The Transcendental Langhorne Slim
Folk, when played over speakers or headphones, can fall to the background: soundtrack a scene rather than stand out. So when I went to see Langhorne Slim at the Bowery Ballroom last week, I was expecting a mellow show, a soft show. And there were moments that were gentle, moments when I found I’d moved one hand to my throat and another across my waist, hugging myself through the passion of a particular line. But the show was far from slow or sad. It was an immersive, explosive celebration.
Sean Scolnick — Langhorne Slim — started off his set by remembering Charles Bradley and talking about love: about how much we need it now. His earnest beginning prefaced an equally sincere performance.
Not only is Scolnick a fantastic live singer — That range! That tone and control! Sometimes, he sang one line a capella and shook me DEEPLY— and guitarist, but his band (the Lost At Last Band) similarly commanded the room. Where in previous recordings (with other backing bands), Scolnick’s voice outshines the instruments, that wasn’t the case live: they matched his raw intensity. The audience clearly felt it: everyone was jumping, jamming out, singing every single word. Even the sheer devotion of the fans was jarring to me, from the twentysomethings to the fiftysomething who was pounding his fist. Music I would’ve before described as “rollicking” now seemed exciting, throbbing, intense. It was easy to get swept away in the singular joy of it all.
There was little conversation, no drunk shouters (although sometimes a single yell between songs, always appreciative). Scolnick responded softly to any hecklers and prefaced many songs with a long, meandering story; his often long-winded, disjointed tales were endearing and intimate.
And it wasn’t performance when Scolnick jumped across the stage; it was an act of joy. I hear my cliche and can’t care. I can’t remember ever having seen such a pure joy displayed in front of me.
Scolnick wasn’t shy, either. He twice jumped down into the audience, working his way so deep into the crowd that the front-row members were carefully monitoring and unspooling his microphone wire. That was exactly the environment of the event: supportive, thoughtful, mindful. The kind of show where he could go sing one-on-one and others would look out for his equipment, make sure nothing got tangled.
“Do you believe in past lives?” he crooned, gripping and shaking shoulders as he worked his way through the audience. “Haven’t I met you before?”
A week later, I’m still thinking about those harsh, lovely lines, his rendition of “Past Lives” that closed out the encore. How he repeated “ I ain’t dead” over and over, the vocal riff on “dead” extended and haunting. How he held out his microphone to individual audience members so they could riff along. That vocal catch, and the final “I ain’t dead anymore.” A week later, I still needed to write about it.
