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Richard Buckner :: SF Bathhouse, Wellington, 18 April 2007

Richard Buckner came to New Zealand a week ago. Between then and now a man from Motueka won the lottery, two children were injured in a fishing accident, and traffic on the Green Road exit has been stalled four times because of a stalled delivery truck; lovers loved; the universe yawned a few light years wider. Such is the sentiment of Buckner's music that seeing him perform forces one to take a perspective akin to a pendulum or a playground swing: noticing first particular details (the way she presses her hands to her hips and stretches after she makes your coffee), then the broad vagaries of existence (some say there is a planet like ours with a red sun whose light we won't see for 20 years). I look over the notes I took during the show and try to recount how it happened:

"To begin with, what genius put the tables right in front of the stage? And what's with the candles? The only other time I've seen this is when the SF Bathhouse (called Indigo at the time) hosted a comedy night. Then, I understood, but now? Did they forget that Richard Buckner was playing? Maybe they'll clear them away. They must be residual. There was no doubt a lecture, or some light conversational piece; maybe Hayley Westernra was peforming.

"Oh no. Edith Frost is playing. I mean, not 'oh no it's Edith Frost,' but 'oh now they haven't moved the tables.' In fact--what the hell? People are sitting on the floor! I haven't seen this kind of nonsense sense I saw a Drums & Tuba show in Denton, TX--everyone in the front was sitting until a brave youth shouted 'stand up and dance, you assholes!' I wish he was here.

"Edith, by the way, has a voice so clear it seems like it's always been there, and we've just now noticed it. While I'm not familiar with her music, I suddenly wish I knew the words. She is alone on stage but for a bass player, and the pitch of her songs bring to mind a smooth blend of Neko Case and Liz Phair: honest at first, but with a latent quality I can only describe as devious.

"So often when soft acoustic shows grace large venues, the first two or three songs are played to a quiet audience. Such is the case with Frost. Yet like other low-key shows, after a few minutes voices rise. It usually begins at the back and works its way forward. Dakin and I go out to have a cigarette. Not to dismiss her, but rather to speak openly and discuss how much she needs to be heard. We wish others felt the same."

The moment Edith Frost leaves the stage, we walk toward the front. Here, my notes fail me. I must have put down my pen, but there was good reason. There are large-lettered scribbles that say "eyes closed," "doesn't stop," and "loud." But few specifics follow. Yet from the distance of a week, I can just make out the lines, vivid and whirring. Besides, even from far away, it is hard to miss some things.

Richard Buckner is a giant. He picks up his guitar after he sits down, and I ask Dakin why he is playing a child's instrument. My friend kindly reassures me that it is, indeed, normal size. I am worried a little that Buckner will accidently crush it, so I don't stand at the front, but rather a few yards back so as not to be injured by the flurry of thin splinters that will surely come zipping toward my eyeballs at any moment.

In the days leading up to the show, Dakin and I "studied." We played every Buckner album we had, singing along to our favourite ballads. However, when searching for his new album, Dakin discovered something that unnerved us both: Richard Buckner has put out over 10 albums. We were floored and instantly confronted with the dilemma of ignorance--we weren't going to know some of his songs. And we call ourselves fans.

Indeed, as we only have 1/3 of his catalogue, we knew about 1/3 of his songs--but goddamn they were worth it. And while he didn't play Lil' Wallet Picture or Ocsar Hummel, he did play a gut-twisting electric version of Souvenir. And one after the other, he played without a pause: humming and growling for over an hour, switching seamless from acoustic to electric; he was whispering in your ear; he was in orbit, ethereal: atmospheric.

a clip from the song Souvenir, played at Wellington's SF Bathhouse.

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