Hiatt, Lovett dazzle sold-out Garde
Dear Nobel Prize Committee for Literature:
Forgive my formal greeting. I know your names but, that whole Scandinavian deal? I can't get all of those umlauts and diagonal-slash-through-the-O thingies right.
Anyway, thanks so much for asking me to attend the sold-out Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt show Friday night at the Garde Arts Center in New London. And, to answer your email question of last week: yes, I think you're on to something with this Bob Dylan/Nobel Literature concept. In that spirit, and in light of what I witnessed from Hiatt and Lovett, you should short-list these dudes at once.
Over the course of more than two hours and 24 evenly divided songs, each of these remarkable artists demonstrated a superb, witty, heartfelt and emotive sense of narrative, word play and a respective and clever way of crafting a damned catchy phrase. Of course, this is all in the bigger context of the music — as I'm sure Dylan would have told you if he'd bothered to show up at the ceremony. But here's how it all went down.
In jackets and ties, seated on the sparse theater stage, separated by a low-slung table holding tea and water and coffee, and flanked by two acoustic guitars, Lovett and Hiatt settled in and immediately turned the whole venue into an intimate house party.
Each artist alternated playing, and every tune was prefaced by casual and often hilarious conversation between the two (clearly close) friends. This included anecdotes, reminiscences about musical compadres (Guy Clark, Chuck Berry, Ry Cooder, Odetta, Eric Taylor, etc.), and background on the songs themselves. Lovett — one of the funniest people on the planet — seemed to steer the conversation while Hiatt served as the willing, reactive but also hilarious straight man. In a welcome local angle, State Street's Monica's Diner — where Lovett breakfasted Friday morning — was a recurring motif.
But, Nobel people, I'd be remiss if I didn't get to the main point: the songs! Jeez, these guys are brilliant. Lovett, a Texan, fuses Western Swing and Lone Star Folk into his compositions, with plenty of clever jazz chords and that reedy tenor voice arcing in plaintive fashion. Hiatt, from Nashville by way of Indiana, distills his distinctive Americana through blues and rock. Each frequently supported the other, with Hiatt throwing out fluid guitar runs and harmonica figures and Lovett principally providing bell-tone harmonies over Hiatt's ragged but effective vocals.
Both men have cavern-deep catalogs and offered a clever mix of favorites and a few overlooked obscurities. Hiatt's "Thing Called Love," "Seven Little Indians," "Cadillac with Tennessee Plates," "Drive South," a fine new tune called "Over the Hill," and "Memphis in the Meantime" were stunning. As for Lovett, he played cover songs in homage to heroes such as Taylor, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Clark and Berry — fans might have wished for more of his own inimitable material — but the renditions were heartfelt and amazing. As for his own tunes, he amazed with such classics as "Her First Mistake," "She's No Lady," "Don't Touch My Hat," "Pantry" and the gorgeous, yearning, set-closing ballad "Simple Song."
If lyrics can indeed qualify as literature, Lovett and Hiatt are world-class. But, Nobel people, buy their albums and listen to their songs. Those, after all, are the real prizes.
Fondly, Rick.
Comment threads are monitored for 48 hours after publication and then closed.