Let's hear
it for that guy
who sat
in with the band
WHO: The Mason Jennings Band
with Dave Pirner
WHEN: Monday
WHERE: 400 Bar
CAPSULE: Soul Asylum singer/songwriter
Pirner joined
up-and-coming songwriter Jennings
for a surprise
three-song set that reminded all
who were there of the
kind of blissful improvisation and
risk-taking that can
only happen in an away-from-the-masses
club.
JIM WALSH
Pop Music
Critic
It was just before midnight Monday, and the
crowd at the
400 Bar on the West Bank of Minneapolis
numbered exactly
20 -- and that includes the
bartenders,
soundman and the musicians onstage. One of
those musicians,
Dave Pirner, has sung in front of
hundreds of
thousands of people at a time. As the
guiding light
behind Soul Asylum, Pirner has performed
on the White
House lawn and to national television
audiences.
He has appeared on the cover of Rolling
Stone magazine,
toured the world over and sold
millions of
records. Another one of those musicians,
Mason Jennings,
has had trouble selling 500 copies of
his self-produced,
self-released debut CD. He is one
of the brightest
new songwriters in the Twin Cities,
but in these
days of fractured and/or unadventurous
club-goers,
he's struggling to find an audience. This
night, however,
the two songwriters -- the seasoned
elder and
the young buck -- found equal ground on the
400 stage,
as Pirner joined the Jennings band for an
unannounced
three-song set. The greater part of the
evening was
given to Jennings who, along with his ace
band (bassist/vocalist
Robert Skoro and drummer Chris
Strock), performed
two wonderful sets of his own
material,
including "Butterfly,'' "California,''
"Nothing''
and "Godless.'' The spare,
acoustic-framed
rock trio was more than holding its
own with the
small but attentive audience when 400 Bar
owner Bill
Sullivan yelled from the front bar, "Hey,
Mason! Mind
if my friend plays a few with you guys?''
Jennings glanced
over to see Pirner sitting at the
bar, and waved
his consent. A few minutes later, when
Pirner ambled
onstage with his acoustic guitar, it was
the first
time the musicians had ever met, let alone
played together.
What happened next was a marvelous
testament
to the spirit of risk-taking, musical
spontaneity
and to the riches that can be had only
from trolling
clubs, away from the numbers. The
setting was
so intimate, barflies could hear Pirner
explaining
the chord changes and arrangements to the
young band,
who appeared alternately nervous, cocksure
and blown
away. They wobbled through a version of
TLC's "Waterfalls,''
which lurched at first, then
found an easy
groove. That was followed by a subdued
version of
Soul Asylum's "To My Own Devices,'' with
Jennings adding
flamenco-flavored classical guitar
touches. "I
feel like I'm from out of town, and I
just found
a kick-ass pickup band,'' cracked Pirner,
who had just
returned from a promotional radio and
television
tour, and was in town briefly before Soul
Asylum left
Wednesday for the Southern leg of their
most recent
tour. "This one is pretty emotional for
me, so
it might be tough,'' said Pirner, before going
into Sinead
O'Connor's "To Mother You.'' Pirner's
obvious
affection for the song, coupled with the
band's
unfamiliarity with it, made for a fascinating
dynamic:
Everybody in the pub inhaled, wondering if
the ad-hoc
group would make it through the song. Would
Pirner
give up in frustration? Would the young trio
rise to
the occasion? In the end, the song soared, and
the room
pitched a bit. And even though the crowd was
smaller
than what any respectable street busker
attracts,
Pirner, ever the singer/showman swept away
by the
moment, emoted his way through O'Connor's
stately,
undiscovered gem like his life depended on
it.When
it was done, he thanked the trio, got
off-stage
to the sound of a few hands clapping and,
with a squirrelly
smirk, said, "Thanks, you guys.''
Jennings'
crew finished the night with two songs, and
everybody
retired to the bar. In a recent interview,
Jennings said,
"You've got to talk to the people
you're singing
to. There's a boundary between you and
the singer,
and I'm trying to get rid of that
boundary.''
Monday night at the 400 Bar, the boundary
between the
audience and the singer was razed, shot,
demolished.
Just ask those who were there. All 20 of
them.