Published: Thursday, October 22, 1998

Let's hear it for that guy who sat in with the band

WHO: The Mason Jennings Band with Dave Pirner

WHEN: Monday

WHERE: 400 Bar

CAPSULE: Soul Asylum singer/songwriter Pirner joined up-and-coming

songwriter Jennings for a surprise three-song set that reminded all who

were there of the kind of blissful improvisation and risk-taking that

can only happen in an away-from-the-masses club.

 

 

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JIM WALSH POP MUSIC CRITIC

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It was just before midnight Monday, and the crowd at the 400 Bar on the

West Bank of Minneapolis numbered exactly 20 -- and that includes the

bartenders, soundman and the musicians onstage.

One of those musicians, Dave Pirner, has sung in front of hundreds of

thousands of people at a time. As the guiding light behind Soul Asylum,

Pirner has performed on the White House lawn and to national television

audiences. He has appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine,

toured the world over and sold millions of records.

Another one of those musicians, Mason Jennings, has had trouble selling

500 copies of his self-produced, self-released debut CD. He is one of

the brightest new songwriters in the Twin Cities, but in these days of

fractured and/or unadventurous club-goers, he's struggling to find an

audience.

This night, however, the two songwriters -- the seasoned elder and the

young buck -- found equal ground on the 400 stage, as Pirner joined the

Jennings band for an unannounced three-song set.

The greater part of the evening was given to Jennings who, along with

his ace band (bassist/vocalist Robert Skoro and drummer Chris Strock),

performed two wonderful sets of his own material, including

``Butterfly,'' ``California,'' ``Nothing'' and ``Godless.'' The spare,

acoustic-framed rock trio was more than holding its own with the small

but attentive audience when 400 Bar owner Bill Sullivan yelled from the

front bar, ``Hey, Mason! Mind if my friend plays a few with you guys?''

Jennings glanced over to see Pirner sitting at the bar, and waved his

consent. A few minutes later, when Pirner ambled onstage with his

acoustic guitar, it was the first time the musicians had ever met, let

alone played together. What happened next was a marvelous testament to

the spirit of risk-taking, musical spontaneity and to the riches that

can be had only from trolling clubs, away from the numbers.

The setting was so intimate, barflies could hear Pirner explaining the

chord changes and arrangements to the young band, who appeared

alternately nervous, cocksure and blown away. They wobbled through a

version of TLC's ``Waterfalls,'' which lurched at first, then found an

easy groove. That was followed by a subdued version of Soul Asylum's

``To My Own Devices,'' with Jennings adding flamenco-flavored classical

guitar touches.

``I feel like I'm from out of town, and I just found a kick-ass pickup

band,'' cracked Pirner, who had just returned from a promotional radio

and television tour, and was in town briefly before Soul Asylum left

Wednesday for the Southern leg of their most recent tour.

``This one is pretty emotional for me, so it might be tough,'' said

Pirner, before going into Sinead O'Connor's ``To Mother You.'' Pirner's

obvious affection for the song, coupled with the band's unfamiliarity

with it, made for a fascinating dynamic: Everybody in the pub inhaled,

wondering if the ad-hoc group would make it through the song. Would

Pirner give up in frustration? Would the young trio rise to the

occasion?

In the end, the song soared, and the room pitched a bit. And even though

the crowd was smaller than what any respectable street busker attracts,

Pirner, ever the singer/showman swept away by the moment, emoted his way

through O'Connor's stately, undiscovered gem like his life depended on

it. When it was done, he thanked the trio, got off-stage to the sound of

a few hands clapping and, with a squirrelly smirk, said, ``Thanks, you

guys.''

Jennings' crew finished the night with two songs, and everybody retired

to the bar.

In a recent interview, Jennings said, ``You've got to talk to the people

you're singing to. There's a boundary between you and the singer, and

I'm trying to get rid of that boundary.''

Monday night at the 400 Bar, the boundary between the audience and the

singer was razed, shot, demolished. Just ask those who were there. All

20 of them.