Monsters of Folk: Dave Alvin, Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Tom Russell, Chris Smither
The Bottom Line, New York, April 21, 1998

The name, it goes without saying, is a joke. A bit dated, too, considering that the last bonafide Monsters of Rock tour was way back around the time Sammy Hagar was still paper-training in Van Halen and probably before Perry Farrell even looked the word Lollapalooza up in the dictionary. Nevertheless, with this line-up of true-blue American mavericks, the title sounds just as true even without the intended tongue-in-cheek.

Granted, these are not all marquee folk monsters of the Peter, Paul and Mary run-for-the-hills variety, so for the unenlightened, a few brief introductions might be in order. Dave Alvin was a key member of L.A.'s seminal early Eighties band, the Blasters. As a solo artist, he has remained an important cult figure on the roots-rock scene, his songs covered by the likes of X, Dwight Yoakam and Robert Earl Keen. He's also earned the right to write and record songs with Tom Russell, who has been pegged by some critics as one of the world's best contemporary songwriters. Chris Smither, an outstanding New Orleans-born, finger-picking blues guitarist and singer, has had his songs covered by Emmylou Harris (on the recent soundtrack to The Horse Whisperer), John Mayall and Bonnie Raitt -- a fine guitarist in her own right who has called Smither her own Eric Clapton. There is no brief introduction for Ramblin' Jack Elliott, but pick a modern music icon at random from the air, and odds are you'll find his fingerprints all over it. Woody Guthrie? Elliott's mentor. Dylan? His mentee. Jagger? He inspired the little punk to go out and buy his first guitar. That will have to do for now.

Now, sit these four in a row on stage in front of an intimate crowd, give them the freedom to pick and swap songs from their collective wealth of material and a leisurely hour-and-a-half to kill, and it shouldn't take a musicologist to foresee something truly special about to happen. It did.

Despite his seniority (and near mythic status), Elliott only claimed the spotlight when he was on deck for a song. With just a couple of exceptions, the format called for each man to perform a song as it was his turn in line. The other three would either strum along, join in for a chorus or alternate verse, or simply listen as attentively as the audience. Breaks between songs were filled with anecdotes which were often as memorable as the songs themselves, particularly Russell's story about his cab-driving days and passing on a song to a famous fare. Years later, Grateful Dead lyricist Robert Hunter would introduce Russell's "Gallo del Cielo" as a song he learned from a cabbie in Jamaica, Queens.

Russell's own take on "Gallo," arguably the most beautiful and heartwrenching song ever written about a cockfight, drew one of the strongest responses of the evening and seemed an early contender for the show's finest moment. As it turned out, such distinctions were impossible, as was any attempt to pick favorites out of the foursome. On the haunting, lonesome "South Coast," Elliott's dry voice was as familiar and soothing as the crackling embers of a slow-dying fire. Alvin's "California Snow" neatly tied together themes of divorce, mid-life crisis ("Just trying to make a living/an old man of thirty-nine") and the deceptive, siren cry of the American dream. And with "Winsome Smile," Smither turned a cryptic fortune cookie message ("Your winsome smile will be your protection") into a bitingly funny wake-up call for the lovesick enamored with their own melancholy: "I think happiness would fill your head with misery."

As hard it was to single out individual performers, a couple of excellent ensemble numbers did stand apart. The first was Alvin and Russell's "Out in California," which captured the same self-pity Smither addressed in "Winsome Smile" with equally painful clarity: "I'm sitting here drinking in the last bar on earth/and out in California, she's taking off her tight red skirt." Ouch. After that, Elliott and Russell's light-hearted stumble through the half-spoken "Cup of Coffee," was a refreshing respite. Johnny Cash covered the song, a comic skit about mixing too much liquor with a quick cup of Joe, on his delightful but obscure late-Sixties novelty album Everybody Loves a Nut. Russell acknowledged the missing monster with a dead-on Cash impersonation throughout the number.

If there was any room for improvement tonight, it was the absence of a female voice to balance the slight he-man-woman-haters'-club vibe that would rear its head from time-to-time (such as when all four joined in for the shotgun fantasy bitter end of "Out in California.") But that's just the blues talking, spoken bluntly but true to the form's deep, earthy roots. Maybe if the Monsters of Folk gather again next year (tonight was the second to last night on the month-long tour), other troubadours might take a seat in the lineup. But for now, tonight's show was a welcome refresher course in the stark power of a genuinely great song -- and the awesome swath of destruction left in the wake of four quiet giants tossing around such treasures with reckless, carefree abandon.

RICHARD SKANSE