There are a number of things that need be said about Lucinda Williams' (spectacular, adorable) concert at the University of Arkansas Pulaski Tech to benefit the Oxford American magazine Thursday night.
Chief among these is that our Lu -- and make no mistake about it, she is our Lu, because we embrace and claim her -- puts on a helluva show that is likely to surprise even those of us who think we've seen and heard her often enough to have a handle on her act, which when one finds oneself actually beholding it, seems like not an act at all.
Williams obviously feels comfortable here, and appreciates that references to the likes of Bill Harrison and Jim Whitehead and the cultural example that Fayetteville was in the '70s do not fly over the heads of the locals like so many southbound mallards.
She even seemed touched by the more than polite applause the literary namecheckings drew, which is only fair since she and her band -- a tight and economical outfit called Buick 6 (no doubt in homage to the Dylan song) comprised of guitarist Stuart Mathis, bassist David Sutton and venerable drum legend Butch Norton. And while they may resemble something like a live-action version of the cartoon band Gorillaz, they produce squeal and slam sufficiently organic and authentic to the Americana sound their boss lady helped invent -- captured the hearts and minds of the 500 or so souls in the sold-out crowd from with the opening chords of the rollicking "Can't Let Go."
They sealed the deal with the second number, a version of "Pineola," which partisans will recognize as being an almost journalistic (being a poet, Williams changed a few details) account of the funeral of the dead-too-soon literary star Frank Stanford and the awkward impingement of Standford's academic friends upon his grieving family. While the song is powerful enough -- one of the best of the last quarter of the 20th century -- Williams' delivery slammed it into some deeper grinding gear, signaled by the drummer's mimicking of a .44 going off.
We won't have time or space to run through the setlist, which was familiar and comfortable (though during her extended encore, she introduced a new song, the anthemic "We Have Come Too Far"), so let's say this instead. Some people don't care for Williams' voice, and it has, in some quarters, become fashionable to disparage it. And while I disagree with people who say things like that, I can understand their point, for, especially on her later records, her voice has become darker and more growly, seemingly in search of some inner blueswoman that certain critics would deny her right to access. But on this night, her voice was open and aching and soaring and tender, breaking up only beautifully when she pushed it, like a tweed face amp straining to push more air.
It was something like a miracle, and if there were lulls in the show, they served only to provide contrast to the extraordinary highs. Like Williams' warm mid-show tribute to the late Tom Petty, for whom she sometimes opened (and who managed a credible version of her "Changed the Locks"), a well-phrased cover of his "Southern Accents." Or her solo acoustic take on "Ghosts of Highway 20," a song I hadn't much considered until I heard it live.
But that's kind of the takeaway here: Williams is one of those performers who is best consumed live, with her rock and roll band. Maybe, as she suggested all those years ago, that's not too much to ask.
Metro on 11/04/2017