David Mead Live @ White’s Bar
Sunday October 13th 2005

What can I say about David Mead that hasn’t been said before. Hmm. Plenty - and not much. First I wanna ask, “Who the fuck is David Mead ‘cos I don’t know. My friends the Reed Brothers turned me on to him. Something about concise melodic songwriting and this really cool voice with a several octave range - or a cool falsetto, anyway. They copped me some CD’s but I didn’t listen to them until the night before the show. Sounds pretty good to ‘ol Daddy Bo. This David Mead feller sounds like the genuine real deal, in a New York cum Nashville existential-uptight-in-a-bag-Paul Simon meets Alex Chilton-I’ll try to be nice but I’m not so sure about you kinda vibe. I immediately LOVED him. Yep ‘cos he tells the truth and doesn’t try to talk in clichés, sure his rap is a bit elusive but it’s much better than listenin’ to Kelly Clarkson’s blatant and insipid ripoff of The Immortal… dummin’ it down for the masses and showin’ a little leg as she glowers her infantilized nonsense to the all seeing, all knowing video camera. Lord have mercy, watch out for that American Idol train, it’ll attach itself to just about any creative impulse and suck the lifeblood right outta it.
BUT NOT HERE.
Nope. Mead is a man after my own heart. He’s a snarky snaggle-puss of a tortured artist, a vagabond gypsy tunesmith, plying his wares like an old potion seller, guaranteed to cure impetigo, rheumatism, and the gout. But don’t dare talk during his performance or he’ll spike yer elixir with a little sarcasm and wit. So shut up and listen, will ya?

Don’t get me wrong David Mead is cool. We had a nice little chat before the show, goofin’ on kids, aging, organics, and the importance of staying alive. Yeah, he’s loveable lout. But when he sings, he never pronounces his “R’s”…maybe it’s me, maybe I’m just not hearin’ them damn “R’s”. I’ve not heard all kinda things in the past, like my wife complainin’ to me, my kids askin’ for money, or particularly difficult noun/consonant combinations such as aesthetics. You know what I think? I think it’s that crazy New York/Nashville thing that’s in his blood. How could ya pronounce anything with that kinda hodgepodge heritage, it’s like Lenny Bruce singin’ the Wabash Cannonball. When’s he’s finished you say…what the fuck was that, he left out the damn’ “R” in Wabash, string the bastard up…

David Mead is one gutsy performer. He plugs in his electric and bangs away even if it isn’t quite tuned, no matter, he’s hung over “like a bitch”, too much magic potion the night before in Cinci. But he sings like a bird and his falsetto is smooth as silk. He opens with Ordinary Life, an ode to longing, from his now-classic album Indiana. From there Mead took us on a journey through his career, including several cuts from his new CD… the beautifully dark How Much, the Beatlesque Hold On and the heartbreaking Wherever You Are. Mead’s bittersweet masterpiece Indiana was simply powerful. Still his best moments were quite humble. His tribute to Brian Wilson (dedicated to the Reed Brothers), God Only Knows was delicately stunning. And Elodie, his tribute to a French actress whom he never met, was all done on good humor and just a touch of eroticism.. This was all fine and good but it was the encore that blew me away. Mead sat up at the bar and sang New Mexico, a beautiful road-trip of a tune sung beautifully, Mead’s pure falsetto making the chorus come alive. He ended the show with a rousing sing-a-long of the Beatles’ We Can Work It Out.

The ending proved more powerful than the beginning and the show was an overall success. David Mead’s got somethin’ goin’…that New York/Nashville thing. And it’s very good

Peace

Bo White
12/4/2005