Features | Concerts
Willie Nelson, Ryan Adams, and Neko Case
By David Greenwald | 15 September 2006
I haven’t been to the Hollywood Bowl in four years, since I saw Radiohead during my first week in college. It was a good time to be overwhelmed. Having seen that band again at the similar but much more intimate Greek Theater at the beginning of the summer, on the way to tonight’s show I’m not particularly excited about returning to the open-air Bowl. During Neko Case’s opening set, the first of the evening’s country trifecta, it’s like a scooped-out beehive: all tunnels and frantic activity as the hirsute, flannel-clad audience look for their spots on the Bowl’s benches. My roommate and I are joined by a particularly hefty pair and squeeze, grumpily, into our inches of aisle seats.
Case’s voice fills the packed Bowl, and she and her band slog their way through a swampy, workmanlike set that includes “I Wish I Was The Moon” and “Deep Red Bells” as well as a few choice cuts from this year’s labyrinthine Fox Confessor Brings the Flood. One of them, “Maybe Sparrow,” is introduced with a mock sob as “a weeper about a bird.” She probably uses that line every night. It’s funny that, as seriously (and predictably) as she approaches her performances, Case’s banter is the exact opposite. If only Carl Newman were here to engage her in some awkward flirtation, like he did when I saw her perform with the New Pornographers in 2005. That was the night Destroyer’s Dan Bejar had another beer in hand every time the Pornographers brought him back on stage; I applauded him then, but if I’d known how goddamn epic Destroyer’s Rubies was going to be, I probably would’ve thrown my underwear on stage. I digress.
Pot smoke creeps across the rows of benches; Willie Nelson is due on in another two hours. Case finishes with “Hold On” and exits, swamp in tow, but the odor remains. The stage rotates 180 degrees, and there Ryan Adams is in a vintage Batman t-shirt. I can’t tell if he’s being ironic or just awesome, and at this junction it seems relevant to mention that Adams is my favorite living, relevant musician and last year I gave one his albums a 90%. (Ed.: It’s true; he did.) Ryan probably didn’t read the review, considering his 45-minute set with the Cardinals leans almost exclusively on the other two records he dropped in ’05, along with two jammed-out Grateful Dead covers and a pair of oldies. Beyond the iconic logo on his chest, Adams is (of course) wearing his trusty jean jacket. While he and Nelson were initially brought together for a Levi’s commercial, Adams is producing the old legend’s upcoming album, Songbird, making tonight’s concert a ripe opportunity for a duet or (be still, my beating heartstrings) three-part harmonies with Case on “Crazy.” Not so much. Each of the three acts stuck to their own time slot, though Nelson certainly extended his welcome to a wide circle of friends and musicians as well as the happy audience.
While Adams’ set is a rock ‘n’ roll affair -- a dual guitar attack on “Cold Roses,” taut dynamics on what sounds like the classic rock version of “Peaceful Valley,” incomprehensible stage banter (“This is a song about Americans and cheeseburgers. American cheeseburgers?”) -- when Nelson and his sizable band make their entrance, the enthusiastic audience settles in for a softer set from one of country music’s living legends. Both Case and Adams receive plenty of cheers and applause, but from the moment he steps on stage, this is Willie’s crowd. Like apple pie, Willie Nelson is both satisfying and distinctly American. Though he never acquired a “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash” tagline like his deceased peer, their careers run in interesting parallels: Like the prison-bound Cash, Nelson embraced the outsider, outlaw image, but also cultivated his own distinct Samson-esque beard and laconic vocal style. By now, his braids are as long as his legacy. Though Cash, now a mythic figure thanks to a maudlin Oscar-baiting biopic, made his name on the strength of the Voice of God, Nelson’s singing is that of Everyman. As Cash’s star rises -- his most recent posthumous album, American V, was his first in decades to hit number one on the Billboard charts -- Nelson has quietly been one of the most prolific musicians in pop music.
It’s that humble, unassuming quality that takes center stage tonight; even as he makes his way through a set of inarguable classics, the blond guitarist spends as much time or more introducing his band and offering tributes to friends Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings. Nelson lets his guitarist take lead vocals on “Workingman’s Blues,” and several of his sons play in the band. One, Lucas, is a budding blues guitarist with ridiculous ‘70s hair and lightning fingers that play virtuoso to his dad’s aging artist. Everyone gets a chance to solo in Willie Nelson’s house, but it’s the man himself who commands respect. His guitar playing is surprisingly impressive, sensitive but purposeful. After watching him tear through a few bars, it’s hard not to wonder if he developed his concise, matter-of-fact singing to give himself more time to solo. Though he rattles off song after song in a staggering flow, what makes Nelson compositions such as “Crazy,” “Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain,” “On The Road Again” and “Funny How Time Slips Away” still so vital is the joy with which he and his band perform them.
If it were up to Nelson, he’d play all night. I was privileged enough to see him with Ray Charles (!) some years back in my first real concert, and he played two encores and practically had to be pushed off stage. The Bowl has late-night noise restrictions, however, and the show concludes with a few new songs offered in typically generous Willie fashion. The best is one that might be called “You Don’t Think I’m Funny Anymore,” a lighthearted two-step that mixes dirty jokes with a wink at relationships. It’s the kind of simple song that sparkles with wit and personality, carried by its singer’s avuncular demeanor and sheer likeability. Nelson (a bit of a movie star in his own right) may never receive the kind of redemptive cinematic ode that Cash did, but judging by the crowd’s uproarious response as the final song faded, he hardly needs one. After all, who needs convincing for a slice of apple pie?
