Roseland Theater, Portland, Oregon
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Sometimes comparisons don’t cut it. Whether the comparison is inaccurate or the base of comparison isn’t broad enough, fitting an experience into a well-defined category can become problematic, especially when the experience itself is completely unique—like nothing we’ve seen before. To say Ray LaMontagne is like Bob Dylan may be a respectful comparison. To say his delivery and range is similar to Van Morrison is a worthy accolade. Neither fully captures Ray LaMontagne onstage.
LaMontagne simply moves you. He is an artist who prefers to remain still on stage, but for the occasional body squats to the rhythm of his music, his head tilted upward beneath the microphone, his guitar slung high on his chest. His voice is as gruff as it is silky. The stage movement between LaMontagne and his supporting cast of three backing musicians is minimal; one could argue that it is almost boring in its lack of visual stimulation, but none can say it is easy to move your eyes from the man at the center of the stage who bounces up and down and sings with a voice that defies his meek stature and quiet nature. Still, with little stage movement and the musicians backlit by four solitary tangerine lights, you feel that should you look away even for a second you may miss something.
Like a title fight, the first few songs found LaMontagne and the audience testing each other to figure out the pace and acceptance of the evening. By the fifth song, it was obvious who was in control when the audience stopped calling out requests. LaMontagne clearly was not listening. He was lost in his music which seems to move him as much, if not more than the audience. LaMontagne doesn’t talk much to his band though they watch him like a hawk for cues as to when a song starts, and he speaks even less to the audience. Halfway through his set, he kicked into his hit, “Three More Days” which got the audience in the mood to start shouting requests again. The Bee Gees’ “To Love Somebody” was a thrill coming from LaMontagne and moments later, he closed his show as poignantly as he started. Whereas he began the evening by encouraging the crowd to “Be Here Now,” he ended with “Can I Stay.” A telling moment occurred 30 seconds into the final song when LaMontagne stopped playing and whispered to the crowd, “Is there a guitar?” There was. The crowd informed him that what they were hearing sounded wonderful. LaMontagne apologized profusely; a man horribly worried that the disruption he felt was enough to erase a meaningful performance. It was not. A well-deserved encore lasted for three songs, with the band out at first, then only LaMontagne left on stage. “So now it’s just you and me,” he said just before the last song and ended with “Burn.”
The evening could have gone on for another two hours with LaMontagne belting out song after song and the audience captivated by the tempo created less by beat than by passion and emotion. You get the feeling he would have just as soon stayed. You get the feeling LaMontagne never gets all of the emotion, all of the message out in a 90-minute performance. There is no question, though, that he tries. He may appear to be a tortured artist, he may even be one. Ray LaMontagne has to sing. He just has to.
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