Daniel Shoemaker Photos
Tyler.
A double billing of solo acoustic sets by “cosmic American music” journeyman William Tyler and hyper-prolific garage-savant Ty Segall typified the breadth of what the solo acoustic performance can be.
The pairing — at the Space Ballroom on Thursday — certainly isn’t the most superficially obvious. Tyler and Segall share a couple of musical reference points, as exemplified by the covers both artists chose to perform (for some reason, a cover or two seems to be a requirement of the solo acoustic set). Each chose material that they likely inherited in the form of a boomer parent’s dusty record collection. Tyler chose a staid Fleetwood Mac tune, while Segall dove into a few more energetic songs by, among others, Creedance Clearwater Revival and the Who. His encore even began with about 30 seconds of Spinal Tap’s “Big Bottom.”
While the style in which the artists performed their covers differed greatly — Tyler’s pensive fingerpicking versus Segall’s verse and a half, karaoke clip show hyperactivity — its undeniable that both unabashedly lean into their youthful listening experiences. They clearly share a history of adolescent car rides with classic rock radio presets, a history they choose to wear more as a proud badge than a stained undershirt. Furthermore, through years of relentless touring, each artist has honed an easygoing stage presence and crowd-friendly charisma. An audience that is enjoying itself, as this crowd clearly did, can easily be equally appreciative of two disparate acts. The artists weren’t stepping on each other’s toes trying to win at the same game.
William Tyler’s records sound as if they come from an alternate universe where well-trodden highways disappear to a pinpoint on some sunset-bathed horizon in flyover country and the Takoma Records greats of the ‘60s and ‘70s all had offset Fender guitars running through a series of delay pedals. His penchant for alternate tunings and graceful fretboard ballet is recognizable in a number of contemplative contemporaries (a few of whom this city has had the pleasure to host in recent months; I’m looking at you, Steve Gunn and Daniel Bachman) and translates to acoustic guitar pretty directly. Though Tyler often records electric, this choice appears to be more a matter of color palate than compositional necessity. Translating his electric work to acoustic is somewhat akin to translating an eastern Massachusetts dialect into a northern Rhode Island dialect, which is pretty wicked.
That said, I would be remiss in failing to acknowledge the enveloping nature of Tyler’s performance. With recordings so vast and lilting, the athletic percussiveness of his playing caught the audience, and apparently his guitar, off guard. Tyler had to stop to change his guitar’s G string two songs into the performance.
“It’s always the G string,” he lamented. “This is a hazard of alternate tunings…but it’s worth it.”
“You can throw a few interceptions and still win the ball game.” Tyler added. I don’t know about a ball game, but Tyler definitely won the affection of the crowd.
Segall.
Ty Segall’s set moved at a very different pace. Without the aid of stompbox distortion, Segall overdrove his guitar through sheer muscle and will. Segall’s songs often gallop through a field of major-chord garage pop. Transferred to acoustic guitar, they took on the aspect of a jittery folk artist with more to say than time to fit it in. Even his ballads found a way to confront their inherent emotion, with a chromatic run of major barre chords or an intently stilted rhythmic shift.
Both Tyler and Segall have albums coming out soon, and it’s refreshing to see such relevant artists with vibrant careers challenging themselves to come out from behind the comfort of accompaniment and stand in contrast to their recorded work, musically naked before an audience that appreciated the risk.