Cross-Continental Review: God Willin' & The Thames Don't Rise

The excitement that had accumulated through weeks of waiting to see Ray LaMontagne after the release of his newest album "God Willin' & The Creek Don't Rise" seemed to evaporate as I walked into London's cavernous Royal Festival Hall. All my visions of a small room of swaying hipsters nodding their heads to a single acoustic guitar were lost amid stadium seats and a persistent drone of country music. But as I took my seat, I tried to stay optimistic. Surely Ray's heart-wrenching howl would raise this docile audience to its feet and drive away any semblance of a Ford truck commercial. Surely I hadn't accidentally walked into a country music concert....

The opening act wasn't reassuring. All the way from the heart of Alabama, the Secret Sisters used – and reused –simplistic harmonies and bare-bones guitar to play a couple country melodies. Their voices were soothing, their lyrics comforting, and their interaction amiable, but the immediate charm of their imported Southern hospitality soon bored me. While I anxiously waited through the set change, I tried to reassure myself that Ray would illicit the "let it all hang out" gig his recordings had lead me to expect. I was again disappointed.

Standing reserved at the end of the semicircle formed by the Pariah Dogs, the reticent "frontman" only acknowledged the audience after several yells of, "Say hi Ray!" I wasn't expecting a bubbly pop star, but some sort of personable exchange wouldn't have killed him. And although Ray explicitly expressed his contempt for "new country" by saying that it makes him feel "icky," he and his Pariah Dogs leaned heavily on what Ray called, "the country classics." Sadly, like the Secret Sisters, this re-interpreted Ray failed to galvanize the deadened room with any of the passionate, unclassifiable folk subset that had propelled his career.

Two songs opposed this monotony. With an explosive fervency, the Pariah Dogs traded their tired steel guitar for electrics and Ray ripped his soul out with a harmonica and distortion mic. The change was unbelievable. During "Repo Man" and "Henry Nearly Killed Me," the limp LaMontagne vanished in the wake of a Joe Cocker-esque folk god that seemed to hang on the edge of sanity. He leapt, he danced, he screamed, he sang, and perhaps most importantly, he had fun. For the first time he looked like he wanted to be on stage. Here was the Ray I had expected. Here was the tormented, unmatchable growl of folky angst.

But this fire was snuffed out as quickly as it started. Stale, countrified versions of "You Are The Best Thing" and "You Can Bring Me Flowers" returned me to my nightmare. Even the encore of his famous "Trouble" seemed forced. I think I give sufficient wiggle-room for musical reinvention, but this mellowed, steel guitar-saturated, sterilized Ray was more than I could take. This uninspiring hour and a half of awkward, anxious sitting left me craving the show that I thought I had already bought a ticket for. I guess I'll have to hope that Ray was as disappointed as I was.