Bob Dylan, New York City 1961. Tom Waits, San Diego, early 1970s. What must it have been like to see these legendary performers when they were still unknowns? When the gathered crowd was small and you were so close to the artist that you could make a request in a conversational tone?
It struck me, as I watched and listened to William Elliot Whitmore, Feb 19 at The Basement in Columbus, Ohio on the kick-off date of a national tour, that this was what it must’ve been like; to see a performer at such an early point in their career who, in your heart of hearts, you know is destined for greatness with only 20 or so others are there to share the experience with you.
In many an article about him, Whitmore is compared to such legends as Waits and Johnny Cash. I’m sure it’s more to do with the deep gravelly voice and genre fusions than actual stylistic similarities - one thing that does run parallel with the Iowa born and raised Whitmore and those who transcend mere greatness is the honesty in their lyrics.
Ever since I began listening to Whitmore, I’ve been puzzled by how best to place his style within musical confines. The best I’ve come up with so far; Whitmore really is the definition of roots music. There’s country, there’s blues, there’s even a splash of punk thrown in the mix. No matter how you classify it, it will grab you and it will spark something in you that’s buried deep within all us.
Abuzz with chatter, the small confines of the Basement fell silent as Whitmore took his chair and began the acappella incantation of “Cold and Dead” from 2003’s Hymns for the Hopeless. From that moment on, the crowd was transfixed.
It takes some sort of magnetism to hold an audience with only you, a banjo, and a guitar but for an hour Whitmore held all in attendance with his songs of desperation, pain and suffering. Unpretentious in demeanor, Whitmore played through much of his catalog, even taking requests. At one point, a member of the audience asked for a rarity, even by Whitmore standards.
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