The Lowdown
Who: Tippy Canoe, Rick Quisol, Terese Taylor, Misisipi Mike
When: October 20, 2009
Where: Revolution Cafe, 3248 22nd Street, SanFrancisco, CA
Hidden Costs: Artists “pass the hat” to accept tips/donations
The Take-Away
Venue: Good for a hang out, but probably not so much so if you’re serious about having a pure music experience. Go there and get yummy coffee (the guacamole’s not half bad, either) or a pint of Chimay Red on tap. Discuss the state of the world with recent college grads and/or bona fide beatniks. Get immersed in a true neighborhood dive in a one-of-a-kind city. But don’t come for the great sound system, ’cause it ain’t there.
Artists: If you’re feeling dark or moody, seek out Terese; she’ll put it all in perspective for you. But try to catch her with a full set-up; her songs will pack more punch that way. If you want a sweet sort of American Legion/USO experience, seek out Tippy; she’ll charm you and take you back to a time when lyrics were straightforward and sing-alongs were encouraged. If you want a luscious male crooner and you know who The Velvet Fog was, seek out Rick; he’ll sweep you off your feet, and do it with a kicky cap and playful persona. And if you want your songs served neat with a dash of homespun insight and impeccable fingerpicking, seek out Misisipi Mike; he’s fun, sassy, and an amazing guitar player. Seriously. Go see him. Now.
The Review
The Revolution Cafe is a quintessential San Francisco kind of place. It’s a little divey, a little hipster, with a whole lotta coffee and a whole lotta beer. The crowd is a mixture of early twenty-something’s discussing how the art of conversation is dead (actual quote from the table next to me: “We just had a meaningful discussion about small talk!”) and aging revolutionaries still taking hits off an old glass pipe on the front patio, cupping their hands over the bowl to shield it from the occasional nor’wester.
(Reminds me of a joke my dad used to tell. Ready? Here it goes: What’s a pot smoker’s favorite body part? “‘Ere!” Get it? I know; it loses something when it’s written out. Go back, read it to yourself out loud, and then maybe you’ll laugh. If not, blame my dad; he can take it. Or, if you still don’t get it, then lemme say this: “‘Ere” sounds just like “ear.” Get it now? But I digress…)
The cafe is sort of a not-so-secret local gem, and even though everyone seems to know that it’s there, the place does its damnedest to remain as anonymous as possible. There is nary a sign bearing the name of the establishment, only a vibrant mural along the length of one side of the building announcing in block letters, “REVOLUTION.”
The interior is just what you’d expect, which is to say that the combination of worn and scarred wooden floors and furniture with heavily shaded pendant lamps just barely leaking any kind of illumination gives the small room a decidedly speakeasy feeling. It’s very dark. Very. Dark. But not only is this place a cafe and a live music venue and a perfect neighborhood dive bar (beer and wine only, folks), it’s also an art gallery. Yep, that’s right! The walls display works from local artists on a rotating basis, and on this particular night, the gallery featured beautifully captured full-color photographs of weather-worn doorways and building fronts.
I knew immediately I was going to like this place.
Oh, one little caveat for those of you who are smoke-averse/sensitive: in order to even enter the establishment, you gotta wade through the front patio area, which is where all of the smokers (tobacco, pot, what-have-you) are sitting. Also, you should know that, because the doors are left wide open during business hours, some smoke will inevitably come into the cafe itself. Just a heads-up.
I walked up to the bar/service counter where the one lone staff member stood facing full-front to cater to the varied wants and needs of her motley patrons. The back wall above the counter was covered in a panoply of dry-erase boards listing the various vittles and libations offered up. I horned in immediately on the Stella Artois ($4.50 for a bottle) and house guacamole and chips ($5 for a serving that could comfortably feed two; this was my dinner, though, so I ate it all by my little lonesome).
Service-with-a-smile and goodies in hand, I was fortunate enough to find a table in the back, and by “back,” I mean about twenty feet from the stage, and by “stage,” I mean the left-hand six-feet-square corner of floor where a lone speaker stood raised above the musicians’ stools and mics. (Did I mention yet that the place is intimate? ‘Cause it is. Seriously. Get there early.)
I watched the musicians tune their instruments, leaning in towards each other to ear-in, checking their connections to the mix board, smiling and laughing with each other. And I quickly realized that each of them had styled themselves in the genre of music they professed to play:
Terese Taylor (Experimental/Black Metal/Folk Rock) wore all black; Misisipi Mike (Folk/Indie/Country) wore a logo T-shirt, khakis, and a fedora; Tippy Canoe (Roots Music/Melodramatic Popular Song/Pop) wore a be-ribboned black beret and a full-length sweater coat; and Rick Quisol (“The Dimestore Dandy”) wore slacks, a golf cap, and a light blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
The evening’s show was presented in a round robin format. Each artist took a turn playing a song of their choice, calling out the key signature so the others could jump in, should they wish to do so. Both Tippy Canoe and Rick Quisol featured the ukelele in their performances, as well as the occasional washboard percussion section, while Misisipi Mike and Terese Taylor played six-string electric acoustic guitars.
