Photo credit: Alex Walzak
In a few months Angel Olsen will issue her third full-length album My Woman, and if its pre-release buzz and its lead single “Intern” are to be believed, it promises a more production-heavy, synth-driven direction from the previously folk-minded singer-songwriter. It could be a real break out for Olsen, who has already banked a career’s worth of critical goodwill for her stunning 2014 album Burn Your Fire for No Witness.
Ahead of a proper tour behind the album with a full six-piece band in September, Olsen kicked off a short run of tour dates with a three-piece backing band Thursday night at the Pabst Theater. There was an unapologetically casual, stopgap feel to the performance. The band played a bare stage and, to judge by the ceaseless electrical hum that sawed through their set, they probably didn’t sweat a whole lot of details during their sound check. Olsen played some new songs, but nothing with synthesizers—this was a strictly guitars/bass/drums affair—and she didn’t make a big deal about them. And though it was the first night of the band’s tour, you would have thought they’d been on the road for weeks judging by how tired they seemed. They carried themselves as if they’d just rolled out of bed.
So, no, showmanship is not Olsen’s strong suit—at least not on this tour. But showmanship is beside the point when you have a voice like Olsen’s, a remarkable, out-of-time instrument that channels both the tragic sweetness of Tammy Wynette and the raw, harrowing wail of Odetta. Few singers of her generation chill so deeply into the bone, and Olsen didn’t hold back, letting her lacerating cries carry the show. The audience didn’t come to the show looking for a spectacle. They came for the emotional bloodletting, and they got more than their $10 worth.
|
|
Another sign of how informal the whole show was: Olsen was supported by literally one of the dullest openers I have ever seen, Scott Tuma, who according to Wikipedia—and I am not making this up—“is a musician from Chicago who is best known for his gruesome self-indulgent live performances.” If that Wikipedia entry was edited by some disgruntled Olsen fan who sat through Thursday night’s opening set of languid, hobo guitar strumming, I cannot blame them. It was excruciating. He’s the kind of opening act artists can only bring along on the road when they don’t have anybody to impress or a new album to sell. Needless to say, he won’t be joining Olsen during the proper tour in September, and for that ticketholders can be very thankful.
