KEREN ANN + Dean & Britta @ Cabaret Juste Pour Rire

By Simon Howell - A Listening Ear - 02/08/2008

"You'll have to keep walking, friend." 

Where am I? Why have I arrived at 9:10 pm, ten minutes after "doors open," only to discover Dean & Britta already onstage, about three songs into their set? Most importantly -- "friend"? Can I get a good, old-fashioned "move, asshole!" or, better yet, indifferent silence, as is customary at every other gig I've ever attended in this fine city, as I make my way through the crowd? Something is amiss.

As I look out on the small mass of seated spectators, with their brows furrowed, necks strained, wine glasses half-full and a few dozen palms firmly applied to chins (with more surely on the way) as if in deep consideration of the concert in progress, I begin to realize that this will not be a typical gig. No, this is the last weekend before that most accursed of holidays, wherein we commemorate a beheaded Christian martyr by either overspending on our significant others or, if we have none, praying for death. Tonight I am surrounded by the former lot -- more specifically, middle-aged, upper-middle class couples for whom this is Serious Stuff. This is going to be a classy evening enjoyed by quiet, serious folks with money. There is a pretty severe handicap against me deriving any enjoyment this evening. 

As I said, despite my obsessively early arrival, things are already underway. Dean & Britta are well into their set of dreamy, shoegaze-inflected duet pop by the time I awkwardly squeeze my way into a seat, feeling very much like a lower-caste citizen. Speaking of Valentine's Day, Dean & Britta (both formerly of shoegaze/slowcore pioneers Luna) make for a handsome pair -- Dean Wareham's all-guitar heroics and Lou Reed grit, going nicely with Britta Phillips' airy croon. Much as I appreciate the smooth songwriting and seamless vocal blending of the two, they don’t really leave much of an impression until the second-to-last song of their set, a cover of recently departed Lee Hazlewood's "You Turned My Head Around," in which Phillips cuts loose with a huge, belting chorus straight out of a Dusty Springfield record. It's a moment strong enough to make me buck up, get accustomed to my staid surroundings, and do my best to enjoy myself.

It happens just in time, because not twenty minutes later, Keren Ann emerges with only a drummer and guitarist -- surprising, since her records are so densely layered with orchestral elements. Within only a few moments of opener, "Nolita," however, my concerns are swept aside; she knows what she's doing. Ann's steady acoustic picking patterns and intoxicating vocals -- sweetly intoning "I think I'm gonna bury you" -- are complimented by her guitarist's carefully strummed, reverberated swells, making for a deeply cinematic contrast. By the time the drummer finally gets around to contributing with lush cymbal washes, we're already sold, and damn it, I now feel like part of the crowd. That's how convincing she is. 

The rest of her set coasts along on her easy charm and obvious talent. Her songs aren't always particularly distinctive -- a couple of early ballads, in particular, don't leave much of an impression -- but when she's on, like during blues-rock stomp, "It Ain't No Crime," on which she convincingly switched to a bass guitar, you're surprised the price of admission isn't twice as high. Her accompanist is clearly a session musician, a complete pro -- his whammy-heavy solo is just too perfect for him not to be. Even Ann shows few signs of human error. During that song and recent single, "Lay Your Head Down," (jauntier here than on record) she even proves to be a mean harmonica player. Thankfully, a few cracks do finally show up throughout the evening -- Ann having to take a breath during the rapid-fire verses of "Sailor and Widow," for instance, or her accompanist's surprisingly tentative backing vocals on the lovely "Not Going Anywhere." These very minor flaws go a long way towards humanizing the experience.

After her brief eleven-song set (and a single song in the encore), I head back out into the cold evening feeling as though I had just stepped into some sort of bizarre alternate universe. Had I in fact gotten a glimpse of my own future? Will I one day be a working professional of some kind, and if so, will this be my preferred form of concert-going, merely as a pseudo-romantic contrivance? Will I react against the noisy, messy music of my youth and partake only in adult-contemporary and its adherents? If that's the case, then as long as Ann keeps her silvery pipes, I have the perfect Valentine's weekend plan for my (admittedly depressing) future self.

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