The Ballroom Thieves have become some of my favorites lately. It’s not because their music is killer or because they are the friendliest and most sincere post-gig musicians to hang out with (it is and they are). It’s also that they always seem to pair their shows with other likeable and listenable artists.
I feel like folk shows are getting the short end of the stick. It takes an extra push to convince my friends that they really can be fun and worthwhile because in their minds these shows are exclusively comprised of dads and their banjos. Of course, it certainly didn’t used to be that way–think Woodstock of the Last Waltz. Somewhere along the line, it seems there’s was a paradigmatic role reversal and gradually, nobody thought folk music was cool or exciting anymore. But anyone at the Sinclair on Friday night can say with conviction that those dupes are missing out.
One might think, as I had, that a review of Justin Townes Earle would write itself. Because he’s a guy who is a reincarnation of two of the greatest ever—Steve Earle and Townes Van Zandt. Because he is a young, volatile and talented musician with such a turbulent past that you’d need your toes in counting his rehab visits (13, so three toes). And anybody who knows anything about JTE certainly knows this because he’s never been one to conceal his history; if he’s not explicitly telling you on the stage or in an interview, he’s telling you in his lyrics.
Man, was I excited when my friend first told me to watch the trailer for the new Coen brothers’ movie, Inside Llewyn Davis. Joel and Ethan, John Goodman, a rousing folk tale, NYC in the 60s. . . it was like a sweet parody of my most absurd dreams, sans Jeff Bridges as Mr. Twit…
Chomping at the bit to cover my first show for Allston Pudding, I stepped through the Sinclair doors almost a full hour before the openers took the stage and three before headliners, The Ballroom Thieves. And inside was an uncanny semblance to a typical post-prom party. Two by two awkward couples were posted up against the wall, on the stairs, at the bar, slowly milking alcohol for all its social lubricant clout.