My Copy (as we boys of the Press call it)
So I wrote this article for The Phoenix, the HCC student paper. It's due today. True to form I finished it a healthy 9 hours before it's time for me to hand it in.
Also true to form, I threw all preconceived hopes for brevity out the window into the waiting arms of the Penguin's exploding octopus.
I don't know how much will be left after the editors have their way with it, or if it will be used at all, come to think of it.
But here it is, as I first wrote it. My review of the Mike Doughty show I saw with Amy.
MIKE DOUGHTY'S BAND
or
HANGIN' WITH MIKE
The basement of Pearl Street Night Club was low and dark and vaguely sketchy. Its triangular open floor was packed with excited fans, many now operating under the influence of at least one chemical substance. The heat from the condensed mass of humans was palpable and oppressive. A steady buzz of eager, almost angry chatter drowned out the incongruous light jazz playing in the background. Sweaty bodies brushed against each other as everyone strained to get the best possible view.
Hardly a cheery atmosphere.
Yet when the main attraction took the stage, the crowd quieted down for a moment, and every face held an earnest smile.
He was an odd-looking, unassuming man carrying a guitar. He was smiling as well. His band followed him onto the small, raised bit of floor that served as his platform. The crowd broke into a joyous, raucous yell as he introduced himself.
“I’m Mike Doughty,” he said, over the roar of the packed fanatics, “and the name of my band is the name of my name!”
Thus began one of the best local concerts of the year.
Since 2000, the year that genre-bending geniuses Soul Coughing called a quits, their former frontman Mike Doughty has been traveling across the country, wooing crowds with his edgy, insightful folk rock and accruing an ever-growing legion of devoted followers. It was only recently that Doughty became a part of another group, the aptly, if a bit possessively named, Mike Doughty’s Band. The band has been on tour promoting Doughty’s first studio release post-Soul Coughing, the introspective Haughty Melodic. And that night they had come to Northampton.
The band, Andrew “Scraps” Livingston on bass, “Handsome” Dan Chen on key boards, and Pete McNeal, “the Man with the Feel,” on drums, were in fine form. The expanded interplay between the dudes onstage was glorious to watch. Unfortunately Doughty’s unique voice, softened from years of solo work, needs to be worked a little more in order to be heard over the additional instruments.
Doughty opened with his rousing new hit single, Looking At the World From the Bottom of a Well, and had the cramped multitude screaming before he reached the rhythmic chorus.
The acoustics in that dreary basement are not anything to rave about, and the monstrous twin speakers, positioned at either side of the stage, bellowed out Doughty’s intelligent tunes in an obnoxiously loud, blurry haze.
Still, the experience was enjoyable because seeing Doughty live is always enjoyable.
He rarely plays at large venues; his shows are always intimate, almost conspiratorial.
This is fortunate because Doughty builds an easy rapport with his audiences. He encourages dancing and singing along, even if the singers are little too drunk and a lot too loud. He keeps the trouble-makers in line. He sweetly asks for, and then teasingly ignores, requests.
His is a show of inside jokes and good-natured humor. The audience is overjoyed to be there, and Doughty convinces you that he is, too.
He remains close to the crowd. His every utterance and look tells you that he too is one of the people standing around moving to the music, he just happens to be onstage with a guitar.
Doughty knows how to work a crowd. He’ll get them hollering with an adolescent, tongue-in-cheek ballad to girls the world over, Tremendous Brunettes, then have them yearning along with him to the delirious Unsingable Name, and finally confuse them into euphoria with covers of everything from Kenny Rogers' The Gambler, through Guns n’ Roses’ Paradise City, to Hungry Like the Wolf, by Duran Duran.
So, while Doughty’s deep, soulful, lyrics were lost to sometimes over-powering drum solos, and his vulnerable, tobacco-scarred voice had trouble reaching everyone over the clamor of the band, the concert was a treat nonetheless, because a Mike Doughty concert, oddly enough, is only partially about the music. Seeing him live is more about enjoying the simple pleasure of hanging with Mike.
