Perhaps the only thing that makes me happier than having a Chris Mills show on the calendar is actually seeing Chris Mills. While the release of the Wall to Wall Sessions yielded a massive tour which allowed me to see him play an admittedly ridiculous 17 times that year, last year’s Living in the Aftermath hasn’t offered me the same opportunity. In fact, I only saw him once in ’08 and it has been almost a year since he played the basement as part of the shortest CD release tour ever. If my shows/year average is going to continue to hover around one, I guess it’s a good thing that this one was so good.
We hadn’t been in the door more than five minutes when he handed me the set list and asked if it was OK. It was heavy on the last two records, but once I saw “The Silver Line” and “All You Ever Do” on there I was happy. “What’s this?” I questioned, pointing to “False Moustache.” When he replied it was a new song I declared the list brilliant and handed it back. The mellow ballad didn’t really grab me on first listen, but then again neither did about half the songs on The Silver Line and I now consider it one of two perfect records ever recorded (Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks being the other).
Not that I actually have a list, but that record’s title track is probably one of the five greatest songs ever written. An absurdly catchy melody paired with achingly smart lyrics about the connection between true lovers, “The Silver Line” positively sparkled tonight. So good in fact that I had one of those moments usually associated with Jon Dee Graham’s “Airplane.” It may sound silly, but it was so awesome it almost made me cry. And Gina says I’m not emotional, pshaw. Throughout the set Chris demonstrated his usual boundless stage energy, jumping around so much that some sort of disaster seemed inevitable (though unlike the Wrens’ Kevin Whelan who displays a similar energy, I’ve never seen Chris actually hurt himself or break anything), and the smile never left his face.
Of course, he had us smiling too. Once with a tale of a Norwegian horoscope reading, too long to retell here, but the punch line had to do with a teen telling him she was a virgin at an inopportune moment. The second was a joke his dad had found on the internet to tell to the neighbor kids. There was a slight pause after the joke “what did one snowman say to the other?” “do you smell carrots?” before we laughed, which proved we probably weren’t as quick as the seven year olds it was originally told too.
The band had only had time for one practice before this show. Usually that would be enough, but other than omnipresent bassist Ryan Hembrey, Chris hasn’t played with many of these people since the year I saw him 17 times. There were a few suspect moments, but for the most part you never would have guessed, that’s how good this band is. It was fantastic to see the truly amazing Fred Lonberg-Holm on cello and the talented Dave Max Crawford on trumpet and keys. And of course the ever smiling Gerald Dowd makes the world a better place every time I see him. The rhythm section pulled double duty tonight also playing behind opener Nora O’Connor. One of Chicago’s most beautiful female voices, her songs can occasionally be a little sleepy, but the occasional winner like “Up Shit Creek Again” is always enough to keep me entertained. Well, that and watching guitarist Scott Ligon’s Beatles hair flop back and forth.
Yep, it was a pretty good night. Now if I could only figure out how to have more of them.
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