“That’s all we got,” said Max Norton, drummer for Benjamin Booker during a sidewalk chat outside Schubas, scene of a blissful sonic crime.
It was the aftermath of a roiling tempest called “Have You Seen My Son,” a reading that skirted that fine line between noise and rock, catharsis and a caterwaul. And as the crowd that had just had its butts rocked off was waiting for an encore from Booker, the guitarist and phenom was outside, having a smoke and chatting with fans.
The room for the Saturday night set was sold out as people begged for extras outside, frantic to see a dude who two years ago was working in a coffee shop. Booker is one of those charming tales, from writing songs to work some demons out to playing Lollapalooza and “Letterman,” a success story as timeless as his sound. Now he and his bandmates were touring behind a just-released album that the trio has already outgrown. And as he raced through a roughly hour-long set, Booker had the mood of a man very aware of the inexorable nature of time — pop culturally as well as creatively. Every performer who claims to have a million of ’em really doesn’t, and Booker hurries as if he wants to be heard while folks are still paying attention.
Tunes from “Always Waiting” to “Violent Shiver” hurtled along as Booker hunched over the microphone like a heavy drinker nursing that last shot, afraid if he backs off a drop might escape. People label Booker blues, even as his chunky, rhythmic guitar owes more to Bo Diddley than Muddy Waters and his overall sound is closer to Kurt Cobain and Nirvana than a blues joint. And that struggle to place him is part of what makes him fun as a performer. Like a precocious kid, you just don’t know what he’s going to do.
Norton picked up a mandolin and bassist Alex Spoto plugged in a violin for a mid-set hootenanny as Booker reveled in Americana. He played the blues, he dabbled in psychedelia, punk and grunge as he revealed that latter genre as the blues-rock that it really is. He dripped sweat and didn’t interact much with the crowd he was baring his soul to, as his set seemed less about a show and more about trying to get something out from deep inside. And for a moment you found yourself thinking it would be OK if big, giant success didn’t come to a man who seemed as fragile as the high-wire act that was “I Thought I Heard You Screaming.” All fame might do is mess up this wild genius, this savant of twangin’ and bangin’.
After the set, Norton said Saturday’s set was the best one yet on the tour, for all of those inexplicable reasons that make a concert memorable. And it was the experience of that spark that let you forgive Booker a lot, from the lurching as he changed moods and tempos to rockers that veered toward a high-octane sameness — because it’s impossible to argue with sincerity.
Twitter @tribunekevin