Also true to form, I threw all preconceived hopes for brevity out the window into the waiting arms of the Penguin's exploding octopus.
I don't know how much will be left after the editors have their way with it, or if it will be used at all, come to think of it.
But here it is, as I first wrote it. My review of the Mike Doughty show I saw with Amy.
MIKE DOUGHTY'S BAND
or
HANGIN' WITH MIKE
The basement of Pearl Street Night Club was low and dark and vaguely sketchy. Its triangular open floor was packed with excited fans, many now operating under the influence of at least one chemical substance. The heat from the condensed mass of humans was palpable and oppressive. A steady buzz of eager, almost angry chatter drowned out the incongruous light jazz playing in the background. Sweaty bodies brushed against each other as everyone strained to get the best possible view.
Hardly a cheery atmosphere.
Yet when the main attraction took the stage, the crowd quieted down for a moment, and every face held an earnest smile.
He was an odd-looking, unassuming man carrying a guitar. He was smiling as well. His band followed him onto the small, raised bit of floor that served as his platform. The crowd broke into a joyous, raucous yell as he introduced himself.
“I’m Mike Doughty,” he said, over the roar of the packed fanatics, “and the name of my band is the name of my name!”
Thus began one of the best local concerts of the year.
Since 2000, the year that genre-bending geniuses Soul Coughing called a quits, their former frontman Mike Doughty has been traveling across the country, wooing crowds with his edgy, insightful folk rock and accruing an ever-growing legion of devoted followers. It was only recently that Doughty became a part of another group, the aptly, if a bit possessively named, Mike Doughty’s Band. The band has been on tour promoting Doughty’s first studio release post-Soul Coughing, the introspective Haughty Melodic. And that night they had come to Northampton.
The band, Andrew “Scraps” Livingston on bass, “Handsome” Dan Chen on key boards, and Pete McNeal, “the Man with the Feel,” on drums, were in fine form. The expanded interplay between the dudes onstage was glorious to watch. Unfortunately Doughty’s unique voice, softened from years of solo work, needs to be worked a little more in order to be heard over the additional instruments.
Doughty opened with his rousing new hit single, Looking At the World From the Bottom of a Well, and had the cramped multitude screaming before he reached the rhythmic chorus.
The acoustics in that dreary basement are not anything to rave about, and the monstrous twin speakers, positioned at either side of the stage, bellowed out Doughty’s intelligent tunes in an obnoxiously loud, blurry haze.
Still, the experience was enjoyable because seeing Doughty live is always enjoyable.
He rarely plays at large venues; his shows are always intimate, almost conspiratorial.
This is fortunate because Doughty builds an easy rapport with his audiences. He encourages dancing and singing along, even if the singers are little too drunk and a lot too loud. He keeps the trouble-makers in line. He sweetly asks for, and then teasingly ignores, requests.
His is a show of inside jokes and good-natured humor. The audience is overjoyed to be there, and Doughty convinces you that he is, too.
He remains close to the crowd. His every utterance and look tells you that he too is one of the people standing around moving to the music, he just happens to be onstage with a guitar.
Doughty knows how to work a crowd. He’ll get them hollering with an adolescent, tongue-in-cheek ballad to girls the world over, Tremendous Brunettes, then have them yearning along with him to the delirious Unsingable Name, and finally confuse them into euphoria with covers of everything from Kenny Rogers' The Gambler, through Guns n’ Roses’ Paradise City, to Hungry Like the Wolf, by Duran Duran.
So, while Doughty’s deep, soulful, lyrics were lost to sometimes over-powering drum solos, and his vulnerable, tobacco-scarred voice had trouble reaching everyone over the clamor of the band, the concert was a treat nonetheless, because a Mike Doughty concert, oddly enough, is only partially about the music. Seeing him live is more about enjoying the simple pleasure of hanging with Mike.