In Praise of the Bar Band

Recently I received an invitation to attend an upcoming (March)George Jones concert just outside of Chicago. It was to be free of charge, and there was the possibility of a "press pass". I declined the offer, despite my undying love of ol' Possum. The reasons are several. I don't want to meet George Jones. I have nothing to say to him. Certainly nothing he hasn't heard before. And I'm not, as a general rule, a journalist. I write about what I like for free, and without the pressures of shilling for expectation. I'm also not entirely convinced I'd like the show all that much, particularly if recent experience at a Merle Haggard debacle has taught me much. The Haggard show wasn't bad, really, so much as rote. The hits were played, the audience thanked, the music perfunctory. Everything was very professional. I was seated in a comfortable seat amongst thousands, with no smoking(a habit I gave up a year ago) and no easily accessible bar (a habit the Irish in me won't allow to lapse). The crowd clapped at the end of each song, politely. I'm afraid the George Jones show will be a mirror of the experience.

There's nothing wrong, really, with the above scenario. It's a perfectly acceptable form of presenting one's body of work to an adoring crowd. It's just not for me. I'm a small bar kinda feller, the Honky Tonk or the Jukejoint, as it were. The kind of places where the smoke is thick, the beers or whiskey are flowing, and the band is close enough to spit at. The kind of place where the performer(s) face a do or die moment with every fucked up chord, every missed beat, and where the crowd will forgive if the song is right. A place where you can sing along (again, the Irish in me) without fear of recourse from the knob planted next to you, because that knob is singing along too.

Here in Chicago, there's a few places that think of themselves as Honky Tonks. The music is right, but the atmosphere is a little questionable. It's a post for another time, but suffice to say that Country in Chicago has been co-opted by a hipsterism that negates the spirit of Country as the voice of the common man. I've experienced more Country, whatever that is, in a karaoke bar in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Denver, Colorado, on the other hand, has a thriving Country music scene that seems to have escaped the cognoscenti of, ahem, Those In The Know. I'm talking to you, No Depression. There are too many bars and bands to mention (Dalheart Imperieals, Slim Cessna, Railbenders, Marty Jones and the Pork Boilin' Poor Boys, The Honky Tonk Hangovers, etc.) from that great city, so this is only about one band today.

I'm not sure if Halden Wofford and the Hi-Beams would consider themselves a bar band, as it were, but I 'spect they wouldn't mind so much the Honky Tonk label. It's hard to imagine them playing in a cavernous, decorous and staid venue, though I could certainly allow for seeing them at the Opry or the Ryman. They make music for close quarters, for drinking, and for dancing, far removed from the slick hat country of current Nashville and the faux country of hipster, insurgent indie rockers.

Combining Western Swing, hardscrabble Honky Tonk, a little Owen Bradley, and a sprinkle of Bakersfield, the Hi-Beams (Halden Wofford on vocals, Ben O'Connor on the standup bass, Bret Billings on steel guitar, Greg Schochet on guitar, and Damon Smith on drums) harkens to a forgotten age, an era of barn dances and Louisiana hayrides, but never suggest a retro regression or pale imitation. It's music both timeless and fresh, reminding us that the traditional need never be tired or rote.

To set the scene, and a confession. During my lengthy tenure in Denver, I was a confirmed Hi-Beams groupie. They're my favorite band. Period. Every third Thursday of the month I would make my way early to a little joint called The Skylark Lounge to ensure the best seat in the house, the corner booth towards the back, and right by where the band would set up for the night. The first pitcher of PBR would be ordered. Throughout the night, as the bar filled to capacity, and probably beyond, I would be joined by various cronies and drifters. The atmosphere was always that of a party, a hoedown or whatnot. From the first thump of the trap set, and the lonesome wail of the steel guitar, we were hooked, Halden Wofford's twangy Texas yodel waltzing and two-stepping around the proceedings. Playing a mix or originals and classic covers done in Hi-Beams style, the band swung through the history of Country and Western, and we sang along lustily'til we were hoarse. By the second set, one could barely move due to the crowd, but folks found a way to create a small dance floor in front of the band, slow dancing to the weepers and stepping to the burners. The average age of the crowd was somewhere between 21 and 80. By the end of the night, after anywhere from 3-4 sets, we were exhausted, drunk, and euphoric.

I have yet to experience anything quite like it here in Chicago, or elsewhere. Perhaps I'm not looking hard enough.

The Hi-Beams have a new self-released album out, Midnight Rodeo. I'm giving a proper review later this week at another venue. If you're a fan of genu-wine Country music, it's well worth your time to check them out. And if they come to your town, catch 'em before it's too late. Help support independent artists before Nashville eats them up and spits them out.