The Picador
1/19/07
Homecomings in my hometown were generally considered with a certain amount of festivity. We typically had a homecoming parade on the day before the big game complete with the marching band, themed floats created by the members of each high-school class, and at least four couples competing for the title of “Homecoming King & Queen,” named during the halftime show of the big homecoming football game.
It was the kind of event that usually drew out the town’s alumni and was celebration enough for the alumni who live outside of the city limits to trek back home to see their old football team take on an opponent in their district. Even when the home team was not blessed with a talented squad and, therefore, had no chance of advancing on to the championships after the end of the regular season, people would still come to fill the stands of the stadium and show their support.
William Elliott Whitmore had his own sort of homecoming at The Picador on Friday night and even though his style of music really doesn’t have a chance in today’s fractured popular music environment, the supporters were out in droves on this January night, witnessing their Iowa boy shake out demons from his acoustic guitar and paint vast images (slightly fabricated at times) of life in Iowa from his well-worn banjo.
The setting was quite a memorable moment actually; it was the kind of crowd that is generally reserved for those historic performances (Built to Spill, Soul Asylum, the mighty House of Large Sizes) that you often refer back to when gauging the number of people who can fit into the confined accommodations that is The Picador.
This huge showing of support clearly made an impact on Whitmore, who frequently thanked the audience and commented on how many recognized faces came out to see him. His affection was genuine and it seemed to make him reach a little deeper into his soul on some songs, to the point where he needed to compose himself (“I need to take a minute and catch my breath!”) after the song had ended.
Lifting his hour-long set heavily from his latest Songs From The Blackbird and his second release Ashes To Dust, Whitmore laced his performance with several nods to his homestate, instilling a sense that we should be mindful and proud of our roots as he is so often to do within his own arrangements; with his stomping foot providing the only rhythm, Whitmore’s performance was as minimal and honest as they come. The audience took note of this, encouraging him with the drunken yells and hollers that probably mirrored the juke-joints and roadhouses that filled the era William strives to revive.
Whitmore does a good job of channeling this mystique with stage banter of how he lives in a one-room log cabin or how his dog killed a skunk on the night before, causing the rodent to spray its defense right into the mouth of his four-legged friend. But his “act” never seemed contrived as, in the middle of his cornfield reflections, he also encouraged the audience to check out the new Clipse album.
Whitmore noticed that the audience was fairly crowded and then started to invite anyone who was interested up on to the stage with him to make additional room. Throughout the night, the rapport between the performer and the audience was close, with several drinks (shots of whiskey and bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon) being offered to him to the point where he declared “I’m fucking drunk!” The banjo playing then became a little looser and, either because of the alcohol or because the magnitude of his local supporters was finally realized, Whitmore ended his set with a tribute to the ground that we all would walk on when the doors closed: the fertile Iowa soil.
Whitmore makes his way back overseas next before returning to the states for a small tour of America. Regardless of where he travels, one can be certain that there will be a little bit of that black Iowa dirt on his shoes wherever he goes.
And we’ll be here for another homecoming celebration when he finally returns.
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