By Kath Hansen and Michael McCall

Live Reviews

Most people credit the Bee Gees with inventing disco music. This may be true, but before there was there was KC and the Sunshine Band. Led by Harry “KC” Casey, the group released an unstoppable string of hits in the mid-’70s; they had tons of imitators and spawned a genre of dance music that still draws from their endless well of lyrical repetition, funky beats and silly outfits. Madonna, for one, probably listened to a lot of KC and the Sunshine Band.

With the death of disco, by the early ’80s KC and the Sunshine Band were pretty much washed up. After he spent most of the decade recovering from a bad car wreck, a worse drug problem, and the death of his father, KC detected the beginnings of a ’70s revival in 1989 and began touring again. This is ultimately what brought him to the Music City Mix Factory’s Zoo a couple of weeks ago. He was there in part to make a comeback with new material—but he was also cashing in on the ’70s revival currently raging across dance floors nationwide.

The Zoo was packed with people mostly in their early 20s, many of whom looked too young to be truly enjoying ’70s nostalgia. But the great thing about a cultural revival is that you didn’t have to be there the first time around to participate in the current wave. If you were too young to remember Bicentennial quarters and Farrah Fawcett posters, that’s OK—you can still go down to Retro Pieces, buy some pink satin pants, a polyester print shirt and some platforms.

As I observed the crowd around me, I couldn’t help wondering where the group’s roadies and techs were. I kept expecting some longhaired guys to come out and test instruments, tape things to the floor, and yell “Check, check” into the microphone. As it turned out, there was no need for guitars and drums, because THERE WAS NO BAND!

KC and the Sunshine Band turned out to be just KC and two energetic female backup singers, dancing aerobically and warbling into wireless mics to crappy sounding backing tapes. Holy Bait and Switch! I thought that, after the first song, I’d see a mass exodus to the ticket booth for refunds aplenty, but nobody left. People seemed content to keep on dancing. It seemed as though the need for some sort of time tunnel back to the ’70s outweighed the need for purism.

But I felt misled—if the sign says “KC and the Sunshine Band,” there should be a band. They bill themselves as such at all their dates, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only person who felt suckered.

Despite the unpleasant feeling of being trapped at a Japanese Amway convention, it was damn near impossible to keep from shaking your booty. The groove in songs like “That’s the Way I Like It” and “Keep It Comin’ Love” were still amazingly fresh—which explains why there was such a large crowd for a band most people had probably thought didn’t exist anymore. But poor KC. His 44-year-old booty was all shook out; he was out of breath after even the most anemic dance moves. He still had a little bit of that distinctive, nasally white-boy voice left, though, and he did use it (although, after all the other trickery going on, I was surprised he wasn’t lip-synching).

KC and his backup singers “played” all their hits, from “Get Down Tonight” to “I’m Your Boogie Man” to the dreamy disco ballads “Are You Ready” and “Please Don’t Go.” Sung over bad karaoke tapes, the songs all suffered like a plant in need of water, but they still held up heroically to such abuse—it’s tough to kill a good dance song.

The highlight of the show was just plain surreal. Many people in the audience must have been fans of the ’70s TV dance show Dance Fever, because when KC announced that the show’s hosts, Denny Terrio and Motion, were going to join him onstage, the crowd erupted into screams of delight. Maybe this crowd wasn’t so young, after all.

The disappointment at not seeing a real Sunshine Band playing KC’s songs the way they were meant to be played—loud, funky, and with a living horn section—was pretty much canceled out by the overwhelming feeling of carefree fun and sexual recklessness his songs induced. Whether people were there for a glittery flashback or for a peek inside the doorway of disco, KC proved that recycling isn’t just for garbage, and that some cheese ages particularly well.

As means of an introduction, Guy Clark looked across the Bluebird Cafe stage at a couple of old friends and said, “The three of us haven’t been in one place standing up in 20 years.” Townes Van Zandt’s gaunt, lanky frame was folded into in an upright wooden chair between Clark and a guitar-toting, harmonica-wearing Steve Earle. As the laughter and applause started to die, Van Zandt leaned into the mic and added, “I’m not standing,” then beamed an ornery grin.

Minutes earlier, the trio wandered onstage, without fanfare, without need for an ornate introduction—not for a show that had sold out within a day of the Bluebird mailing out its monthly schedule. When Clark said, “I guess everybody knows why we’re here,” he was referring to the evening’s charity, the Interfaith Dental Clinic, and to author Joyce Maynard, who recently compiled a companion CD to her new novel, Where Love Goes. The CD collects music and musicians that inspired Maynard as she wrote the book, and it features songs by Clark (“Baby Took a Limo to Memphis”), Earle (“Goodbye”) and Van Zandt (in a new duet with Jonell Mosser on his classic “If I Needed You”). Among the others featured on the 19-song CD are Gail Davies, Jim Lauderdale, Kieran Kane, Kevin Welch, Kim Richey, Nanci Griffith and Todd Snider. Maynard put together the Sept. 13 Bluebird benefit to celebrate the publication of her book and the release of the nonprofit CD.

