William Elliott Whitmore Live!

William Elliott Whitmore
Subterranean, Chicago
Tuesday, March 14, 2007

William Elliott Whitmore has made Chicago a second home (his first is Montrose, Iowa) of sorts since the release of his third full-length, Song Of The Blackbird (Southern), playing our city three times in the last six months alone. Over exposure? Hardly. Not when you’re this good.

Sandwiched between headliners Red Sparrowes and local openers Home Recording Project (whose eight-minute segments of droning noise took serious liberty with the word “music”), Whitmore’s set initially seemed destined to be ruined by chatty audience members at a packed Subterranean. Because his shows are just the man, a mic, and an acoustic guitar or banjo (though members of Red Sparrowes joined him for a few tunes), crowd noise can easily sabotage his performance, but parts of this particular audience (that’s you Mr. Bald Green Soccer Jersey Guy) seemed particularly intent on hosting their own social hour. “Lift My Jug,” which kicked off the set, lacked its usual punch, and Whitmore’s banjo on “Dry” was relegated powerless thanks in large part to just a small cell of people at the very back of the room.

This, of course, wasn’t Whitmore’s fault. He can’t choose the crowd, especially as an opener. All he could do was try to win them over. And he did. During the third song, “Rest His Soul,” the talk and laughter gradually diminished as people began to notice the song’s swaying melody and the haggard, soulful voice delivering it. By the very next song, “Midnight,” the crowd was stomping in unison with Whitmore, rattling the floorboards from the stage all the way to the bar at the rear.

It only makes sense this happened because it’s so easy to like Whitmore once you’ve seen him live. Unassuming (sincerely appreciative of applause; even more so of free drinks handed to him by fans), modest (after “The Chariot” the singer-songwriter compared his harmonica playing to that of Bob Dylan, “where you just kind of blow into it”), and funny (“Johnny Law” was Whitmore’s country boy “Fuck The Police”). But the primary reason it’s so easy to like Whitmore is his music, a folksy blend of rural blues and country whose roots are firmly planted in the muddy banks of the Mississippi River that Whitmore calls home. Squeezing 11 songs into the abbreviated middle-of-the-bill slot, it was impressive only “Burn My Body” fizzled, mostly because its mellowness clashed with the energy built before it.

But he made up for lost momentum by closing his night with “Black Iowa Dirt,” a song from his collaboration album with Erase Errata vocalist Jenny Hoyston, Hallways Of Always. This writer tagged that album number one on his year-ending-2006 list and Song Of The Blackbird number five but doubted my wisdom when I learned I was the only writer, of 1,500, to vote for either record in Village Voice‘s annual “Pazz And Jop Critics Poll.” Maybe I overvalued each album. Or maybe I’m biased because Whitmore hails from my native Iowa. Maybe I’m full of shit. Whitmore’s Subterranean performance, though, proved that it’s 1,499 other critics, not me, who are full of shit.

– Trevor Fisher

Category: Live Reviews, Weekly