For at least three years now, Who Hit John has been mesmerizing me like the good old whiskey after which they name themselves. Last night they took Martini's pizzeria and bar on Westnedge and Vine.
Bluegrass isn't a swinging enough word to describe what they did, but the four musicians incorporated guitar, banjo, fiddle, harmonica, dobro and mandolin, alternating between salty originals and covers ranging from Cream to CSNY.
Rhythmically and harmonically, they are as tight as the gears on a Swiss watch.
With Nate singing soprano, the voices blend sweet as southern bells at times, while on other numbers they've got a rich, bassy sound like a small army of lumberjacks. Just listening to the range of sounds coming from that cozy stage at Martini's, it's hard to believe there are only four musicians up there. Nick's speeding pick on the mandolin strings produces a percussive purrrrr. Nate's other-worldly fiddle sweeps you away into another dimension of melody and time. It just wiggles your soul like a watering hole.
And visually, they are acrobatic.
As with the sophisticated older bands, the music aficionado is inclined to study the patterns of fingers on strings. You could still try that, but Who Hit John gives you a bit more to look at. We have Nate stepping time in what look like cowboy boots under the cuffs of his jeans, as Dan tosses his shiny locks in elation. Tomorrow you might see him saddling up the bronco. Chris, the tallest member, stares out through the audience like a beacon. His steady poise fastens the scene into a harmonious ensemble as well as his rhythm guitar keeps the pace.
It doesn't take long before you realize I am having a religious experience.
Closing the night, they sang, "In heaven we'll never grow old," with an alcohol-induced bliss, warmth coming over their faces as if underlit by the bonfire after the hayride. "We'll live in the City forever. And there we will never grow old."
All the while they're up there poking and prodding each other, like a bunch of riff raff behind the teacher's back. They smirk; they made the audience smirk. That's what Who Hit John does to you.
