christian uhl catches Drag The River and Lenny Lashley’s Gang Of One at Maxwell’s in Hoboken, N.J. …
Given Johnny Cash is as much a punk rock as country icon, I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise many a gracefully aging rebel — from X’s John Doe to Avail’s Tim Barry and Hot Water Music’s Chuck Ragan — have unplugged and twanged up in the face of musical twilight.
Arguably the most graceful transitioners from ‘Loud Fast Rules’ to ‘finger-plucking on bar stools’ is Drag The River of Fort Collins, Colo. A rotating cast centered around Jon Snodgrass from woefully underrated San Diego rockers Armchair Martian and latter-era ALL vocalist Chad Price, Drag The River have, over a decade-long, half-dozen album span, cocked the barrel of the loaded gun called ‘musical maturation’ without shooting bullets of the all-too-often result known as ‘uninspired boredom’ (I’m talking to you, Soul Asylum).
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for show opener Lenny Lashley’s Gang Of One (whom actually consisted of two with the addition of a lap steel guitarist). Not that Lashley’s prior punk band — the awesomely stupid — and I say that with affection — Darkbuster, were reinventing the mohawk with their tongue-in-cheek, beer-swilling antics, but I expected something, anything more than the rote, by-numbers folk snoozers Lashley lashed out. All through the 45-minute set, I was overcome with the dreadful thought that if I just closed my eyes I’d know no difference between Lashley and the fresh waft of just brewed gourmet coffee and the shitty java house singers that come with it. Lashley’s slight twist on this under-caffeinated brew? Stir in the aforementioned lap steel, add two packets of Poguesy vocal affectations and you’re left as underwhelmed and listless as when a hipster counter clerk asks you to fork over three beans for a ‘Venti Jo.’
Thankfully, the headliners soon followed to resuscitate the room. While perfectly capable of evoking the sky high harmonics of The Jayhawks’ twintone combo of Louris and Olson, Chad Price’s emotive yet smooth as glass vocals instead offer the perfect counterpoint to Snodgrass’s rougher hewn, denim tough laments firmly rooted in the dirt of the earth. Offering louder, more rockin’ narratives on Americana’s familiar themes of heartbreak and booze-fueled (or soothed) regret than the River on record, it’s clear as day the way they instantly owned the room, that Drag The River have that special something that goes beyond talent: a passion and authenticity that many aspire to, but that few attain. A feat that is all the more rare when the raw energy of youth fades into the weariness of twilight.
