Chris Whitley

at the Middle East Cafe
by Fritz Kafka

Nothing bums me out more than seeing a lame show put on by someone whose recorded material rocks my freakin’ brain. Chris Whitley‘s Din of Ecstasy (Columbia) is, in my opinion, one of the best discs that I’ve yet reviewed for this magazine. Unfortunately, I’m also of the opinion that his live show was among the worst I’ve seen in recent months. Too bad. He’s one hell of a songwriter and an even better guitarist. It seems he suffers from J. Mascis syndrome: His recording is fucking brilliant but his live sound, a characterless wall of fuzz and feedback, is so loud that you can’t tell what he’s playing, let alone whether or not it’s any good.

Chris Whitley and company hit the stage with a deafening roar. Two songs later, I found myself roaringly deaf so I said fuck this down-front, center-stage shit and moved back to the bar. I tore up some napkins to stuff in my ears and concentrated hard on trying to match the godawful noise I was hearing to the incredible music I’d been listening to at home all week. It wasn’t happening. Even the subtle tune “Know,” my favorite song from Din of Ecstasy, sounded like United flight 666 coming in for a landing. I moved farther back to see if distance from the stage would help clarify the sound. I tried standing on the landing halfway up the stairs. Finally I gave up and hunched over my drink at an empty table.

Maybe I take this music stuff too seriously. It could be that the golden age of guitar deities has passed for guys like me who still want to sacrifice virgins to graven idols who couldn’t give a shit. Or it could be that I’m worried of further damaging my credibility by trying to call up Chris Whitley and disappointedly begging him to please explain to me why he didn’t live up to my expectations. But no explanation will change the fact that Jimmy Page is about 400 years old, Pete Townsend has gone deaf, Frank Zappa is dead, and there are young guitarists out there adrift without a modern-day role model.