Terese Taylor started off the evening. If you’re an emo kind of person or like to howl at the moon, this artist is for you! Her songs tended to be darker and more introspective, sort of angsty and heady all at once. As a vocalist, she had a lyrical soprano voice that she projected through a tight jaw, all the while keeping a piece of chewing gum in her mouth. (Fascinating!) And she didn’t sing with any vibrato; it was just a straight, poignant, clear voice reaching out across the room and taking you by the shoulders (if that makes any sense). Instrumentally, she was a very agile guitarist, deftly moving from one chord to the next. Her strumming style indicated that at some point she probably had classical guitar training (we learned the same technique in a beginning classical guitar class I started to take out at City College…twice…). And she seemed to like to play with time signatures and tempos, which made her compositions interesting and attention-grabbing. But, boy, did this woman love her distortion pedal! She’d be toolin’ along, strummin’ away her broken and/or disillusioned heart, and all of a sudden — BAM! DISTORTION! No more acoustic ambient guitar! The effect was jarring and much too loud for that particular venue. And, having previously listened to the songs available on her Web site, I can honestly say that if she had been playing those same songs with her full band, the use of the distortion effect would not have been an issue. As it was, however, the result was odd and awkward. But, all of that aside, I largely enjoyed her music. (I guess I’m one of those angsty types; plus, the girl can seriously play the guitar!) By far the best song she did was “Sweet,” which was a lovely waltz that sat lower in her vocal range and was slightly reminiscent of Sheryl Crow’s “Globe Sessions” album. Beautiful, haunting, a masterwork.
Next up was Misisipi Mike, who was actually from Mississippi (originally), but now apparently lives just about a block away from the Revolution Cafe (he told us so; mustn’t be too much of a secret). His music was largely upbeat and folky, with catchy guitar hooks and lyrics chock-full o’ washerwoman wisdom (e.g. “When life gives you lemons…”). The best part for me? This guy was apparently quite fond of his libations! He often referenced drinking, and sang longingly when he covered Evelynn Rose’s “Whiskey Woman.” His style was folk rock-meets-southern rock, and it sat well with him. He was a sort of quintessential singer/songwriter, with impeccable guitar technique and an expressive voice. He was easily the best technical player of the evening, and ably worked into most of the others’ performances, adding a lead guitar line into the instrumental breaks with virtually no fumbling, as though he’d rehearsed the licks ahead of time. Lyrically, his selections ran the gamut from nostalgic (“Lonely Old House on Memory Lane”) to impish (“Louisiana Livin’ and I’m Gettin’ Fat”). His fingerpicking style was nimble, and reminded me of Iron and Wine. I loved this guy. I wanted to be his next door neighbor and sit with him on his front porch drinking beer at dusk…often.
He was followed by Tippy Canoe, the Lovely Lady of the Ukelele. Tippy had a strong, clear high alto voice whose dynamic ebbed and flowed in a rhythmic fashion that reminded me of a pond’s rippling water lapping at the side of a rowboat. She showed herself to be a fan of doo-wop era music, both the upbeat and the balladic. She, too, sang with a straight tone, which at times proved to be problematic for her because she would occasionally get off pitch. She also seemed to play largely by feel, which made it a little difficult for the other musicians to jam with her, because sometimes she would get ahead of herself and not complete a phrase. Also, at that particular venue, she really needed to be more articulate; many of the patrons were not there to listen to the music, and the constant low roar of conversation and partially obstructed view (a lot of SRO audience members) made it difficult to understand the lyrics she was singing. But she by far had the most interaction with the audience, checking in to see if they were having fun, asking about sound levels — that kind of thing. And she was absolutely charming and coquettish and straight-up adorable, which is probably why she was the one who came around the room to “pass the hat” (i.e. solicit tips/donations from the audience). She handled what could have been an awkward moment in a very charming and playful way, making it even more likely that audience members would be amenable to coughing up money.
And, finally, there was Rick Quisol. He also played the ukelele, the washboard, and almost always donned this contraption where he had a kazoo mounted inside an empty tin can (which I can only presume served to focus the sound forward so that it would be picked up by his microphone). The moment Rick opened his mouth, I was entranced. His voice was beyond lyrical; it was like sinking into a warm bath scented with honey and lavender. He was definitely of the old jazz crooner ilk. Listening to him almost reminded me of Mel Torme. His vocal technique was superior, allowing him to be expressive: he was able to phrase his songs in a way that really illustrated the story each song was trying to convey. And he seemed to have the best inherent musicianship of the bunch. When he wasn’t killing you softly, he was making you giggle with his cover of “Knock Three Times.” (Yes, that “Knock Three Times,” as in, “…on the ceiling if you want me.”) At one point, he asked for a volunteer to play the maracas on one of his songs, but, alas, the room was not game. (As a side note, Rick is the bandleader of The Frisky Frolics, who sadly do not appear to have scheduled any shows in San Francisco — free or otherwise — any time soon. But keep an eye out; this guy’s worth your time and money!)
