Hugh McCabe remembers the recently deceased US songwriter David Berman, whose music will be celebrated at a tribute concert at The Sound House, Dublin, on Thursday, October 17th.
All my favourite singers couldn't sing. Sometimes literally. I first encountered David Berman and his band Silver Jews at a showcase gig in New York that was put on by their label Drag City. This was sometime in the late 90s and the night was as memorable for what didn’t happen as for what did. What did happen were performances from many of the label’s superlative roster. Bill Callahan (Smog) doing note-perfect renditions of songs from his recently released and now classic Red Apple Falls album. Jim O’Rourke, armed with just an acoustic guitar, a mic and a delay pedal, giving an elongated and mesmerising take on Thunderclap Newman’s Something In The Air. Royal Trux riding a wrecking ball through the night’s proceedings with a raucous and shambolic act of rock’n’roll deconstruction. What didn’t happen though was David Berman. At the appointed time someone from the label took the mic and apologised. It seems Berman was backstage but wasn’t going to come out and sing. He just didn’t want to.
What should have been a disaster turned into a triumph. The label guy gamely took it upon himself to lead the band through a bunch of Silver Jews songs, with the audience pitching in where needed. Rather than being annoyed at Berman’s non-appearance, everyone there seemed to be rooting for him. This is okay - they were saying. We’re just happy you’re in the building. I didn’t know it at the time but despite having released two critically acclaimed albums at that stage (1994's Starlite Walker and The Natural Bridge in 1996) there had never been any Silver Jews live shows. No promotional tours. No festival slots. Nothing. I also didn’t know anything about Berman’s struggles with anxiety and depression, or about the troubled life he led. By now this is all well documented, so let’s not dwell on it here. Let’s dwell instead on the music.
Berman made six albums in total as Silver Jews, using a rotating cast of musicians as his backing band, before calling an end to the project in 2009. What started as slightly ramshackle indie rock finished as polished pop, and along the way took in stark Americana and bleak blues. After the release of American Water (1998), the influence of country music became more overt, and soon after this Berman moved to Nashville, a place where he claimed one could make a living writing sad songs and getting paid by the tear. Berman did indeed write many many sad songs, and in them, sad things often happen to undeserving people. The love-struck protagonist of I Remember Me gets hit by a truck at the exact moment he proposes to his adoring girlfriend. By the time he recovers from his coma she’s long gone - having married a banker and moved to Oklahoma.
But unlike many more widely lauded songwriters, Berman’s sadness is never an introspective, self-obsessed one. It’s a recognition that for a lot of people, for a lot of the time, things really suck. And his sadness is always leavened with humour. Sometimes this takes the form of actual jokes. A robot walks into a bar, orders a drink and lays down a bill. Bartender says "Hey, we don’t serve robots". And the robot says "Oh, but someday you will". Sometimes it’s hilarious one-liners like when the singer reminisces about being nineteen and dead from the neck up. Sometimes we get unlikely and outlandish tales about almost losing genitalia to anthills in Des Moines. Sometimes it’s out and out absurdity. Tanning beds exploding with rich women inside. An airport bar that’s like Christmas in a submarine.
Watch: Silver Jews play songs from Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea
I’d put the best of Berman’s songwriting up there with that of Dylan, Cohen or Mitchell. And yet somehow these don’t seem like particularly useful comparisons. When I think about what’s unique and great about his work, I find myself thinking of visual artists like Robert Frank, someone who also passed away recently. Frank travelled the backroads of America in the 1950s and photographed everything he encountered. His uncanny eye and meticulous powers of observation revealed an America that hitherto was not easily accessible, or perhaps simply was not even there. His ability to use imagery to highlight contrasts and make connections created a particularly idiosyncratic vision of what America was and is.
Unlike many more widely lauded songwriters, Berman's sadness is never an introspective, self-obsessed one.
Berman does something similar with his songs. His America is also one we haven’t encountered before. One where it’s evening all day long. One where there’s bad roads, bad snow and bad bridges. Abandoned drive-ins and boarded-up houses. Smoky pick-up bars and exit ramps. But it’s also an America filled with wonder. One where the rain turns the ditches to mirrors. One that recognises the strange magic when a city turns on her lights and where jagged skylines look like car keys. It’s an America that looks up to the skies for some kind of salvation. One of the most beautiful of his verses is when he imagines that the stars are the headlights of angels driving from heaven to save us.
Watch: Silver Jew, a documentary about Silver Jews' tour of Israel
To everyone’s surprise, Berman eventually got over his aversion to playing live and Silver Jews started touring in 2005. Three years later they landed in Ireland and played a triumphant and fondly remembered run of shows, taking in Belfast, Dundalk, Cork, Galway and Dublin. He was in flying form throughout and clearly buoyed by the presence of his then-wife Cassie in the band. After the gig at the Spirit Store in Dundalk, he fell down the stairs at the back of the venue and broke his hand. Rather than denting his enthusiasm, this seemed to spur him on. He turned up in Whelans a few days later talking about how not having to play the guitar on stage anymore was a kind of liberation. The following year though, he announced he was disbanding the Silver Jews, and he then promptly retired from music.
We couldn't be more sorry to tell you this. David Berman passed away earlier today. A great friend and one of the most inspiring individuals we've ever known is gone. Rest easy, David. pic.twitter.com/5n5bctcu4j
— 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖌 𝕮𝖎𝖙𝖞 (@dragcityrecords) August 7, 2019
David Berman took his own life on August 7th 2019. He was 52 years of age: an especially sad and cruel time to go. It's probably naive to think that the kind of demons that troubled him could ever be fully conquered, but given that he had made it this far, it seemed reasonable to assume that he had at least made some sort of accommodation with them. At least that’s what we all hoped when it was announced earlier this year that after a ten-year hiatus he was returning to making music with his new Purple Mountains project. An excellent album materialised, but the planned tour never did, with Berman ending things just a few days before it was due to start.
His death was tragic and shocking but we don’t have to remember him for that. He left us many gifts that we can remember him by instead. So let’s remember him for his wondrous songs, his beautiful poems, his generous spirit, and his wild kindness. Oh David, the world was not ready for you.
Purple Jews: a tribute concert for David Berman will be held at The Sound House on Eden Quay on Thursday October 17th. Performers on the night will include Adrian Crowley, John Kelly, Maija Sofia, Eileen Gogan, Skelocrats, Shrug Life, Oh Boland and many more. All proceeds go to Aware, and tickets available from purplejews.eventbrite.ie.
