To print this page, select "Print" from the File menu of your browser salon.com > Arts & Entertainment July 16, 1999 URL: http://www.salon.com/ent/log/1999/07/16/97s_live Barn raising in lower Manhattan The Old 97's bust out all over New York's Bowery Ballroom. - - - - - - - - - - - - By Chris Lehmann The Old 97's, a hook-happy quartet of raucously introspective nerds from the great Southwest, are busting out all over. On the heels of their splendid new pop-twang-and-heartbreak release, "Fight Songs," the band turned up at Manhattan's Bowery Ballroom Thursday night and in the tradition of the best American popular minstrels, simultaneously asserted and abolished all conceits of regionalism in an energetic, unselfconscious blur. Near the end of its set, the band had achieved the seemingly impossible: They moved a sizeable contingent of downtown Manhattan hipsters to do something resembling the two-step with their breakneck cover of Bill Monroe's "Sweet Blue-Eyed Darlin.'" This sort of spirited eclecticism is key to the unassuming grandeur of the band. In an age when faux-country "Americana" has emerged as the identity politics of first resort for white slacker bands of all description, the 97's ply country-inflected pop of direct emotional power, and gleefully sidestep any painstaking postures of purism and authenticity. They are, blessedly, all garage and no homage. And like the West Texas plains that they call home, the 97's are a triumph of bigness. First and foremost is the voice of front man/guitarist Rhett Miller, who delivers even the odd tender ballad, such as the Raymond Carver meets Antonio Carlos Jobim postmortem of the heart, "What We Talk About" in such a cavernous tone of bewildered mourning that you half expect a coyote to pick up the chorus. Looking like a detoxed, collegiate Robert Downey Jr., Miller flailed cheerfully at his rhythm guitar, while the more composed Ken Bethea delivered the big-note, low-string leads and fills that both cushion and inflame Miller's careening yowl. Meanwhile, Philip Peeples remained expertly hunched over his drums like they were a lab experiment, spurring on Murry Hammond's fluid bass work. (Hammond, no vocal slouch himself, also delivered spot-on high harmonies and the occasional counterpoint lead, usually on twangier offerings such as the quietly devastating "Valentine.") The material proper mines the well-worn pop themes of romantic anguish, loneliness and loss, but does so in such beguiling, melodic fashion that fans found themselves cheerily humming along with Miller even on "Lonely Holiday," as he drily sang, "Thought so much about suicide/Parts of me have already died." This tension between jaunty form and slouching content is what gives conviction to the great American traditions of country and pop music, and the Old 97's are equally at home in their mastery of each. salon.com | July 16, 1999