Ron
Sexsmith
River to River Festival
Battery Park – Clinton Castle
July 12, 2007
Written by Julia Sirmons
Photographed by Amy Davidson
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As I dashed toward the slowly
setting sun in Battery Park – late, due to
one of those horrible trips on the 4 train that
can only happen in the dead, stifling heat of summer
– couples and families streamed off onto different
paths, the water glistened under the sunlight, and
Ron Sexsmith’s voice was telling me it was
all going to be alright. His dulcet tones immediately
started to stitch up my raveled sleeve of care.
Everything was going to be OK, I told myself, slowing
down and shaking off the subway grime.
Walking into the well-protected
interior of the Castle Clinton monument –
there were uniformed guards standing in almost every
corner – I noticed Sexsmith’s band retreating
from the bandstand. Looking at the crowd, the presence
of the guards seemed comically superfluous. They
were a surprisingly diverse cross-section of city
denizens, representing almost every age, race, and
sartorial persuasion. They sat quietly, content,
soaking in the music and the gorgeous summer evening.
Watching couples huddled close together and fathers
hoisting their children upon their shoulders, all
of them silently mouthing the lyrics to every song,
it was impossible not to feel a little warm and
gooey inside.
Alone on the bandstand, Sexsmith
shuffled to the mic, guitar in hand, and asked if
it was OK if he sang some songs on his own. The
crowd responded with a mellow but ardent warmth.
Sexsmith explained that he’d be singing songs
that had been requested via email. “It’s
great,” he quipped gently. “You can
get email on the Internet these days.”
The first song of his solo mini-set
was the lovely and poignant “Words We Never
Use,” a heartbreaking tune about the little
ways couples fail to communicate. The second, “Pretty
Little Cemetery,” a sweet, plaintive account
of walking among tombstones with his family, is
one of the most beautiful songs on the subject of
memento mori, along with fellow Canadian Rufus Wainwright’s
gorgeously sad “In A Graveyard.” Both
“Words” and “Cemetery” were
perfectly suited to the sparse yet elegant arrangement
of Sexsmith’s passionate yet gentle voice
and his skillful work on the acoustic guitar.
Afterwards, the band – who
clearly get a huge kick out of playing together
and with Sexsmith – grinned as they came back
on stage for a rollicking, bluesy rendition of “Strawberry
Blonde,” an evocative song about the lush
details, sweet sadness, and naïveté
of that first summer crush.
Though the crowd went wild for
just about every song on the set list, Sexsmith
seemed mildly disappointed with a few snafus. He
forgot the lyrics to one song and decided to start
over. “If it had been the second verse, I’d
have kept going,” he said. He got a little
shaken on a second tune, pausing for a moment then
announcing, pleasantly surprised, “I thought
I’d messed it up, but I didn’t.”
He apologized for the “clumsy show,”
saying, “I feel like the Nutty Professor.”
In spite of his own protestations,
Sexsmith managed to keep the crowd on his side with
his extraordinary voice – capable of both
rich vibrato and tender, insistent crooning –
which was in fine form, along with his clever, gently
sardonic stage patter. Once, in between songs, an
audience member asked the guitarist if he was playing
a mandolin. The guitarist somewhat sheepishly confessed
that it was only a 12-string guitar. “ It
gives him the illusion that he can play the mandolin,”
Sexsmith added, not missing a beat.
Any questions of Nutty Professor-dom
were put firmly to rest with Sexsmith’s sublime
rendition of his 1994 song “Secret Heart.”
Before beginning, he mentioned that Toronto native
Leslie Feist had covered the song on her critically
acclaimed 2004 album Let It Die. Praising her rendition,
Sexsmith remarked that “now everyone thinks
that she wrote it, but actually I did.” There
was no trace of rancor or bitterness in this comment,
only good-natured amusement.
And then, almost as if slipping
into a custom-tailored jacket, Sexsmith broke into
“Secret Heart.” A perfect little melody
with beautifully crafted lyrics, the song is kind
of like a wiser, gentler “You’re Gonna
Lose That Girl.” Sexsmith sang the first verse
alone with his guitar. The band snuck in softly
after the chorus, practically whispering the gorgeous
vocal harmonies, and gradually building up to an
instrumental arrangement that was almost symphonic
in its elegant and meticulous perfection.
This perfection continued into
the encore, when Sexsmith treated the audience to
two songs perfect for the time and place. The first
was “Former Glory,” a song Sexsmith
said he wrote jointly for his young daughter and
for the post-9/11 lower Manhattan. Even after so
many years, sitting so close to the edge of the
island as Sexsmith’s soft, soothing warble
promised “it will burn brighter than you ever
dreamed,” many eyes in the crowd welled up.
Sexsmith ended the evening with
an exquisite rendition of “There’s A
Rhythm,” sending the crowd back into the concrete
jungle with his trademark wizened optimism. This
pensive and soulful troubadour, who’s seen
all the bad things life can bring but still has
hope that it’s all worth it in the end, buoyed
us up with his songs. It was going to be OK. The
rhythm would move us forward, even if the 4 couldn’t.
For more about Ron Sexsmith:http://www.ronsexsmith.com/
and http://www.myspace.com/ronsexsmith
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