High Bias stagestruck

CENTRO-MATIC/VARNALINE
@Sons of Hermann Hall, Dallas, TX
February 15, 2002
CENTRO-MATIC/VARNALINE/CHRIS LEE
@Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Studios, Denton, TX
February 16, 2002
February 15 and 16 provided a rare opportunity to watch Varnaline wrap up their tour with two shows in the Dallas area. Varnaline is the moniker utilized by singer/songwriter Anders Parker in a solo or band context. This time around Varnaline would also consist of Denton's local favorites centro-matic, backing Parker on a tour that consisted of 17 shows in 18 days. I was eager to see what Parker would unveil with a full band, and to experience centro-matic.

The Sons of Hermann Hall, tucked away in a far corner of Dallas' Deep Ellum district, finds Parker taking the stage for a gorgeous solo electric "Mare Imbrium," from 1998's brilliant Sweet Life. It's surprising somehow to hear such a plaintive and capable voice coming from grizzled Parker in his denim jacket. "It's not supposed to be cold in Texas," he says as the members of centro-matic join him onstage.

And centro-matic work well as a surrogate Varnaline, with watercolor harmonies, dynamic thunder and overall chops. "They play their asses off. Yes, that band has four asses," Parker announces to the crowd with a laugh. In particular, Matt Pence's seismic drumming capably brings to life the mid-fi crunch of Varnaline's CDs. "Underneath the Mountain" finds the ensemble sounding tight, with Scott Danborn's electric piano fleshing out the sound and his Moog lending that dreamy drone to "Blue Flowers on the Highway" (from last year's Songs in a Northern Key). Centro-matic members sing along to themselves here and there.

The euphoric dirge "Difference" devolves into a wall of sound waves, with bass feedback, distortion loops and who knows what else blending gloriously. The crowd, who are clearly here to see the closing centro-matic set, are transfixed. Emerging from the noise with the lush delicacy of "Blackbird Fields" is brilliant.

It's about this time that the sound becomes a bit troublesome. A P.A. speaker seems to be blown, and for the rest of the set the bass guitar rattles and distorts, though the problem comes and goes. Parker's guitar is lost in the mix as well, which is a disappointment.

Nothing can distract from set closer "Sweet Life," however. Built around a string section on the CD, onstage it evolves into a steady crescendo of electric cacophony. Exactly how long it stretches out is uncertain, but I never want it to end. Were I unburdened of self-awareness, I swear the lyric "They want to know/Do you still get high?" would find me with face skyward and body spinning across the hardwood dance floor. It is easily one of the most memorable moments of any show I've witnessed.

Following that with its own set is destined to be a tall order, but centro-matic's popularity, especially locally, is not unjustified. Opening with "Fidgeting Wildly," the band lays out tight harmony vocals over a loping riff, with a refreshing piano outro. Parker, who is playing inaudible slide guitar, also accompanies crowd favorite "To Unleash the Horses Now." A "doot doot" vocal part can scratch an itch when done correctly, and centro-matic do indeed. By "Flashes and Cable," singer Will Johnson's voice is growing on me. Though reedy and similar in ways to Little Grizzly's George Neal, it lacks Neal's maddening psychobilly drawl, and works well with another "bamp ba da ba dum" vocal hook.

"On the Sagtikos" lacks the band's instinct for dramatic tension and release, though it wallows in glorious rock distortion. "Not Forever Now" finds the crowd singing along again, and this is the point at which I start to consider getting a centro-matic CD. Parker rejoins the band for slightly audible slide on "Trick to the Trailer," an extended, beautiful lament with more of those vocal harmonies that segue into big, loud chord progressions. It's easy to see why these guys are so popular.

The gig the next night is at Denton's Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Studios, a cinderblock building with a vague address and no particular signage (the "no drogas"—Spanish for "no drugs"—stenciled on the front door doesn't count). Inside, the club is the polar opposite of the modestly glorious Sons of Hermann Hall: concrete floors, a sagging plank ceiling and the sort of visibility that sinks ships.

Still, Denton is a college town, and the club is clearly a popular haunt. As patrons sip their beers and I take illegible notes, a young man with a Stratocaster takes the stage and begins to sing. His voice is tender and deceptively soulful, with acrobatic range. The growing crowd turns their attention to him, and I realize that I know who this is. It's Chris Lee, whose plays & sings torch'd songs, charivari hymns & oriki blue-marches CD was one of the best of 2001.

He tells the crowd simply "My name is Chris" and that he's here to play "some popular songs" for them. As he's about to launch into "Lonesome Eyes," he tells us he's "vibrating" because he's just driven from New Orleans. Still, his performance is spellbinding. Unbilled, unannounced and unknown to the crowd, Lee proceeds to conjure eight musical spells, ending with Aretha Franklin's "Do Right Woman, Do Right Man." Subtle, pristine and over most of the crowd's head.

After the short set I'm dumbfounded, and seek out Lee to ask just what the heck he's doing in Denton, Texas. No, he's not a guest of Parker. "This is where the gig was," he says with a smile.

The evening is looking up.

Parker takes the stage for a meditative "Still Dream" before the band joins him. As they launch into "Underneath the Mountain," the mix is clearly improved from the last gig; particularly, Parker's guitar is audible. What's also clear is that, on this last night of the tour, Parker has some steam to blow off. After another "Difference"/"Blackbird Fields" beefy-to-beautiful transition, the crowd shows loud appreciation, and Parker seems taken aback. In general he's cutting up with the crowd and band more, and he treats the attending fans (and I know they're out there because I can see them singing along) to "Meet Me on the Ledge," from 1997's eponymous CD. In the last two shows, it's the only song from prior to Sweet Life, and he slaughters the solo with skronky guitar shrieks that find band members smiling and shaking their heads.

Tonight's "Sweet Life" finds Anders unleashing more of his Neil Young-cum-Thurston Moore bestial wail. It's been a long time since I last saw a guitarist I thought was expressing himself with his instrument, but tonight Parker, the unassuming songwriter who might have never had a career if not for the advent of the four-track recorder, is howling through metal strings.

The crowd responds with applause, whistles and screams. Flash bulbs go off.

Taking the stage a few minutes later, Will Johnson, again sporting his "Fowl Fever" gimme cap, appears up to the challenge of following Varnaline. At this point, exhausted, I stop being a journalist and instead assume the role of fan.

The setlist is largely the same as from the Sons of Hermann Hall show, though the packed house lends an energy to the proceedings. As the lights come up after the last song, Johnson tells the crowd that there's no time for another song, but if we'd like to meet him by the van he'll play some more.

Bless the man, but fatigue finally defeats me. As I drive the forty miles back to the house, reeking of cigarettes, I know centro-matic haven't seen the last of me. I just hope I haven't seen the last of Varnaline. Brian Briscoe

Copyright © 2002 High Bias