The sleek, hip interior of the Roxy was transformed into a down-to-earth, rip-rollicking, overalls and grits hootenanny last Thursday night as Yonder Mountain String Band took the stage to play their brand of funky bluegrass for a bunch of gleeful hippies.
Every synonym for happy can be used to describe the bluegrass of Yonder Mountain String Band. It's merry, festive, cheerful and joyful, without any pretense. There were no egos on the stage Thursday, just musicians that loved to play their instruments and were pleased that we all enjoyed listening.
The band is composed of four zestful young men, all string players, without a drum in sight. Jeff Austin plays mandolin, Ben Kaufmann plucks bass, Dave Johnston is on banjo and Adam Aijala rounds things out with guitar.
When they play together the result is frantic, energized, and rhythmic. Miraculously, without the use of any percussion whatsoever, they get the crowd to dance, albeit spastically.
The band made everyone feel right at home, as if we were all invited to their barn on a sunny afternoon with barbeque served after the show.
Kaufmann, raised in Massachusetts, sported a Schilling jersey and made sure to give props to the Red Sox Nation before daring to pluck a single string of his bass.
Later, Austin would reveal that the band's next tour stop was New York, where he wasn't sure if he would be able to keep the band's promise not to rub the reversed-curse in any of those damn Yankees' faces.
The night, however, was all about the music, which came in two rather long sets. The music started at 9:30 p.m. and the encore wasn't over until after midnight.
While those not familiar with the bluegrass genre might find two and half hours of rhythmic plucking a bit monotonous, any similarity in songs will be quickly wiped out by the sheer intensity of the sounds the band generated.
Every musician was extremely skilled at their instrument, picking complex melodies that weave together to form that distinctive bluegrass layered complexity. They would take turns playing solos cluttered with notes gliding up and down octaves with ease.
Aijala's guitar was particularly memorable. Notes seemed to twang out it like it wasn't no thang. He would close his eyes and pick out complex melodic patterns that ricocheted joyously off of Kaufmann's syncopated bass lines and became interwoven in Johnston's plunking arpeggios, all while Austin kept a strict beat with the shrill strumming of his mandolin.
For some songs, the band was joined by various friends: another guitar player traded solos with Aijala, trying to keep with his precision; another mandolin player who plunked out spiky harmonious solos that counterbalanced Austin's more rhythmic style; and a dobro player that looked like Alfred Molina, who provided a nice counter to the choppy style of the other players with legato musical lines that soared over the staccato picking of the ensemble.
The crowd gathered onto the dance floor towards the stage, bobbing their heads and shuffling their feet to the music. The audience was mostly young, sporting comfortable clothes, the occasional dreadlock and lots of tie-dye. On the outskirts of the dance floor area people had room to dance about freely doing steps that ranged from what looked like a jig to what I like to call "the stoner stomp."
It was clear that this was music that moved.
