Generation Magazine

The subdudes @ the Tralf

By Melissa Wright

The Tralf is bustling by 8 p.m.—not quite standing-room-only status, but the swanky, jazz club style tables (you know, the much desired, “I live in NYC” feel) have been claimed. The crowd mostly consists of middle-aged groups of friends; happy to have a seat, and perhaps to still be able to hear one another speak over the appropriate volume of the opening act. The ticket price and beer costs remind you that you’re not at Broadway Joe’s for 25-cent pitchers night. This is Buffalo class.

The opening act has the stage until about 8:30. He’s a good opener for the subdudes, setting the stage with some down home blues slide guitar and storytelling scat.

The interlude between the opening act and the subdudes is a bit on the lengthy side as the subdudes’ crew steps out and tunes the line up of guitars on display. The first thing I notice about the instrumental display is that there’s no drum kit. I get excited.

There’s something bristling and fresh about a drum-less band, the kind that gives you the feel that you lived before rock ‘n’ roll, when you only watched the local bands down the at the VFW and they stood across the stage in that bluegrass row fashion and the whole town had a hunky dory time dancing the evening away. This evening didn’t go all that differently, save us all being town folk.

As the subdudes take the stage, the crowd doesn’t exactly “go wild,” but there is some general arousal: some clapping, some elbow nudging and pointing. Lead singer Tommy Malone gets on the microphone. “Well, hey, hey, hey, good evening everybody. Thanks for coming,” he says with a sweet southern accent.

They jump into the first song, “Light in Your Eyes,” and it has a bubbly, quick pace as the bongo and rhythm guitar gives a backdrop of almost African-style beats. I try to suspend my judgement, but I cannot help but think that the song could find its way onto a Disney sound track, specifically “The Lion King.” It’s that PG sound that you hear at the end of cheesy movie montages where adults and babies alike all start dancing in world-connecting joy.

And then they go into a jam. Guitarist Tim Cook rips into a meaty solo full of arpeggio fun. Bass player Jimmy Messa meets him with an escalating tempo. Malone turns to his side to engage with the rest of the band. Their musicianship is indisputable. Plus, they’re having fun.

After a couple songs, Malone offers some candidness about the music. “We got a new record coming out. It ain’t so new now. It came out in September. It’s new enough. It’s a story album. There’s a story line running through it. Alternate title: Battle of the brain vs. the loin.” He laughs along with the audience. “The loin prevails generally, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

Did I mention yet that there’s an accordion? If you close your eyes and simply listen, you might not think so, but John Magnie on accordion and vocals plays it like, well, like he’s got soul. As their Web site so accurately describes, it’s more Ray Charles than polka.

In the place of a standard drum kit is a base drum and disconnected snare. Cook will also occasionally lay down his guitar (why, I don’t know) and play the tambourine. His tambourine playing is not the standard “let’s pull a girl out of the audience to shake her money maker.” It becomes a part of the percussion, and a vital one at that.

The absence of the standard kit has some weight in the history of the band too. Their first gig ever consisted of just a guitar, tambourine and accordion. Percussionist Steve Amedée put the band together and wanted to produce an unplugged sound. Back then he would use a spatula to tap out rhythms on the tambourine.

In 2010, the sound is certainly plugged in, but every other song of the evening seems to bring us back to their southern-style roots. It’s as if they experiment and then pull themselves back home: a recurring nostalgia for New Orleans and soulful blues with slide guitar and unbelievable vocal harmony.

The experimentation took the audience all over the genre-feeding world: from their first bongo-scintillation, to “Late at Night” that had airs of Jimmy Buffet, to “Too Soon to Tell,” a country song originally sung by Bonnie Raite.

Before the music picks up in “Late at Night,” Magnie gives a few moments of spoken word, mentioning something about how late at night it is. I immediately grab my phone. It’s not even 10:30. I look out into the audience and all signs of a “late night” are in session. The once empty dance floor, save the brave couple with trained moves, is now flooded. The baby boomer crowd is a few pitchers in and rolling their sleeves up.

