You
know, the quieter Chris Whitley speaks and the softer he plays, the louder he
seems. I’ve seen Whitley a number of times. He is mesmerizing. Shyly yet
intently perched at the edge of the crowd, behind the throb of a lone
kick-drum, he drags guttural tones from a rusty Dobro tuned so abstractly it
could only make sense to him.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย He is shy, enigmatic, mythical, and
when he’s on stage, anything else in the room ceases to matter. Here is an
artist who embodies raw energy and a stripped-down delivery that exposes the
bones of his ragged soul. Whitley’s narcotic whisper is a flickering scream
from his frail frame.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย During a recent telephone interview,
Whitley tends to shrug off questions with “I don’t know,” not because he’s
evasive, but because there is simply no pretense in his personality or his
music. Though a magnetic stage presence, Whitley tries to de-emphasize himself,
extracting himself from the proceedings.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Bluesy, folksy, and at the same time
highly unconventional, Whitley’s songs are loneliness and mortality
personified. His new CD, Hotel Vast
Horizon, opens without fanfare, only the shuffling of shifting musicians
and the flint-click of a cigarette lighter. On this album, Whitley employs
acoustic bass and drums beneath his woven meanderings and yet still manages to
come off minimal and stark.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย “I wanted to make something that was
agitated and intense, without being loud or bombastic,” he says. “I was trying
to be more pointed. I wanted to make a record that was kinda fresh and modern
somehow, without it being about the gear we used. I wanted it to be in the
simplicity of the lyrics.”
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Even Whitley can be oblivious to his
unconventional song structures.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย “Some people just hear it at face
value of the songs,” he says. “I think as a musician I overlook that sometimes.
I mean, it’s not really traditional, like country forms of songwriting or
something. It’s not typical. It’s just my songwriting.”
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Hotel Vast Horizon is so
beautifully bare that Whitley’s whispered words are virtually all that’s there,
offering little solace in their beguiling, bleak honesty. “I come from far away
/ anywhere I am is home / if you could make me stay / you’d only always be
alone” he sings on “Assassin Song.” Instrumentally, the band is bare-boned and
reverent, playing so quietly at times you can hear the air in the room.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Whitley seems to be in an acoustic
state of mind, and plans to record another EP this summer. “Something even more
visceral for the fans,” he says. Whitley has rocked hard and wailed a cappella,
vacillating between apparent styles of roots rock. Whether it’s dirt-floor
acoustic, or break-neck slide raunch, the passion remains. Chris Whitley always rocks.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย “I think because it’s quiet, some
people see it as being a passive thing,” he says. “But it’s not passive. If you play electric
guitar, people think you’re rockin’ out. I guess I do, too.”
Chris Whitley plays Friday,
May, 23, at Nietzches, 248 Allen Street, Buffalo, at 8 p.m. Tix $10 to $12.
18+. 716-886-8539.
This article appears in May 21-27, 2003.
