Review By Jeff Hopson 5/13/2013, Photos by Mary Jane Farmer, 5/11/13  

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Some months ago, a friend of mine suggested to me that we should hitch our wagon to a pursuit that he termed “house concerts.”  Being intrigued by any possibility for a gig, I inquired, “What the hell is a house concert?” Logic led me to assume that it was certainly playing music at someone’s house, but the term smacked of a loosely planned, glorified jam-session. This friend began to explain to my bumpkin self that house concerts were a mode of putting on shows that take place in someone’s home whereby people pay an admission to come and hear songwriters perform their songs. What a concept. I mean, we’ve all had impromptu jam sessions at a friend’s house – “pickin’ parties” as we refer to them in Texas – but what we’re addressing here is a carefully planned evening of live performance, staged by event planners, and is, by all definition, a concert which takes place at someone’s home or property.

I was invited to attend one of these house concerts by Grady Yates, who being a fine singer/songwriter himself, is a homebuilder (read: mansion builder) and he, Byron Dowd, and Jennifer Wulf are the “three“ behind 3 Moons House Concerts. The building in which this concert would take place is a model home that Grady’s company built, a spectacular, breath-taking structure. More spectacular to me is the fact that the headliner for this particular night was the magnificent Kevin Welch.

The evening began for me when Grady introduced me to Kevin, who graciously stood and spoke with me about both our careers, past and present (the only relevance my past career held was being employed for 17 years at a CD replication plant that manufactured a few of Kevin’s CDs), record labels, finger-picking techniques, Nashville, old band mates, current projects, and this wonderful thing known as house concerts. Welch said that this particular night was the fourth such show in about as many weeks, adding that while this one is being held in a house of mansion proportion, others he’s done are in very modest blue-collar homes (and I’d guess every kind of place in between, too). He said to me, “These things have changed the game for the small guys like me.” (Yes…I suppressed the urge to correct him for his reference to himself as “small guy.” I was compelled to wave my arms in the air and say “Dude, you’re Kevin Welch!” But then, he doesn’t need my guidance in knowing who he is.)

The economics of the house concert concept are purely in favor of the artist, something none of us are quite used to, but I would imagine that could be gotten used to quickly enough.  I’m now a bonafide supporter of house concerts. I want to talk about the music I was treated to Saturday night, which was stellar, but a bit more about this method of presenting shows.

There is one thing a songwriter wants the most, I honestly believe: To be heard. To have someone to listen, to not just music, but to the lyrics, the words wrenched and wrestled from mind, heart, and soul. Being so ecstatic about coming upon such a listening experience for writer and enthusiast alike, I began to do some research into the subject for any precedent that might have given rise to such a thing. I found that it is no new thing at all. In fact, the term “chamber music” comes to us from the sixteenth-century, the Renaissance period, during which most, if not all, public performances of secular music took place in someone’s home. It was usually a private event, attended by those who had been sent invitations and would feature the leading musicians of the day. This means of staging a show continued into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and was quite popular during the developmental years of the Blues surgence.

It was a time when the few prominent blues and jazz venues in a given city couldn’t facilitate  the number of performers, most of which were black, reducing their possibilities even further. These minstrels knew people in their travels and circuits, which stemmed from Mississippi to Chicago to New York, and would set up performances in private homes, barns, back lots and anywhere else with ample space. A problem arose in some towns when illicit activity of a sexually-oriented nature would be discovered here and there, being advertised to the public as in-home musical or theatrical performances, bringing an element of danger, illegality, and sin to the public mind. The Twenties were indeed pretty roaring. Evidently, the original idea for this kind of concert wasn’t forgotten and is being employed and enjoyed all over the place again.

It seems that every genre of music employs in-home performance now, but none would benefit from it as bountifully as the singer/songwriter scene, in my estimation. Playing in bars and nightclub venues will likely never go away, but when one is a songwriter, penning and playing songs that are possessed of literary and poetic merit, loud, chaotic bars are not conducive to absorbing that art. Even where one might want very much to just listen, it is virtually impossible. Hence, in the case of Saturday night, the beauty of a method by which all comers are there of one mind and one accord to take in the wonders of the songs of Grady Yates, Byron Dowd, and Kevin Welch becomes evident.

Grady, as primary host, greeted the audience and launched easily into four of his own compositions, at least a couple of which are from his new release “A Thousand Horses.” The beautiful “Sanctuary” and an old turn-of-the-century western gunslinger tale called “Long Road Back To You” were delivered in that velvety voice that is the earmark of the ol’ boy’s sensibilities. The room was pin-drop quiet. Not a sound except for the voice of a friend telling me stories and the perfect cadence of acoustic guitars rendered by Grady Yates and Brady Mosher. And then something happened that gave me goose bumps: an appreciative and attentive audience erupted in applause and whistles that were as refreshing as a cool drink of water in the Palo Duro Canyon.

