I knew it was going to be a good night when I found a seat at The Hotel Utah and directly across from me was an older gentleman with ash-white hair to his shoulders covered by a knitted cap, reading a well-worn book through thick-rimmed, black spectacles and drinking a solitary beer—his only companion a tenderly loved guitar; truly a beach-bohemian intellectual. I would come to learn his name is Steve and he’s a friend of Kelley Stoltz (but that’s neither here nor there at this time). Ah, another day another night of blessed indie music at The Hotel Utah in sensory San Francisco.
To start us off, here’s a video of Barrett Johnson singing 4a.m. Blues (note the mustachioed gentleman as the camera swings around: that’s Billy Kernkamp).
Barrett Johnson looks like an Irish boxer from the 1920s, but sings about matters of the heart with his eyes closed; quite an alluring and unexpected contradiction. Although his music is a tad sedate when piped into your earphones, it takes on an entirely new dimension when performed in front of you (quite literally in your lap at The Utah): his voice is heavy with his lyrics but not weighed down by them and the overall effect of his music is somewhat akin to waves lapping at a shore, curling in on themselves and masking their power with a soothing sense of peace. Playing songs from his album In Case I Went Missing (which sports some esoterically serene artwork)—including my favorite, It’s Not Your Fault—his set was short and his demure stage presence belied the fact that he was obviously in command of every aspect of his music, despite the perpetual exchange of accompanying musicians onstage. Perhaps it was my mind blown rotten with music research, but Johnson kicked off a night in which I was incessantly reminded of a Kris Kristofferson lyric from the song The Last Thing to Go:
Love is the last thing to go
Love is the reason
We happened at all
And it paid for
All the damage we done
And it bought us
The freedom to fall into grace
On our way to our place in the sun.
Because the love just kept on coming. The entire night felt like an intimate gathering of friends instead of the grouping of paying customers. I’ve attended shows where the musicians were friendly with each other, but on this night the entire hotel was ripe with the spirit of brotherly love. From the friendly black Labrador who accompanied his owner at the bar, to the mixed bag of talented musicians with whom Barrett Johnson and Billy Kernkamp jovially socialized before their sets. As Billy Kernkamp, a fellow Orange Countian on tour with Johnson, said “Barrett is the Matt [Damon] to my Ben Affleck;” yes, it’s an odd expression of hetero man-love but an expression of it nonetheless. He also complimented the San Francisco audience on its general attactiveness which, apparently, helps to ease the sufferings of the road. Why thank you, Billy. In return, may I add that Kerkamp gently man-handled his guitar with verve and grace looking debonair in a cognac cardigan, dark denim, and bitchin’ boots. And despite being a tall and imposing gentleman, this is a man who can hit his high notes (much to my delighted surpirse). This man is pure Americana: looks and sound. Get yourselves a slice of sweet home-cooked apple pie by viewing his MYSPACE.
As for the third act of the night, I feel like Quentin Tarrantino could make a film based entirely around the mystique generated bySonny and the Sunsets; it may be called Beatnik Reveries. And just as I thought this (and made a note in my writerly, pocket-sized notebook) he read a poem titled Whatever Happened to Him, He was a Bright Kid. He’s a melodic storyteller, giving a voice to the normally shunned down-and-outs, and his soft grey cowboy hat, sweetly weathered face, faded denim, and red plaid flannel coat with his collar starched up to keep out the cold paint a mythic figure on the stage. In fact, Kelley Stoltz considers Sonny to be one of the most talented songwriters in San Francisco which means you should take a gander at his down-home tunes on his MYSPACE.
Kelley Stoltz was spotted all night wandering in and out of The Utah, studying a clipboard of lyrics or sheet music (I was never nosy enough to get a clear view) and occasionally jumping onto the stage to test out the ivories; he moved with a casual precision that speaks to a comfort with his craft and chosen profession. When he finally took the stage, he gave his audience some old favorites (such as Memory Collector), some new favorites (such as Morning Sun) in addition to new material from an album anticipated to drop sometime in February. Perhaps what makes him most enjoyable to watch is the feeling that you’re involved in a private session: like witnessing a musical chemist at work in his study. Another incendiary Stoltz performance, even if it wasn’t Carnegie Hall.
