A serious gear-shift arrives with the follow-up, however: "'49" is a growling charge of deranged vaudeville, in which John's switch-over to carnival-barker persona is joined by thumping, clattering rhythms - pummeled by J. Benedict - and debauched barroom piano. "You're breaking my patience down," John roars over an angry tumble of colliding, fisticuff-seeking instruments. It's a dark, furious piece, akin to some of Tom Waits' 1992 brawling masterwork Bone Machine (Island).
The Benjamin-sung "Gasoline" is a thrilling build-up of tension rewarded by glorious release, starting off with hushed vocals delivered over circular acoustic guitar patterns - echoes of onetime Jayhawk Gary Louris came to mind - before giving way to sparkling piano, a propulsive brushed-drum rhythm, and slow-gushing violin flourishes. Gradually, steadily, the song gets carried off into a blazing, us-against-the-world rush of passion a la the Arcade Fire, and when the band lets loose in full-throated shouts of "I am all right… I'm doing just fine!," there's a genuine sense of catharsis.
"Beware," with its bleary-eyed trombone slides and eerie toy piano, herald the Silent Comedy's return to the dark side, particularly in its grim warnings of "Hey little darlin', you'd better beware / if you find yourself peekin' in your lover's hair."
The EP ends on a high note: the galloping, Balkan-flavored "Carnival" starts innocently enough with a slow lull of twinkling keys and clip-clop percussion before riding off into a thundering trounce of triple-time rhythms and wailing violin. Benjamin practically revels in the dark undercurrent swirling underneath the song's drunken hysteria - and once the entire band kicks in with their leg-kicking, arm-linking unison whoops of "la la la," the waft of liquor is tough to miss.
Lest anyone get the mistaken impression that the carny life is all glamour and good times, however, how about a few closing thoughts from the Silent Comedy? "She will never let him back in his life / But at least she'll never end up on the end of his knife."
Here's a video for an earlier, less high-strung version of "Carnival," titled "Carnival Song":
THE SILENT COMEDY
With Joe Pug, the Harbours, and Or the Whale
Fri/21, 9:30 p.m., $12
Café du Nord
2170 Market, SF
(415) 861-5016
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