Despite what Clark said, however, that’s not why people were there. Fans huddled into the crowded club for the rare opportunity to catch three of the best of the current generation of American songwriters, hard-bitten, romantic Texan division. And no matter how high the expectations may have been, the night exceeded them.

Maybe the three were inspired by each other’s presence; maybe they were buoyed by the fact that each is experiencing an upswing, either professional or personal; or maybe they were spurred by the healthy competition that passes between friends who are good at what they do. For whatever reason, they performed much longer than expected, with two sets and nearly four hours of music. And they each sounded at the top of their form—by turns intense, wry or starkly emotional, and always soulful and carved to the bone.

In between songs, the mood was lighthearted, but with a sardonic edge. Each singer told ribald stories or explained the origins of particular songs, many of them with a comic twist. All three men share a boldly honest, starkly personal style, and a knack for powerful stories set to slyly memorable, guitar-based melodies. Beyond that, however, their performance last Thursday also proved how different they are from each other. Van Zandt’s songs are more blues-based, often feature harder rhythms and occasionally forgo catchy choruses. Clark prefers infectiously stark, finger-picked guitar figures that frame his vacuum-tight songs with somber weightiness or spry energy. Earle occasionally draws on the melodic style of both, while bringing in a fiercer, more rock-edged rhythm on his up-tempo tunes. His “My Old Friend the Blues” is as wistful as Clark’s “Immigrant Eyes,” his “Goodbye” as severely emotional as Van Zandt’s “If I Needed You.” But on “Guitar Town” or “Devil’s Right Hand” he draws on a brasher roots-rock style of his own that has gone on to influence a truckload of young singer-songwriters in the ’90s.

Clark’s choices included several songs from his latest album, the stunning Dublin Blues, including the title song, “The Randall Knife,” “The Cape,” “Black Diamond Strings” and “Baby Took a Limo to Memphis” (in which he told the colorful, true details behind the song while his wife, Susannah, laughed loudly at a table in front of him). Clark invited Emmylou Harris to help out with “Immigrant Eyes.” She stayed for the bulk of the show, helping out with harmony on several songs, including a breathtaking duet with Earle on “Goodbye,” a song from his recent disc that will also be featured in a different version on Harris’ new album, Wrecking Ball. Earle lauded her presence, adding, “it seriously dilutes the ugly up here.”

Van Zandt, in remarkably high spirits throughout, proved ferociously focused when singing and hilariously funny when telling stories. His selections included “Pancho and Lefty,” “Ain’t Leaving Your Love,” “The Hole,” “Marie,” “Dollar Bill Blues” and “Tecumseh Valley,” as well as a poignant duet with Jonell Mosser on “If I Needed You.” His stories included one about losing a gold tooth to a friend in a card game: After the singer took several strong belts of Southern Comfort, the guy yanked the tooth, only to discover he had extracted the wrong one. Another story involved his days as a roommate of Guy Clark’s above the old Bishop’s Corner on West End Avenue. Overrun by mice, they spent an evening catching the rodents in a paper bag. They took them downstairs to the bar to show their catch and wound up dumping them on a pool table. They then watched the mice scurry and squeal, especially as the balls chased them into the holes and chambers of the pool table. After one longwinded story, Van Zandt apologized for talking so much and warned everyone to stop him if he broke into a version of “Old Shep.”

Earle, besides the songs mentioned, performed “Mercenary Song,” “I Ain’t Ever Satisfied,” “Tom Ames’ Prayer,” “Guitar Town” and “Copperhead Road.” He also introduced a new one, “Ellis Unit One,” about a death-row block in a Texas prison. “This one ain’t quite dry yet,” he said before starting, then proved it by stumbling over the intro. Clark, who had only heard the song once, stepped in to remind him of his chords—a gesture that underscored the respect the men onstage shared for each other. (Earlier, after a song, Clark had walked over and kissed the younger man’s guitar, saying, “I love Steve Earle.”)

The songs of Clark, Earle and Van Zandt aren’t about youth or escapism. They’re about responsibilities and consequences, about struggle and pain, about longing and perseverance, about getting lost and, sometimes, finding a way back. As with the characters in Maynard’s book, they’re songs about adults who know what love is and what it’s like to feel it slip away, and how disappointment and blame are slippery phenomena. Or, as Clark put it, “You know what they say. If you want good pearls, they’re going to cost you.” As far as songs go, the pearls were shining this Wednesday night.

To order a copy of the Where Love Goes CD, send $6.98 for postage and handling to P.O. Box 1135, Keene, N.H. 03431, or call 1-800-501-9919.

To order a copy of the Where Love Goes CD, send $6.98 for postage and handling to P.O. Box 1135, Keene, N.H. 03431, or call 1-800-501-9919.