Bound for Glory, This Train: Where The Rails Meet The River

The tracks run straight to the riverside in New Orleans. The crossing lights flashed red, the warning bells began to ring and an Amtrak engine slowly pulls into sight hauling behind it 17 vintage rail cars. Style from the 30s dragged behind the technology of the 50s into a rivertown that's still struggling with its place in the current. Slow, creaking wheels came to a stop, a whistle blew and a hoard of riders burst from the streamlined silver doors carrying every sort of noise making device ever produced over the last century. Digital sound boards, electric pedals, mandolins, keyboards, organs, slides, accordions, stand-up bass, banjos, guitars of all eras and functions and brass came streaming out like a disturbed multi-instrumentalist ant bed. The train was late, you see. Romance comes on an unreliable schedule, such are the realities of train travel. But at least they got a good parking space.

From fan pics on www.railroadrevivaltour.com

On April 21st, Old Crow Medicine Show, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros and Mumford and Sons played a show in Oakland, California, then jumped a train headed east. They played cities along the way, including Marfa, Texas, whose population doubled when Edward Sharpe's 55-piece musical collective crossed the town line. They had bar cars, dining cars, cars for equipment, cars for crew, cars rigged for recording and an open air "jam" car. It was Woody Guthrie's wet dream at a leisurely 45 mph. 

New Orleans was the final stop on the 8 day Railroad Revival Tour, and OCMS was up first.

"You can spend your whole life racing down dusty old railroad lines, but it's that setting sun you're chasing in a dark and rolling sky." - That Evening Sun, OCMS


Old Crow Medicine Show. They seem absolutely pleased with themselves. I know that's a comment that can cut at different angles, but I mean it as a complement. Every time they hit the stage, they do it with a dirty childhood smirk of a boy about to bring the ruckus.

I saw them for the first time from the balcony of the 930 club, and it wasn't until about 45 minutes in that I realized they didn't have a drummer. The percussion comes from boots on boards, palms slapped on the face of acoustic guitars or the vibrations along the skin of a banjo, creating a percussive harmony that organically springs from every song. We danced to beats we could only guess at and sang songs we didn't know, drank a hip flask of cheap rum and fell over into the hedges. Old Crow has a presence that makes you want to sing along even if you don't know the words, and that's nothing short of magic.

They've been doing it for over a decade. And even though I'm sure they have frustrations and feel the grind of the repetition, I have never seen them be anything but joyous on the stage. They're the locker room guys. They know what they do and how to do it right. They know they're lucky to be where they are, but have also watched those less deserving go further. They know there is somewhere worse than here. And it's that attitude that you need on a steel railed asylum that's got to roll for a week.

There's no warm-up, no build up. Just a short introduction, a brief high-pitched cry from front man fiddle player Ketch Secor and we're off. They're not coming off an acclaimed Grammy performance and you're not going to catch their songs backing up major advertising campaigns. But, OCMS knows they're about to kick your ass and make you like it. And, as always, it's nothing but joy. It's not a bad way to see the sun sink down over the city.

Alex Ebert doing...something. 

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes.  In the best traditions of Hootie and the Blowfish, there is no one named Edward Sharpe in this band. Theirs was a more measured method of taking the stage, which is only necessary in a production this big. Like most Americans, I know Edward Sharpe as the guys who sing the song from the NFL commercial, so I was curious. I'd heard good things and was with people who were genuinely excited about seeing this buzzed-up band.

It's not the look. At least it's not all the look. White boy, vaguely Eastern cultural bullshit like the shallow end of the unproductive corner of George Harrison's soul, dancing around on stage. Honestly, it wouldn't be a problem if there was something to back it up. But when you put on a show this empty, I'm going to fill it up with my skin-deep biases. They looked tired. They looked over it. It was like watching a hundred gears turning for no other purpose but to turn more gears. It was not bad, just flat. For the performance of the song that had gotten them here, Ebert half-ass hummed through the whistle intro and then finished by leaning against the piano and staring into the distance. What they did bring to the party was a red-headed girl sawing down hard on my favorite instrument, the rock accordion. More on that later.

I get it. I don't blame them. But they should take a page out of Crazy Heart's Bad Blake book of philosophy-- when a song's been good to you, you've got to treat it with some respect. Never complain that people want to hear something you've created, because the alternative is crushing. They limped off stage.

Mumford and Sons. Nothing short of phenomenal. I was expecting quiet, moody, Iron and Wine cry into your sherry kind of music. I'm not sure why, it was just what I understood Mumford and Sons to be. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

They were melancholy soaked in gasoline. Moonshine with a Xanax chaser. It you ever slowed down enough to think about what was actually being said, you'd probably be pretty depressed...but that's all the more reason not to slow down. They tell you the sad truth of life with a smile on their face as they skip on down the road, and that's something you need when riding a rail car through southwestern America, watching above ground pools pass in trailerpark yards.

There's only one album, and from what I can tell, they faithfully rolled through it with a racing heart-- essential for bringing this style of songs to the stage. It's this thing they did, are obviously proud of and utterly amazed that they're able to put it out there in front of this many people.

Don't Carry No Hustlers, This Train. Then the flood gates opened. People poured onto the stage, trying to fit in somewhere along the line for the grand finale, a group jam of Woody Guthrie classic "This Train Is Bound For Glory." It was a mess. A big, noisy, glorious mess. Some spontaneous house party jam that never really exists anywhere else. Drums and horns, and British infantry hats, flat on the on the floor accordion duels. Even the random douchebag with the tambourine and the nightshirt seems to have a somewhat productive place in the ecosystem.

All the while, the train sat patiently smoking on the tracks, the right lights and dull bells of the crossing warning still ringing. 

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