Another Concert Review

First, let me say a big belated thank you to everybody who took time to wish me a happy birthday. It’s really good to know that as gone as I may be, I'm not forgotten.
As I've gotten older, I've learned to manage my expectations. Nobody likes to be disappointed; if you don't get your hopes up too much, then the let-down isn't so bad when things don't pan out. It may sound a little bit jaded or cynical, but that philosophy has allowed me to enjoy many fine Wesley Snipes or Jean Claude Van Damme direct-to-DVD releases that could easily have been big disappointments. It's an attitude that allows for taking chances when you just don't know whether you're in for Bloodsport or The Shepherd: Border Patrol.
If I told you we were going to a concert at the largest and most prestigious concert hall in all of Croydon (that's like the largest and most prestigious concert hall in all of Chateauguay), what would you expect? How about if I told you we were going to see an acapella group who reproduce instrument sounds with their voices?
As we waited for the lights to go down and the show to start, the girl sitting behind us commented that when she performed here, the place had been much more full. The maroon and off-white 1960s decor of Fairfield Halls faded into shadow as an unassuming middle-aged man in a polar fleece came out to announce the opening act that hadn't been on the bill. With a modest introduction like that, it's no wonder Krystle Warren blew my mind.
Alone with her guitar on a stage that was rather too big for her, Krystle Warren seemed to open her set cautiously. My first thought was that it was a shame we were seeing her in such a big room – this girl belonged in a smoky cafe or a small cabaret. Plunking a couple of chords on her guitar, she sang a simple song in a rich, throaty alto that gave no hint of the vocal acrobatics coming up. Krystle expanded to fill the stage and then the entire room as she unpacked a Joni-Mitchell-meets-Billie-Holiday sound that captivated the crowd. By the time she took her leave to make way for the headline act, I was completely won-over.
The first half of Naturally 7’s set was part concert, part technical demonstration. Their set-list of R&B, hip-hop and gospel music was broken up by rather a lot of background – who the band was, how they came to be, where they had been, etc. Their demonstrations of the human drum set and the loop pedal were entertaining enough. Each of these massively talented musicians mimicked instruments from horns to keyboards to wailing distorted guitars, on top of singing lead and harmonies that put Boyz II Men to shame. Each little story led into the next song, so the set flowed nicely enough, although I was nagged by the sense that these guys had huge energy that they weren’t turning loose. A highlight came at the end of a story about two brothers in the band growing up with nothing but John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel records in the house. The 7 put their mics down and came to the front of the stage and gave a soulful acoustic rendition of The Sound of Silence. Full respect for the talent and skill, but I was still waiting for them to blow the roof off. About 45 minutes into the set, I got my wish.
I couldn’t tell you exactly what it was that signalled to the crowd that it was time to change gear, but everybody got it pretty well all at once. Suddenly everyone realized that nobody wanted to be sat in their seats watching these guys have fun; we wanted to be part of it. Everybody got out of their seats and started dancing and singing with abandon. When the 7 saw us out of our seats, they reciprocated by involving us in the show, giving the audience rhythms to clap, steps to dance, and parts to sing. For the next half-hour was a jumping, shaking, crowd-rocking party worthy of Ozomatli or Herbaliser. The human bass guitar, a lanky kid in a white dinner jacket with an impossibly deep voice, made the women scream when he spoke into the mic. Naturally 7 went through a mishmash of Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, and other crowd-pleasers as well as some of their own original material. After a short break followed by a 30-minute encore, they ended with a wildly extended adaptation of Phil Collins’ In the Air Tonight that had everyone singing as they left the hall.
I knew we were taking a chance in seeing this show. Seven guys trying to sound like Larvell Jones have the potential to reach rare depths of lameness. But of course, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and our risk was handsomely rewarded with a thoroughly satisfying show.