Seattle Subsonic

Deborah Henson-Conant, Cujo, Music as the Cure

June 25th, 2010

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I wrote a couple weeks ago about how it was a fine thing to see a woman ascend the stage and strap on a Gibson SG so I was excited to see if there was a similar feeling to be had with a woman who strapped on a harp in much the same fashion. The woman was Deborah Henson-Conant, the harp a blue custom made deal that weighs 11 pounds. Looking at the pictures I saw that she straps the harp around her waist and with a wireless hookup gives her the freedom to move about the stage in much the same way that a lead guitar player in a metal band would. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I like my share of metal and am a fan of things done in new ways, fresh ways, heretofore unimagined ways. And I had never before imagined a woman in black leather pants strapped to a harp and hooked into a Rat distortion pedal and a delay unit. So I was curious. I was interested. What would a woman who bills herself as a “hip harpist” be like?
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The show was at the Triple Door Sunday June 20th. Before the show I was reading Stephen King’s Cujo at a Starbucks in Queen Anne figuring that a little Stephen King gore might put me in the proper frame of mind as I don’t typically read King. It’s unusual for me so it gets me out of my normal mode, gets my brain to a different place where I’m ready for anything to happen as it can and does in a Stephen King book. I found thus I started to think like the dog Cujo in it’s pre-rabid days. People lost the distinction of names. They were THE MAN or THE WOMAN or THE BOY and such. I communicated with a nudge of the head, a tilt of the head, a look in the eye. I walked up to the counter, to THE BARISTA I know so well since I go there almost daily. She said something (“Would you like a refill?”) and I nodded to my empty coffee mug and then there was more coffee. I went to the Triple Door, nodded at the guest list. THE WOMAN there said something (“And your name is?”). I pointed to the list, “Ah, Mr. O’Leary.” She snapped her fingers to a waiter who then showed me to my seat.
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At the table I came out of it. People were people, waiters were waiters. “I’ll have a Rogers Pilsner and the Pad Thai noodles with prawns,” I said. The waiter nodded and moved off with out a word. Henson-Conant walked out on stage then with her harp strapped around her just so and went into a beautiful latin number called Cosita Latina. Seeing her thus on stage with the harp playing beautiful music and bending and leaning back and grooving and shuffling and tapping her feet and dangling her hair forward and back and generally not standing still I was reminded of The Witches of Eastwick in which Jack Nicholson had prodded Susan Sarandon to spread her legs and open herself to the vibrations of her cello. Hensen-Conant even commented a little later on the vibrancy of the instrument, how she could really feel and hear the sound in her body and how once a deaf man had done so as he put his arms around her as she played. It reminded me of times when I’ve placed my bass against a piano and played unplugged just letting the sound come from the vibration of wood on wood. It was a soft and subtle sound, and I felt it. Safe to say the first song was good. It drew the audience in.
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The show went on like that. She played slow numbers, fast numbers, bluesy tunes. She sang well and never stopped gyrating on the stage. She played exceptionally well and never stopped gyrating on stage. It put me into Cujo mode. THE WOMAN made good sounds. THE WAITER brought more beer. THE WOMAN echoed sounds, layered sounds, repeated sounds so that three or four things were happening at once. It was soothing. I wanted more sounds but the sounds stopped and I snapped out of Cujo mode to my only gripe of the show. All the talking. It’s her style I guess, but I wanted more and more and more music. For all the talking, I felt there could have been another three or four songs or more played. I wanted them. I missed them. I began to understand the rabid Cujo, but then the sounds came back. THE WOMAN started another song and the music was too good. Rabid anger dissipated. I lapped at my beer and wagged my tail.
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The only musical lapse came with paper. Henson-Conant was in the midst of a wonderful bit where she used a delay pedal to layer sounds, a scratchy plucked shuffling rhythm, a melody, a little bass bit. And with the delay those sounds repeated in unison like a band and she accompanied. It was very cool until she picked up a piece of paper, tore it, and strung a bit through the strings of her harp. She then played the harp. I know the effect she was going for but it simply sounded like there was a piece of paper stuck in the strings. The rabid dog was back. The music had been so excellent until then. Why had THE WOMAN caused those horrible buzzing vibrations after so many beautiful ones? And why were THE PEOPLE applauding such?
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I don’t know.
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Judging from the crowd reaction I was in the minority on the talking issue. I wanted more music, but everyone else in attendance hung on her every word. They clapped and sang and participated and generally had a good time. I’ve never been a fan of the “always keep it short or limited to keep them wanting more” crowd. I want music, more music, and more music. Like Tuco said in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, “if you have to shoot, shoot. Don’t talk.” I always want such of concerts. Thus, when THE WOMAN stopped playing the pre-rabid dog became a little rabid, growled a little for want of more music. Music was the cure, always has been.
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I do recommend catching the “hip harpist” once if possible. It’s fun to watch her play, to listen to her play, and for me that would be enough. If you have to play, play. Don’t talk.
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Dave

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