Live Report: Jimmie Dale Gilmore

“I’m going to try to do some surprises tonight,” said Jimmie Dale
Gilmore with a sheepish smile at the beginning of his first stop on
his solo tour of the East Coast. The announcement was answered by
scattered laughter from the crowd — surely everyone crammed into
the tiny Mercury Lounge was already in on the lean, silver-haired
Texan’s secret before he even stepped on stage. Indeed why, for a
solo show, were there three mics and three chairs on stage? And so
many guitar cases? And the biggest give-away of all, as thrilling
as the anticipation surrounding a childhood Christmas eve, was that
big wood saw leaning casually against one of the chairs. Either
Gilmore was going to get medieval on the stage, or the rest of the
“more a legend than a band” Flatlanders — Joe Ely, Butch Hancock,
Steve Wesson and Tony Pearson — were waiting in the wings.

The Flatlanders reunion, which came midway through Gilmore’s set
and lasted a too-short three songs (the whole concert only lasted
an hour), had been rumored for weeks. The band, after all, would be
in town taping “South Wind of Summer,” their contribution to the
Horse Whisperer soundtrack and first joint collaboration
in twenty-six years, for The Late Show with David
Letterman the same day as Gilmore’s show. Indeed, had the
Flatlanders not come through, Gilmore would probably have had to
turn water into wine in order to appease the polite but obviously
fervent audience.

Or perhaps not. From start to finish, Gilmore exuded an easy
charm that could have tamed a twister. It had something to do with
his relaxed, self-effacing humor: “The problem with doing these
solo gigs is playing the solos,” he announced during a bridge to
one song, which he fumbled. “Sort of a musical senior moment
there.” It had something more to do with his canny song selection:
mostly covers, mostly written by New York songwriters — Bob Dylan,
Pete Seeger and Dave Van Ronk. And most of all, a lot to do with
his voice — a beautiful and reedy vibrato, halfway between Willie
Nelson and something even higher.

It’s a lonesome whippoorwill of a voice that practically begs
for sorrowful songs, and Gilmore gave it free rein with a
predominately mournful set of stripped down, folky blues. Of the
first five songs, which started with the shuffling blues of Van
Ronk’s “Bad Dream Blues” (“If you don’t want me, please don’t let
me know”) and Dylan’s “Tomorrow is a Long Time” (“If only she was
lying by me/then I’d lie in my bed again”), the least-bleak
offering was Townes Van Zandt’s world-weary “No Lonesome Tune,”
which ain’t no happy ditty itself. “There’s just something about
sad songs,” noted Gilmore as he tinkered with his tuning, “They
make people happy.”

Gilmore followed Van Zandt’s song with the convoluted — and
significantly more upbeat — wordplay of Hancock’s “My Mind’s Got a
Mind of It’s Own,” with Hancock joining him on stage to blow harp,
play a guitar solo and take over on the second verse. The remaining
three Flatlanders — surprise! — walked on stage directly after
that song, and all hints, allegations and rumors became reality as
Gilmore, Hancock and Ely traded verses and harmonized through A.P.
Carter’s classic “Hello Stranger,” Hancock’s lovely “Bluebird” and
Gilmore’s signature tune, “Dallas.” As thrilling as it was to hear
these three singing in unison, Wesson (saw) and Pearson (mandolin)
proved themselves to be just as vital to the Flatlander’s achingly
beautiful sound.

Such transcendent moments rarely last, however, and promptly
after “Dallas,” the reunion was over and Gilmore was left with the
unenviable task of carrying on alone in the afterglow. But just as
he had confidently stood his ground against the wave of expectation
prior to the Flatlanders arrival, so too did he remain self-assured
in their wake. He had reason to be comfortable, knowing he still
held two aces up his sleeve: the set closing, burning blues of
Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “Black Snake Moan” and David Halley’s “Rain
Just Falls,” an overlooked jewel from Gilmore’s first solo album,
1988’s Fair and Square and possibly the saddest song of
the night . “It ain’t on your account that I’m leaving/If I’m
leaving/Rain don’t fall for the flowers/If it’s falling/Rain just
falls,” he sang to the hushed, enraptured crowd, his voice
fluttering as high over their heads as the haunting warble from
Wesson’s saw. Then, quietly, it fell like a goose feather … and
as quickly as the Flatlanders had left, so too did he.