The underground's most-beloved troubled-genius songwriter looked hale and stable feasting on a cheeseburger in a corner before his show, greeting fans, signing tapes and sketching his memorable "Frog of Hope" icon (a hoppy thing with eyeballs on stalks) onto someone's blank white t-shirt. Daniel Johnston's manic depression is the stuff of legend, and so is his musical output, which has landed him on several labels since the early Eighties, including Atlantic and Tim/Kerr, which will release a new Johnston record in January of '99. Accordingly, he lives with his father in a small town outside of Austin, Texas, and stays close to home. Due to the rigors of the road, Johnston barely ever plays live, and almost never tours. Consequently, this rare spate of West Coast gigs brought out the faithful from far and wide, even on Seattle's coldest night in recent memory.

Johnston's early songs, cut in single takes on a recorder in his bedroom and self-released on a series of cassettes, featured a palette of guitar, toy drum set and Fisher-Price toy chord organ, plus the occasional piano roll. The minimal arrangements accentuated his wet, sometimes whiny vocals and arabesque lyrics (which wove unrequited love through universal sorrow, Captain America and Casper the Friendly Ghost), but didn't fully demonstrate his influences, which range from pure pop (the Beatles loom large in his pantheon) to country, and folk blues. Subsequent records, such as 1994's Fun for the aforementioned Atlantic, teamed him with full bands for a richer, more polished effect.

The OK Hotel show, Johnston's Seattle debut, demonstrated a little bit of all the above. Johnston showered eye contact and shy smiles on the throng, who in turn danced, shimmied and shouted, "You rock, Daniel!" A suite of solo acoustic songs preceded the full-ensemble portion of the show, which featured members of Austin's Brown Hornet. "I can't get into heaven/If I've been there before," the singer creaked, "All my dreams are crooked/I'm a madman at your door." Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die" came off as electric-piano pomp laced with stomping interludes; hot on those heels came "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" miraculously recast in four-four time. The next song went on for at least six minutes, its lynchpin of "Pain, pain in my heart" followed in succession by avowals of madness, mortal woundings and dry resignation ("It's making my life a bleary soap opera").

Throughout the night the Hornet crew (bass, drums, and guitar/keyboards) hung nervously on Daniel's every twitchy signal, adjusting wobbly tempos as they decoded subtle commands for a bridge or another chorus. The singer's pleasant obliviousness extended to his warm greetings between numbers, and the songs rolled along in a centerline groove, Johnston injecting his lyrics with a sly spin of eagerness one time around, collapsed defeat the next. An evening's worth of such a groove makes a big bellyful, and I left feeling that I hadn't seen the elusive talent in its brightest sparkle. On the other hand, I hummed the "pain, pain in my heart" hook all the way back to the frozen bus stop for home.

ANDREW HAMLIN
(December 23, 1998)