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By: Dennis Cook
Eric McFadden & Faraway Family :: 10.03.08 :: Boom Boom Room :: San Francisco, CA
 Eric McFadden by Willa Stein |
They came on like a whiff of sandalwood oil on warm skin – an olfactory kinda come-on that lifted me like a cartoon scent, my toes dangling a few centimeters from the ground as the muscles in my face contracted into a smile that didn't let up until Eric McFadden and his once-in-a-while sparring partners Faraway Family - McFadden (guitar, vocals), bassist-singer Ed Ivey (Brass Monkey Brass Band), keyboardist-singer Chip Roland (Zero) and drummer Kevin Carnes (Broun Fellinis) – let up well past midnight. This cover tune heavy, groove fixated unit is like a comely silhouette in low club light, all inviting curves and strong lines in jeans and a t-shirt, filling in everything nicely without any fancy pants fuss. More basically, these are four motherfuckers that can play their asses off and they rejoice in jamming together.
Faraway Family is truly different from the Eric McFadden Trio (EMT), who are often downright scary and intense (I dig that about them, though). Overflowing with roadhouse ebullience, this Family chimed in with DJ K-OS before the red velvet curtain rose on the Boom Boom's tiny stage, dominated by the well-maintained house Hammond B-3 organ that was forcefully abused by Roland all evening, eliciting squeals of delight and distress depending on his touch. Few instruments come across as anthropomorphic as the B-3 when handled well, and Roland has the sharp force of greats like Charles Earland and Brother Jack McDuff. In fact, his interplay with Carnes was hugely reminiscent of Brother Jack's sparring with Idris Muhammad in the '60s. Gentlemen, take a deserved bow. So, as records spun, the band, unseen, worked their own threads into the web, accenting and commenting on the music, playful as all get out. Invisibly, McFadden's silvery string flutter, Carnes floor tom shake or Ivey's spectral bass (which evolved into the gloriously organic sound of a wrestler tussling with a smart rubber plant) would surface in the DJ's mix, there to enjoy if you were really listening. Most sound checks aren't this enjoyable, but the packed quarters and generally high spirits in the room fit the band's mood well.
 Eric McFadden by Chris Lea |
While they started with a bluesy chug, they moved with unconstrained fluency, mingling in Tex-Mex sway, '60s organ trio comping, sophisticated Isaac Hayes style strut, Stooges-esque garage mangling and delicate acoustic guitar passages. What seemed essential was that everything swing and swing hard. No one onstage held onto anything too tightly, controlling things with nudges, head nods and body anglings. Given that, it was extra impressive that they didn't stumble all over one another or misread where the lead dog at any given moment was taking them. The feel of this stuff was undeniable, just saturated with tone and texture. It's one thing to cover Tom Waits' "Clap Hands" but to do so with such hunger and raw emotion that it becomes an aphrodisiac is another. The air was so humid as McFadden growled, "Roar, roar, the thunder and the roar/ Son of a bitch is never coming back here no more," that one expected frantic, tangled rutting to burst out on the floor at any minute. Call it a newfangled kind of sexual tension.
One stretch in the first set began in the smooth, macho, Spanish accented fusion that Al Di Meola made his bones on, which McFadden began to crack with the intuitive strength of a skilled chiropractor, taking the usual stiffness out of such instrumental showpieces and splashing great color over each foot forward. This slid effortlessly into a mutated John Lee Hooker boogie pocket that emerged into Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisited," which then blossomed into a growler that gave Johnny Winter's legendary version more than a run for its money. By turns rough n' tumble and dreamy, their happy stumbling towards the end left me grinning so hard it hurt. This particular Dylan tune needs to be manhandled, treated roughly or it quickly becomes a pale imitation of the original version with Mike Bloomfield and Al Kooper, where every part cooks with gas. Treated mean, spit out with sufficient bile (and McFadden, Roland and Ivey had acid to spare), "Highway 61 Revisited" is a haunted, cautionary highway ride, as it was this night.
Soon after, they savaged Fatboy Slim's "The Rockafeller Skank," pushing it around with punk ferocity (appropriate for guys that earlier covered The Minutemen) until, without warning, the music transformed into a hazy "Within You, Without You" miasma full of Yes-esque prog touches and McFadden's fangy six-string chomping at the edges. For a moment it seemed they might surface into "Dear Mr. Fantasy" but then the B-3 sailed off into Gary Brooker (Procol Harum)-like romantic waters, whiter shades of pale and bright lights sailing around our heads.
The rainbow palette to this quartet remained bold throughout, each player inspiring new brushstrokes from the others as time went on. They're very interactive, especially for a band that's only played together live a few times. Call it chemistry, vibe, whatever, but the energies passed between these four are a ball and a half to behold. One can only hope they keep this simpatico collaboration going more often than once in a blue moon.
Eric McFadden is on tour now and he plays this weekend in New York City. Complete tour dates available here.
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