Just when you think the song is a bit cheesy, they break it down. Suddenly, the definition of late at night is not a party song to get e’rybody riled up, but a soulful cry for help. “Lord, you gotta help me now,” Magnie sings, evolving the song into a gospel powerhouse, in which the rest of the instruments quiet down and his voice beckons into the microphone. His voice is raspy and worn as he pleads convincingly again, “Lord, you got to help me now!”

Around mid-set with the crowd getting perpetually friskier, one gets the sense that these guys really have a following. Even here in Buffalo, folks seem to know the music and sing along. A woman cries out to the band to play a specific song, though it’s barely audible, her vocal chords shrill and high pitched. Malone answers her. “All right, honey bun. All right, my little muffin. Maybe if you stick around.”

A peppier country song comes on next and while it certainly gets a few surrounding women off their bar stools and on to their imaginary cowboy boots, I can’t help but think it sounds like it’s off the country top 20 list or reminiscent of Bruce Springstein, (singed into our consciousness) American rock.

Here I am, exposing my biases, but I can’t help that I like them best when they’re doing  that funky, raspy, slow-it-down-to-the-point-that-you’re-a-beat-behind blues. And at that same time, sure, these songs are beautiful, but they’re simply not the party favorites.

Speaking of party favorites, Malone introduces a tune dedicated to the earlier days, when a certain band of peace-loving “trouble-makers” rolled in to good ole’ N.O. “We got a song about some hippies that came to town in the ’70s and shook stuff up. Boy did they shake stuff up,” he says, “to the point where you would hear your mother say ‘don’t go hanging out with those hippies!’ It was fun.” He smiles. “You could smell some type of smoke wafting out the window. Not sure what that smoke was. Probably just oil burning from the bus.” The crowd giggles in delight.

Just as the song starts, Malone asks, “Anybody got any incense?”

As the song picks up, I can’t help but laugh to myself when I hear one of the alternate chorus lines. “Love is a beautiful thing/ Sing, hippy girl sing.” I imagine Flight of the Concords coming up with a similar song, sardonically naive and dead serious about their love of hippy chicks.

Overall, there seems a vibe of the old days in the air as more and more people get on their feet and bustle about. Also in the air is the faintest whiff of the smoke from… bus oil. Dead serious, man. Bus oil smoke, but just a hint of it.

Getting a bit antsy for a change of pace, I ask the doorman what to expect. “There’ll be an encore. Stick around,” he says. I walk back to the stage area and Magnie comes out, looking like he’s into mischief and asks, “How about we abandon the microphones and come out here and sing a song or two?”

The band comes back to the stage and walks right off into the audience, each member carrying an acoustic instrument. Magnie has a harmonica, Malone has an acoustic guitar, Messa, an acoustic bass, Cook has some mini maracas of sorts, and Amedée has a tambourine. They push into the crowd. One woman leans in to hug each of them—I had underestimated the Buffalo fan base.

By this time everyone is out of their seats and huddling around them, as a music circle begins and a wave of “shh” echoes across the room. “These aren’t that loud,” Malone says, laughing with his big, loving smile.

After a few moments, they begin “The Rain.” It is soft, personal—a realistically intimate love song. Magni’s voice is freer than ever and really made to be un-mic’d. You feel like you’re bearing witness to a fragment of their original vibe: unplugged. It brings me back to my earlier criticisms of their more “rock” music. Something felt a bit off, contrived. Here, literally touching the members of the crowd, they’re joking, their voices soft and as if you were friends for 20 years.

Talk about down to earth.

Their next and last song was “Sugar Pie” and everyone sang along. This was the pinnacle for the long-time fans; you could tell. I struggled to get a closer shot of this musical history and everyone around me urged me to move in front of him or her. It felt as if the next few moments were ours, as a group. A sombre, humbling, feel-good humanity vibe swept the room. I felt a little bit guilty to be filming half the acoustic encore. It seemed as if this moment should be experienced with active awe—being in the moment for the band that gave you the moment.

Americana music feels revived in this moment, the fusion of soul, blues, country, and rock without the pretension, with the enthusiasm and candid self-expression.

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