The heat merged with the humidity like some foul alchemical potation, the sort you only endure on a July evening in Manhattan. Some might even say “it was hotter than a crotch” although I wouldn’t. That’s gross. M and I exited a cab at the designated corner in Chelsea and set off by foot in search of number 210. We shouldn’t have been surprised that there seemed to be two 210s, but just as we attempted to ponder it all out, a friendly guy called out from the 210 on the right. “Are you here for the concert?”
We were, indeed, and he introduced himself as Charles. Charles the Gatekeeper struck me as plenty amiable and polite, but he was all business as he reviewed our credentials. If we did not check out as legit, we had no chance of making it past Charles and into this popup speakeasy. Fortunately, M and I had been fully boosted for some time, so we readily made the cut. Charles led us inside to a tiny elevator that required a swift turn of a key and press of a button in some mystical combination before he stepped off to launch us on our way.
We walked into the room with our vax cards in our hands, and our host welcomed us warmly. Craig Danuloff. A hip cat, one of those fellows who can be both cool and very warm at the same time and a fantastic host. He introduced us to his shelf of singer-songwriter-affiliated whiskeys, and soon we were knock, knock, knockin’ back Heaven’s Door and mingling with his international array of guests, hailing from such far-flung locales as Down Under and just across some bridge or tunnel. The steady buzz of introductions and chit-chat continued for some time before someone indicated the main fare was at hand, assuring our conversations were short and sweet.
Through the window, the sun was sinking shiplike as the twenty or so of us gathered on chairs in an open space. There toward the front was Charles eyeballing us as we settled in, he smiled easily.
Nothing could really prepare us for what we were about to experience. Emma entered, blue gown ablaze, with Robyn, dressed just like the night, slinging his guitar. These two, you could tell, might just as soon charm a cobra as they instantly charmed us. Even in the midst of a hardboiled July, their obvious good nature was welcome and welcoming.
And that music. You perhaps have heard the album, Blonde on the Tracks. You may even have seen these two perform. But the combination of the lovely Chelsea apartment, the exuberant company, and Craig’s unassuming generosity were as intoxicating as the whiskey. All they had to do was swizzle stick in the music, and we were transported. The audience sat there stunned, grinning, happy.
Hearing Emma is one thing, but watching her performance is altogether revelatory. She is petite, but her voice commands. She does this thing with her body as she sings, folding it up, doubling over. I am sure a voice instructor would tell her to stand tall, all the better to belt it out, but instead she seemingly wrings the sound from herself. It’s a strange thing to experience a singer with such a naturally beautiful voice risk that kind of expressiveness. I realized how rare it is really. Rather than performing safely in the shallows relying on her talent to keep her afloat, she dives deep to imbue every sound with meaning and emotion, going right to the edge, right to the end.
Meanwhile, Robyn looks as if he is over there just noodling on his guitar. But no, he is precise, intent. His style is singular, even eccentric, and it syncs perfectly with Emma’s distinctive voice. I found myself really enjoying his playing and told him so afterward. He seemed genuinely pleased and modestly said no one but Emma lets him back them because he suffers from “arrhythmia” — presumably musical and not cardiac. If that’s arrhythmia, I thought, gimme more and more and more and more.
The two interact as the couple they are on stage, exchanging inside jokes and sharing looks at moments in songs that seem to mean something unique to them. Sometimes they giggled together for no apparent reason. Charming.
Sitting there, it occurred to me as things sometimes do that while there are plenty of bad Dylan covers, really good Dylan covers fall into three categories. There are the ones that all but remove Dylan from the equation so that you almost forget it’s his song. Manfred Mann comes to mind as an example. Then there’s the ones who offer their unique take but somehow never let you forget you are listening to a Dylan number, the most numerous good Dylan coverers by far. The transcendent Cat Power comes to mind.
Then, the decidedly distinctive, the ones who somehow do both, bridging both approaches, like Emma Swift. There is a knowing joy that informs her performance as well as her collaboration with Robyn Hitchcock. A knowing joy that draws in her audience.
After performing all the songs from Blonde on the Tracks, sans the 11-minute “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” our troubadours delighted us with some numbers from Time out of Mind, a particular favorite of our host, Craig. And we even were treated to Robyn solo.
They said they could not close without presenting the song they asserted was Dylan’s “most sacred.” What could it be? I thought. “Every Grain?” “Blind Willie McTell?” “Desolation Row?” Could it be “Key West?”
Ah so, just so. Of course. It was an acutely mesmerizing rendition that played tricks as we sat there so quiet.
I later learned that the Freewheelin’ Rob K. — king of the pods, child of clay — had been in attendance but had to leave right after the music. He and I have spoken, but had never seen each other, so my hopes and dreams of meeting him remain buried under tobacco leaves. As a compensation though I did meet David Y., a fine author whose Dylan book — in this world where Dylan research has gone berserk — I admire.
Sometime later Craig invited us to listen to the new recording of “Blowin’ in the Wind.” No, he did not have the actual gazillion-dollar disc. The recording is everywhere, you know. But, there was no time to think. We gathered round like children and listened attentively, admiring Dylan’s ability to take something so ancient, and now, so iconic and established and render it anew. It was like we could finally see the sky.
The gathering closed like all things do, so M and I rode the elevator down with Allison R. before stepping into the hot New York night. Allison deftly hopped into a cab like someone who had somewhere to be, I figured just grabbing a ride back to from where she started. M and I hailed our own cab, the spell broken, heading back to the same old rat race, life in the same old cage. Thanks to Emma, Robyn, and Craig for a fantastic popup departure from all that!
Do yourself a favor. Check out Craig’s fantastic Dylan endeavor, Freak Music Club. https://freakmusic.club
Swift and Hitchcock Live at the Popup Speakeasy