Photo credit: Robert Stone
By just about any standard, even compared to the unprecedented set of artists, eccentrics and junkies that were his contemporaries among the fertile New York scene of the 1970s, Richard Lloyd has lived an incredibly colorful life. From getting punched by Jimi Hendrix to turning tricks with Dee Dee Ramone, not to mention crafting the iconic, endlessly influential Marquee Moon as a member of Television, the guy’s got stories to spare, and thankfully, he’s recently taken the time to get some of them down on paper. A sort of oral autobiography, Everything is Combustible, out now, offers not only rock anecdotes but an unflinching look at a life often lived on the edge, one as tumultuous as Lloyd is talented. Tuesday night at Shank Hall, however, he largely let the music do the talking.
Kicking off the proceedings was local act Sleepersound, whose style is often accurately described as “cinematic,” which is apt not so much in terms of scope or structure per se, but because you can easily imagine each track being tapped to soundtrack a tender moment in some upcoming indie movie. That’s no criticism either; they’re damn good at what they do, and the songs are solid. But as openers, their particular brand of sweeping, dreamy post-rock did little to get the sleepy Tuesday night crowd, which was rather sparse and mostly settled comfortably into their seats, back onto their feet. If the mood of their music didn’t quite match the moment, however, they were nevertheless warmly received, likely swaying more than a few to check them out in another, more favorable context.
The energy ticked up somewhat when Lloyd took the stage with his backing band and unceremoniously launched into a set that covered a lot of ground considering its brevity. In more or less an hour, the guitarist snuck in everything from Marquee Moon cuts like “Elevation” and “Friction,” to solo standouts like “Alchemy” or his stripped-down version of the 13th Floor Elevator’s “Fire Engine,” which cleverly uncovers the skeletal blues-rocker hidden underneath Roky Erickson’s woozy psychedelia, and well beyond. Part of the performance’s efficiency was that, for a noted raconteur with a memoir on the market, Lloyd never even mentioned it. In fact, he barely said anything at all. There was a substantial amount of great songs on display that night, but if you wanted the stories behind them, you’d have to buy the book.
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