There’s a weekend when it all opens, depending on who you are and what you’re waiting on to crack.
The foodies need to wait until May. We dedicated beach junkies are usually scratching ourselves raw until Father’s Day, which is better than the poor surfers, who are in a holding pattern until late August. But the Live Music heads wait no later than mid-April, when the Woodshed slides open the barn door.
For the second year running, behind Door #1 we have Josh Ayala and his band of the evening; and this evening the Doghouse Tenants were ready to rip the nails out of the floor planks that pre-date Andy’s days on the payroll & place on the totem pole.
But for the night to be a genuine account of courses, we need movement and rhythm so, let’s allow …
A BBQ Spot & Cocktails on the First Tee
Mr. Smokey Jones held court over dinner in the bar at the Black & Tackle earlier on that lovely Friday, hosting Jordan Renzi & The Band: Leo Ludwig, Luke Massouh, and THE Mark Usher.
Satisfying request calls from the bar (looking at you Dibbern), Jordan weaves a couple originals through her set, with staples like her impressive rendition of Angel of Montgomery (with Luke beatin on those things like they stole something). Coming off of tunes like that to pull the raw emotion out of everybody in the room, her move into her own Edge of the Sea was perfect; she tenderized you, moved you from the ropes into the corner, and now she comes in with an anvil.
The band is put together like a watch assembled in a bottle, delicately, no slipping and perfectly timed. Rumors of magic in their rendez-vous with the stainless room at the Wellfleet Preservation Hall were greatly underestimated.
Jordan is one of the handful of singers out here whose most powerful instrument rests down deep, just past the heart that writes the songs on that vinyl, and she lures that giant ballerina out and coaxes her to dance for everyone. When she taps into those originals,when Leo is following her around (on a standard bass even!) and when Usher is back there makin that goddam thing talk, the invisible lady in the right shoes has no choice; in only a few ticks she’s bruising toe-tips and breaking your heart. This night was no exception.
By now we’ve found Beth, we’re with Smoky, and even though he’s very popular, there’s more than enough to go around. Only a couple of tastings between Mr Jones and me for the first course, as I look into the future. So then, let’s go then, you and I, as the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient laid out peaceful, in bed … let us go then, to the Brewster Woodshed.
Hallelujah, Let Me Sock It To Ya
If you rubbed your feet on the stale beer soaked floor you’d shock your fingers wearing rubber gloves. There was pulse and it was throbbing as the all-shapes-and-sizes audience flooded in for opening night. The great big door slid open at 4p that afternoon, and like first ride of the day on Space Mountain, there was a line of folks jockeying for their favorite seat. Ben and the Boys Behind the Bah brandished beer after draft beer; abuzzin, electrons elbowed in from the farthest egresses.
The Main Event, naturally, were the musicians biding their time on the deck back there, slow sipping clear liquor and admiring each other’s fierce leather jacket wings through mandarin colored glasses. This is where you find Josh & the Doghouse Tenants in pre-show form on the picnic tables watching the molecules mingle through the swung open stage door.
If he forgot a cord or a pick, local son Ayala could probably hoof over to his house, pick one up, and be back before Aaron’s done setting up his high hat. The Doghouse Tenants are stixman Jackson, the illustrious keys maven and man of the land George Smith, the Dan Marino of stringed instruments, One-Take Jake playing the bass, and sit in guest Keb Hutchings prepped and ready to uncork one. Word is Keb travels with an amp in his trunk, always a guitar on his back and a mess of blues and Greenwood and keyed up production synthesizing in his still under-construction noodle.
When the time comes, The Man in the Hat will lead them out to the stage, to pick up his electric guitar, dusty and bulky and packed with pick ups and quarter-inch sockets. Our protagonist assumes the helm, maybe not quite copping to the impact a Dylan has on a Robertson or Davies has on Davies, or even Corgan has on Iha. For those of us that are here, we like it, it feels good when you pull those strings (pause).
After a few attempts the truth is set free - by some dear with a piece of chalk dear drafting the weekend’s show … it’s Josh & The Doghouse Tenants, and it’s got to have his name on it for now. Especially in the immediate shadow of his first album’s digital release (7 days earlier).
Aside from the reggae spin on Whiskey & Vinyl (raise your hand if you saw that coming), there weren’t any originals. They did manage to burn through some Dead (Shakedown Street, Goin Down the Road Feelin Bad, and the encore, Fire on the Mountain), a touch of Nirvana (In Bloom) turned down into the negative integers, and Bob Marley (Soul Shakedown Party), but the piece de resistance was Don’t Do It by The Band that was so slow cooked it came out sounding like 1970s Miles Davis. A truly outstanding bit of rasa capture that’d leave Lorca slow nodding over a golf clap.
And with that, The Woodshed was opened again for another season with Ben stomping the floor by the end of the night making goddam sure everybody knew that the bar was now set for the season and he would accept no horseshit otherwise. This is the kind of dedication and commitment missing from more hospitality experiences as far as I see it.
For chrissake, pipe up, have some pride in what you do, and lure the rest of these slightly toasted locals who’ve seen the meanest winter in almost 25 years out from under the glum and back to the bright lights the Woodshed is kind enough to provide for the folks in the back.
See you out back smoking your cigarette on a set break, suckers.
