We went to an absurdly intimate “concert” tonight.
The show was in an art gallery in an old adobe building with a wooden floor. Our seats in the front row were five feet away. I had to keep my feet pulled back so the musicians — Mike Compton and David Long, mandolin virtuosos — wouldn’t trip over them. Compton recorded almost all the mandolin parts for “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou,” BTW. I can’t say enough good things about the music or how great it was to hear it close up. I’ve never heard the like, mandolins and guitar playing harmony with each other. Old-timey music (not bluegrass), a lot of it black string band stuff. Rich American regional music, mostly, of a kind that few today have ever heard, plus a few original compositions.
Damn fine stuff. Real culture counts for something with me, especially music that tells you where it’s from, and this was just miraculous, played with astounding virtuosity and grace that revealed a lot more than just the notes. I could say lots more about the show that wouldn’t make much sense unless you know Taos, the ZoukFest people, or can imagine who’d come out on a Tuesday night in this town to hear such esoteric art, but this might help:
Judith Rane (of Rane Gallery) served free refreshments in the courtyard at intermission, and after the gig everybody had to carry their chairs outside so Chipper and Mason could get them back to the Taos Diner in time for breakfast in the morning. While I was standing waiting for the crowd to move, I turned to Mike — the musicians couldn’t leave until we all did — and thanked him, observing that I’d never seen a gig where the audience had to carry out their seats afterwards.
“I haven’t either,” he said, shaking my hand. “Good thing they aren’t on bleachers!”
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