The
arrhythmic chimes of the elevator sounded like church bells with a bad
regulator. I stood inside, silently surveying my overnight neighbors as we
descended upon the lobby and off to what had brought us to town in the first
place. I was joined by an Asian family whose teenage son appeared to be in
charge. The father was diminutive; I could see the top of his head where it
appeared a bucket of bleach had been dropped, leaving a stark large spot of
orange-tinted white.
A final
chime announced our arrival in the lobby. The pungency of chlorine signaled the
pool was near. Indeed, a number of potbellied elementary-aged kids ran across
the ceramic tile, wet feet smacking and leaving small damp prints. Around the
corner, tables hosted a sampling of unappealing pizzas and the potbellied
parents of the children racing back and forth from the pool.
I moved
past this and the counter, waving to the manager on duty, a middle eastern man
whose name had been simplified to Ray and carrying the complimentary bottle of
water he’d gifted me upon check in a half-hour prior. From there I moved
through the automatic sliding doors out into the warm September night on my way
downtown.
The
band Sloan first appeared on my radar at the end of the 1990s after my
obsession with fellow Canadians, The Tragically Hip had fostered a scavenger
hunt for other secrets held north of the border. Their brand of power pop was
right at home with my affection for Cheap Trick, Nick Lowe, Dwight Twilley and
the Knack. Despite being more radio friendly than The Hip and less quirky than
the Rheostatics, Sloan remained even more obscure in my part of the world.
Three Links is a
small room in Deep Ellum that caters to the punk crowd. There are punk elements
to Sloan’s music, but the patrons looked nothing like the leather-clad, pierced
and inked staff that was nonetheless welcoming. There was a charm to the room
and as I stated at the time, intimate was going to be an understatement. This
was confirmed when Jay Ferguson casually walked through the gathering crowd,
out the front door and to the band’s bus.
Preshow
banter is typical, and when you’re in Texas seeing a band from Canada (not
called Rush) most of the crowd feels compelled to swap “how I got here”
stories. A salesman from Lubbock had outdistanced me by an hour and had been
pestering the band via social media for years to visit Texas again. He’d
discovered the band through a Borders listening station when Navy Blues
came out in 2005.
At
nine, the band reentered the room without any pretension—or security—weaving
its way through the crowd which was mostly facing the opposite way
Promoting
their latest album, 12, the band incorporated
the coolest walk-on music I can
recall (link). My vantage point was against the wall and included a barstool a
short distance from Jay Ferguson and
his black and white Rickenbacker, denim jacket and flat top cap on his shaggy
hair. Chris Murphy was
center stage in a tattered black leather jacket; to the far right was Patrick Pentland in
black; a series of low-slung Les Pauls with Andrew Scott behind,
wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates hat and black shirt.
The
band led off the night with “Spin Our Wheels” a new
song that offers a three-and-a-half minute encapsulation of the band—soaring
guitars, spot-on harmonies that is impossible to stand still through. From
there it was a two-set back and forth through the twelve-album catalog during
which each band member took turns at lead vocals.
Chris
addressed the crowd between songs—again, informal and unpretentious with a
heavy sprinkling of good humor. Jay, ageless and resembling David Spade (he’s
only marginally taller than his Hiwatt stack), played the rhythm parts while
Patrick—cultivating a less frail Leland Sklar middle
age look--did most of the lead guitar playing. Andrew was a violent time
keeper; his tall frame hunched over a beautiful three-piece Blue Pearl Ludwig
drum set from the 1960s which he hammered mercilessly while wearing a look of
contempt. What is it about grim Canadian drummers? (See also: Peart, Neal and
Fay, Johnny)
When
Andrew sang lead—no “500 Up” but a great version of the poppy yet lyrically
grim “People of the Sky”—he
played a Les Paul Junior double-cutaway. Jay switched to bass and Chris took
over the drums—bringing a lighter, but no less ferocious approach.
It was
nearly midnight when Sloan left the stage that night after delivering twenty-six
songs. My eyes were tired, but I would not have minded another dozen songs. I
bought a t-shirt and exited into the cool night, certain I’d seen something special.
I
stopped at the Fuzzy’s next
door and ordered dinner to take back to the hotel. On the way back to my car, I
passed in front of the band’s bus. Leaning against the front of it was Andrew
Scott, who had changed clothes save for his baseball cap. He was cooling off
and contemplating a cigarette when I convinced myself to say something. With
swarms of people still passing on both sides of the street, I think I caught
him off guard by pausing to speak. I didn’t want it to come off as an ambush;
no selfie or autograph request, just congratulations on a great show and expression of gratitude for making it all the way to Dallas.
It may
seem blasphemous to disciples of Twice Removed or One Chord to Another,
but 12 is as good as anything this band has ever released. And with ten
of the twelve tracks played between the two sets, we were given a large dose.
With
Rush having packed it in after forty years and the untimely demise of The Hip,
my favorite current band spot has been vacant for a couple of years. After
finally getting the opportunity to see Sloan, that might have changed.
Certainly the obsession has been strong since.
