The Best of Botanical Blues
The
traditional venue for a concert might be more akin to a densely packed
nightclub, music venue, or discothèque. Occasionally, cultures construct
monuments to music, like the mammoth Sydney Opera House, La Scala, or some of
the urban, live clubs in Japan. Personally, I have enjoyed watching rock shows
at festivals, or some of the unique venues in Detroit. I can say that I have
seen someone, literally, light the roof on fire in a club in New York City. I
can still recount the artist, The Kills, standing stage right and looking up at
the ceiling as if waiting for rain. This past Sunday, I had an experience at
the Greater Des Moines’ botanical garden that was memorable for all the right
reasons: poignant lyricism and stage banter of a different tune.
The
Greater Des Moines’ botanical garden became host to the Botanical Blues and an
influencer in the paradigms of exhibitions. The deodesic dome is comprised of
665 plexiglass panels, which make the Botanical Center building appear to be
composed of a bubble-like shape and texture. On the inside, one can see the
flora (1,200 types of plants) and fauna (insects deemed useful by botanists). The
foliage and climbing plants trace over some of the cell-like bubbles of the roof.
The lamella-like dome appears to be constructed of thick glass and wrought
iron, rather than a structure as flimsy as a bubble. Perhaps, a greenhouse
imagined in 1929 would be a surprising venue, and it certainly was, considering
the nature of the exhibition.
Matt
Woods, unrelated to the football player, was booked to play the Greater Des
Moines Botanical Gardens after winning the Iowa Blues Scene. Woods was on hand
to showcase his set to the local area with a metal or glass slide guitar,
mournful vocals, and a bassist who appeared to be arranging either the audio
projection systems or a sound mixing board. Bluegrass musicians start late,
taking time to talk to their hosts, waiting for smokes, or something. The humidity was at about 44%, with temperature
in the dome appeared to be in the mid-seventies.
Behind
the set, a banana tree stood with ripe, green fruits hanging. Even in the north
or plains states, somewhere is always seventy degrees with out-of-season
plants, and a hothouse could be cure enough for those with seasonal depression.
Sitting simply with a guitar on his lap, a PA near his feet, Matt Woods sampled
from Pressley and sang of more than the juvenilia of pop songs. His style was
nitty and gritty, yet full of flexible rift and chatter. His tunes carried the
wisdom of the backwoods, and the set languished on during the extremely slow
time of sunset. The golden rays wafted into the dome, appearing to make it
blaze like a Sakhrah.
I
relished the opportunity to participate in an open sky show midwinter, as this
is far from Detroit-area rock or hip hop, or Ivy League Records.
Twenty-somethings should branch out to explore genres that they have yet to
ruin with over-priced and ironic deconstruction. Even indie music,
traditionally outsider music that became typified within a particular set, can
become mainstream. I think people select their favorite bands, much like how
sports people pick their sports team to root for and support. Although I am
woefully ignorant of some blues, blues, blues, the content of the songwriting
freed me from the musical constraints that, otherwise, inhibit me. Whereas most
of the concerts I’ve been to only allocate for slight nodding and scoffing,
bluegrass performances inspire a lot of toe-tapping.
Some
of the lyrical stacking was soporific, and drowsy-like imparting of words
paired with compositional melodies. They could be quite stripped down, or
humorous. In fact, the tone was one of faint joking, and peaking, earnest jest
with the next plucking motion of the guitar. I had to chuckle at the
intentional pairing of the notion of a sugar mama with, “Tell me sugar mama,
where do you get your sugar from…/ you’ve got the best sugar and its
granulated.” Or, in the same song, Woods sings out a sly line or two along the
lines of, “I take my coffee/ yes, I praise it with my tea.” Most of the lyrics
are lonely, soulful, and of trains and Greyhound lines.
Love,
in Woods’ music, is a fretful riot where the objects of the vocalist are
married, and the love itself seems tattered, threadbare as a plaid shirt. The
lifestyle contains its sober gems of “Tennessee women deep fishing for me” and
visions of Woods running from “a long-haired captain” while wearing his long
johns, aka his “long pajamas.” He strums along about how he’s “got rambling,
traveling on my mind.” Woods seems to be many people at one time,
ventriloquizing a scolding tone (“Louise, you better hurry tone”), then as
easily, capturing the voice of the lovelorn. In Woods’ songs, love is ephemeral
and present only between unavailable people.
People
sat up naturally in the second floor restaurant of the bio-dome, appearing to
perch at various levels. There was a flatly honest tone to the show, with Woods
being introduced by a white-haired adult in a glittering, red sequin vest and
cowboy hat. The introducer had relayed Woods’ message that Woods’ and Co. were
“really bad,” when joking about the musician. But, people listen for honest
jocularity as this, and the comment demonstrated the wit and rejoinders present
within the lyrical composition. The musician purported that contracts promise
groupies and other rock star rewards, but actually end up involving
negotiations mid-show, and lugging around considerable equipment.
Amidst
the towering cannas, spiky pines, and arty restaurant, the commentary was on
point. As one hostess said, the setting wasn’t precisely like a bar, or
catching a show in a nightclub with throngs of sweaty, languid youth milling
about. Wood had enough sage advice for all, like the song “Tornadoes Are Bad For
Everyone.” To summarize, here are the best three lines of music ringing in the
New Year; “It ain’t stealing if you give it away/ It ain’t love if you don’t
want me to stay/ It ain’t hiding if no one’s looking for you.”
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