Jam Grass

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.”