Stepping into the Picador in Iowa City Saturday night for William Elliot Whitmore's sold out CD release show was not unlike stepping into one big Iowa family reunion. The house lights of the small club were on, even as opening folk crooner T Wehrle played his Iron & Wine-meets-Sea Change tunes. T Wehrle was more like a house band for hipsters and farm town folk to mingle and drink to while awaiting the main event. See, Whitmore's new record Animals in the Dark just came out on ANTI-, which is a big accomplishment for the gravel-voiced neo-bluesman from a small town nestled down in Mississippi river country. Saturday night felt like a celebration of Eastern Iowa itself, in the form of praising one of Iowa's favorite musical sons.
It is hard to capture the essence of what Will Whitmore means to the state of Iowa. This perhaps owes in part to the fact that I'm not an Iowa boy. Live, Whitmore is a tremendous presence. He generally performs seated, occasionally with accompaniment but largely solo, relying heavily on his banjo but also picking up the acoustic guitar for select numbers. His weary baritone aids him in his rare ability to command a room that escapes so many performers, and yet I don't get the sense that he's particularly well-known or revered outside of Iowa. At the risk of speaking for an entire state, part of the Iowa identity is to be overlooked and underappreciated. Will Whitmore? Despite his new, high-profile record label, he's still an under-the-radar national talent.
It was certainly not the case for this show, the first of a two-night stand at his adopted hometown venue (the second being an early all ages show to counter the late-night drinking crowd). Saturday was a family affair in the loosest sense -- if you knew Will, and everyone knows him somehow -- you were family.
As they were checking my ID, one well-known hipster was checking in. Whitmore happened to poke his head around the corner and say in his unmistakable drawl, "He's my banjo tech. Let him in." Banjo tech? Really? It seemed like a stretch. One club "security" officer estimated "more than 50 but less than 100" people didn't pay for the show. Capacity is 300. You do the math -- I mean, how many banjo techs were there? Part of the allure was mysterious noise-pop quartet ft (The Shadow Government) playing as direct support. It was an obvious choice, though not aesthetically. Whitmore's cousin Luke Tweedy, who records Will and just about everyone else in Iowa City, plays in the band. They hadn't played in ages and might never play again, but their combo of punk, camp, and noise was fitting, and their short set provided just the buffer people needed to get both drunk and ready for Whitmore's set. It was a total reversal from the openers.
When Whitmore took the stage, the place exploded, and rightfully so. The crowd response was equal parts drunken fervor and swollen pride. You could tell Whitmore was just happy to be at home. The more, the merrier, but you get the sense he could have been playing for 50 people and would've been just as content. He ran through some solo songs before inviting some folks on stage to join him. Local blues performer David Zollo jumped up to play organ on a few songs. This typifies Whitmore's taste and points to his appeal -- Zollo is more of a classic blues player and definitely not a staple of the indie rock scene. He routinely does well with the 40+ sect, and yet here he was, jamming out in front of drunken hipsters. It testifies to how Whitmore has broken down a barrier that few here have. He manages to be hip to the younger punk and indie rock circuit while still attracting the old guard, folks who revere the classic playing of Bo Ramsey and Greg Brown.
Members of the Shadow Government joined to run through some new material, starting with the first track, "Mutiny," from the new disc. It must be noted here that Animals in the Dark is starkly different from Whitmore's older work, and probably weaker as well. Live, though, he sounds justifiably confident in his own work. It's obvious on "Mutiny," where he sings a cappella with a small drum corps backing him, that he is not only having fun with his boys, but also showing a bit of swagger. In turn, "Mutiny" comes off as a powerful live number, despite the cheeky nature of the outdatedly politicized closing refrain: "He don't need no water, we'll let the motherfucker burn/ Burn, motherfucker, burn." "Johnny Law" is the same way -- a song about being hassled by the law, it sounds almost silly on record. But live, these faux-politcal diatribes become calls-to-arms, or at the very least calls-to-drink, as there was plenty of whiskey and PBR going around to fuel the love fest.
But for as much as these rowdy songs punctuated the night, it's Whitmore's more sensitive moments that really stick with you. Quasi-gospel number "There's Hope For You" was dedicated to his brother's children. Haunting banjo number "One Man's Shame" is still one of his most rousing and powerful numbers. The line "Ain't no hell below, ain't no heaven above/ And I came for the drinks, but I stayed for the love" seemed to embody the spirit of the evening. But nothing speaks to the essence of Whitmore as must as his song "Black Iowa Dirt." He sings the song as though it's the last song he's ever going to sing, and the crowd responds in kind. His devotion to his home is repaid to him by his fans and followers, all of whom on this evening, at least, are family.
[Photo: Curtis Lehmkuhl]