Case’s voice fills the packed Bowl, and she and her band slog their way through a swampy, workmanlike set that includes “I Wish I Was The Moon” and “Deep Red Bells” as well as a few choice cuts from this year’s labyrinthine Fox Confessor Brings the Flood. One of them, “Maybe Sparrow,” is introduced with a mock sob as “a weeper about a bird.” She probably uses that line every night. It’s funny that, as seriously (and predictably) as she approaches her performances, Case’s banter is the exact opposite. If only Carl Newman were here to engage her in some awkward flirtation, like he did when I saw her perform with the New Pornographers in 2005. That was the night Destroyer’s Dan Bejar had another beer in hand every time the Pornographers brought him back on stage; I applauded him then, but if I’d known how goddamn epic Destroyer’s Rubies was going to be, I probably would’ve thrown my underwear on stage. I digress.
Pot smoke creeps across the rows of benches; Willie Nelson is due on in another two hours. Case finishes with “Hold On” and exits, swamp in tow, but the odor remains. The stage rotates 180 degrees, and there Ryan Adams is in a vintage Batman t-shirt. I can’t tell if he’s being ironic or just awesome, and at this junction it seems relevant to mention that Adams is my favorite living, relevant musician and last year I gave one his albums a 90%. (Ed.: It’s true; he did.) Ryan probably didn’t read the review, considering his 45-minute set with the Cardinals leans almost exclusively on the other two records he dropped in ’05, along with two jammed-out Grateful Dead covers and a pair of oldies. Beyond the iconic logo on his chest, Adams is (of course) wearing his trusty jean jacket. While he and Nelson were initially brought together for a Levi’s commercial, Adams is producing the old legend’s upcoming album, Songbird, making tonight’s concert a ripe opportunity for a duet or (be still, my beating heartstrings) three-part harmonies with Case on “Crazy.” Not so much. Each of the three acts stuck to their own time slot, though Nelson certainly extended his welcome to a wide circle of friends and musicians as well as the happy audience.
While Adams’ set is a rock ‘n’ roll affair -- a dual guitar attack on “Cold Roses,” taut dynamics on what sounds like the classic rock version of “Peaceful Valley,” incomprehensible stage banter (“This is a song about Americans and cheeseburgers. American cheeseburgers?”) -- when Nelson and his sizable band make their entrance, the enthusiastic audience settles in for a softer set from one of country music’s living legends. Both Case and Adams receive plenty of cheers and applause, but from the moment he steps on stage, this is Willie’s crowd. Like apple pie, Willie Nelson is both satisfying and distinctly American. Though he never acquired a “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash” tagline like his deceased peer, their careers run in interesting parallels: Like the prison-bound Cash, Nelson embraced the outsider, outlaw image, but also cultivated his own distinct Samson-esque beard and laconic vocal style. By now, his braids are as long as his legacy. Though Cash, now a mythic figure thanks to a maudlin Oscar-baiting biopic, made his name on the strength of the Voice of God, Nelson’s singing is that of Everyman. As Cash’s star rises -- his most recent posthumous album, American V, was his first in decades to hit number one on the Billboard charts -- Nelson has quietly been one of the most prolific musicians in pop music.
It’s that humble, unassuming quality that takes center stage tonight; even as he makes his way through a set of inarguable classics, the blond guitarist spends as much time or more introducing his band and offering tributes to friends Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings. Nelson lets his guitarist take lead vocals on “Workingman’s Blues,” and several of his sons play in the band. One, Lucas, is a budding blues guitarist with ridiculous ‘70s hair and lightning fingers that play virtuoso to his dad’s aging artist. Everyone gets a chance to solo in Willie Nelson’s house, but it’s the man himself who commands respect. His guitar playing is surprisingly impressive, sensitive but purposeful. After watching him tear through a few bars, it’s hard not to wonder if he developed his concise, matter-of-fact singing to give himself more time to solo. Though he rattles off song after song in a staggering flow, what makes Nelson compositions such as “Crazy,” “Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain,” “On The Road Again” and “Funny How Time Slips Away” still so vital is the joy with which he and his band perform them.
If it were up to Nelson, he’d play all night. I was privileged enough to see him with Ray Charles (!) some years back in my first real concert, and he played two encores and practically had to be pushed off stage. The Bowl has late-night noise restrictions, however, and the show concludes with a few new songs offered in typically generous Willie fashion. The best is one that might be called “You Don’t Think I’m Funny Anymore,” a lighthearted two-step that mixes dirty jokes with a wink at relationships. It’s the kind of simple song that sparkles with wit and personality, carried by its singer’s avuncular demeanor and sheer likeability. Nelson (a bit of a movie star in his own right) may never receive the kind of redemptive cinematic ode that Cash did, but judging by the crowd’s uproarious response as the final song faded, he hardly needs one. After all, who needs convincing for a slice of apple pie?