Byron Dowd was up next. He opened with “Six Feet Above,” a song as somber as the title might suggest. Lyrics like “Champagne that tastes like dirt, drink it down for what it’s worth” and the admonition that we grasp the notion that being “six feet above” is far better than the alternative. Then he moved on to “Raindrop,” then a song that came with a cool story about a rare guitar no longer in his possession “The Millertone,” and wrapped up with what is arguably his best song (depending on who you talk to?), “Footsteps.” Byron’s new release has spent some considerable time on the Americana Music chart and, considering it’s his debut release, there is much in that to be very, very proud of. You will be hearing more from and of Byron Dowd.

Next came the moment Grady, Byron, and I and everyone else were waiting for. Kevin Welch is the Troubadour’s Troubadour. He sat down on the stool with his trademark tobacco sunburst Gibson acoustic and the magic began. Welch caresses his guitar like a true love of many lifetimes. He and the instrument know each other intimately. When he addressed the mic the voice was pure and true, possessing a finesse that is immediately soothing but enough grit to make Sweet Baby James envious. Kevin writes songs…no, I’m not so content to say it just that way. He writes poetry. Condense Steinbeck or Faulkner to 4 minutes and set it to wonderful chords and melody and you have a fair estimation of the songs of Kevin Welch.

At one point, he asked if there was anything in particular we wanted to hear and one gentleman asked for Troublesome Times, from his ‘95 release “Life Down Here On Earth,” and Welch obliged. It’s a song about assessment:

“Troublesome times comes to your front door

Troublesome times comes sneakin in the back

You usually get the kind of trouble you ask for

I can live with that…”

And perseverance:

“I look at that sunshine way out yonder

Looks like a brand new day

I’m gonna hang on a little bit longer

Cause it might be headed my way.”

The themes of lives lived, past and present are paramount in the lyrics. “A New Widow’s Dream” conveys the anguish of a young

woman whose love has died but the attic of subconscious brings him to her bedside at night where “His lips they move but do not speak, His eyes are sad but do not weep, His heart is full but does not beat.” Lives, from point of view of the empathetic poet, are the point of origin for all art. Other songs performed were “Highland Mary,” “Early Summer Rain,” “Great Emancipation” (one of my new personal favorites), “Millionaire,” and a brand new one, “A Flower,” not on an album yet.

He gave us a tune that he humorously dedicated to Honey Boo-Boo, eliciting chuckles from the audience. It’s a reflection of the cult of personality so prevalent today in the entertainment world in which people who are possessed of no actual talent are elevated to celebrity status by the mass media (which is a sad statement about society in general). “Come A Rain” runs through a list of the notorious, the great, the rascals, and the genius in history and, in a word, summarizes what gave them that status. Righteously mentioned:

“Jesus was a pagan, Woody was a punk, Gandhi was a soldier, Hendrix was a monk…

Marley was a preacher, Columbus was a dope, Houdini was a rascal, Hank Williams was a ghost.”

He offered that the song came as a result of his son, Dustin, saying that “If Woody Guthrie were alive today, he’d be a punk.” A spot-on observation. After finishing the song, he stated, “Ya gotta at least DO something.” Put THAT in Entertainment Weekly.

Speaking of Dustin, Kevin’s son (of whom he is very rightfully proud), I was reminded of a song from Welch’s 1990 Warner Reprise self-titled debut. It’s the last track on the album and it’s called “A Letter To Dustin“, and the reason I bring that up is that it gives definition to the song “Too Old To Die Young,” co-written by Kevin with John Hadley and Scott Dooley. Welch performed the song beautifully and for the last refrain, he stopped playing the guitar and a touched audience joined in unison and sang it back to him. It’s a song that “poignant” doesn’t really do justice. It is the desperate hope any parent would express – that their time on Earth would afford the longevity to watch their children grow “to see what they become. Oh Lord don’t let that cold wind blow till I’m too old to die young.” Hearing this father speak so proudly of his boy, who happens to be an incredible artist in his own right, and who accompanies his dad on many stages, one sees the bridge between “Letter To Dustin” in 1990 and the heart and voice of that father sitting in our midst in 2013 singing

“So if I could have one wish today And I know it would be done, I’d say everyone could stay ’til they’re too old too die young.”

Brother Troubadour, you’ve been graced to have been that guy. And I, for one, am very happy about that.

After the music was done, a gentleman, last name o’ Pringle, walked up to me and said, “I’d pay double the price to come and see a show like this over going to a bar any day,” and as folks were milling about preparing to go home, or wherever else they might be headed, I thought to myself, “Mr. Pringle, I couldn’t agree more.”

There are folks out there living lives. Some are fraught with contentment, seasoned with romance, sprinkled with disaster, anguish, or loss, and blessed with love. These people respond to these circumstances in different ways – some succumb, some overcome. But they are all lives, from the earliest and most primitive of times until now. The human experience will be conveyed by everyone from historians to psychoanalysts. Thank God songwriters are a part of that equation. They are the most empathetic of all…and they put their take on it to music, which is the sweetest spoonful of sugar to swallow the medicine with. Kevin Welch is one such embodiment of empathy. He has the uncanny ability to place himself, not merely in the shoes, but in the heart and soul of the fellow folk he shares the earth with. Turn off Honey Boo-Boo and listen to any title in the Kevin Welch catalogue. Find out what “enrichment” means. Get in the Hudson…there’s room and we got gas. Let’s go.

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