POP REVIEW : Swenson and Fahey Make Long Night of Rock Worthwhile

Blow Up magazine’s second anniversary party Friday night at Bogart’s Bohemian Cafe was a little like the Orange County-Long Beach alternative rock scene that the publication was founded to cover: scattered and hard to define (like the suburbs themselves), but worth delving into.

The lack of stylistic overlap among the five acts which played on the 4 1/2-hour bill was indicative of the absence of a unifying sound on the local scene. That’s bad for marketing (Seattle has established itself as the new hot spot on the alternative rock map by exporting a relatively uniform and consistent product: loud sludge rock), but good for the long-term health of the scene. In music, as in the biosphere, the more varied the gene pool, the better.

Waiting until the end of the long evening had its rewards: Top billed singer-songwriters Tim Swenson and Peter Fahey are two talents worthy of championing the Orange County-Long Beach scene to the outside world. Swenson nearly got his chance last year while fronting the now-defunct Lunchbox, which landed a recording deal but watched it fall through. Fahey’s shot is due to come next year with the release of a debut album on one of the PolyGram Records affiliates.

The two represented effective, but markedly different, approaches toward acoustic singer-songwriter performance.

Fahey fit the traditional image of the singer-songwriter that reaches back to the ‘60s folk boom and (fortunately for him) is back in currency again. Tall and sturdy-looking, he wore a flannel shirt, unbuttoned over a white T-shirt, and strummed his guitar in a basic, unadorned way, embellishing it with wails from a harmonica worn in a collar brace. Fahey’s singing was forthright and homespun, nasal but tuneful. He fit the bill as an American Everyman troubadour.

In keeping with that mold, Fahey’s 45-minute solo acoustic set was full of melancholy introspection. His performance was often like personal reverie--there was even a sense of solitude in the floor-jarring kicks of his left boot with which he kept the beat.

But Fahey’s was an inclusive sort of reverie that drew a listener in. His brief, low-keyed but occasionally humorous song introductions clued a listener in, and his caressing melodies held attention. So did his lyrics, which didn’t strive for poetic grace notes but did manage to set a scene and evoke feelings in direct, economical terms. As personal as Fahey’s songs were, they touched on emotional situations that almost everyone has experienced.

Taken together, the set’s eight songs sketched a man chastened and wary in his understanding of life’s pain but stoically able to accept it without self-pity. “Depend On” reflected on how existence can be a lonely thing, even when it’s colored with love and companionship. “I’ll Remember You” got to the heart of one of life’s unique emotional experiences: the mingled sense of loss and relief that comes when death ends an aged grandparent’s suffering. Fahey’s directness and simplicity allowed him to pull off songs such as that without sinking into pathos or sentimentality.

That was true, at least, when he sang from his own point of view. “Picking Up Pennies,” in which Fahey tried to step into the shoes of a Skid Row denizen, voiced the usual sentiments about extreme poverty, without any imaginative flashes to make them hit home.

Over a longer set, some counterbalancing lightheartedness or hopefulness would be in order. The closest Fahey came was “Sweet Dreams” (not the Patsy Cline song), a combination of Everly Brothers winsomeness and John Lennon’s “Imagine”--style utopianism.

Where Fahey was meditative and self-contained, Swenson let it rip. Attacking an acoustic guitar he borrowed from Fahey, accompanied by an electric bassist and electric guitarist, the Long Beach-based singer showed his roots in the Orange County punk scene by performing his entire 35-minute set at a hot pitch of passion. Punk emerged in the aggressiveness and all-out emotionalism of the performance rather than in the music itself. Swenson sang with a soul-tinged cry, not a punker’s snarl. The shaggy, tattooed singer writhed spasmodically and stomped in a kinetic display that obviously rose from honest feeling, not calculated design. Swenson’sa connection to the emotions in his songs was immediate, complete, and unquestionable.

Swenson sang about frayed inner states, chronicling betrayals suffered, sins committed, at one point allowing for a vision of redemption conferred. The high moral stakes in his songs justified the high drama of his fevered delivery.

Bassist John Wersbee and guitarist Dave Davis backed Swenson with just the right blend of raggedness and sensitivity. Davis’ spare, countrified lead guitar fills and vocal harmonies were consistently on target. The players interacted, watching each other, exchanging nods of recognition and satisfaction and making the set seem less a performance than a shared emotional release.

The other three acts on the bill are still developing, but not without promise. Medicine Rattle and Spanish Fly front man Dave Pedroza lose points for shirking the evening’s challenge--it was billed as “An Acoustic Hoedown”--by performing electric sets with full-rock rhythm sections. Better to review them down the road, in full-blown rock settings where they aren’t trying to present a more subdued fish-nor-foul version of themselves (Kirsten Konte of Children’s Day turned in a fine guest appearance, dueting on several songs with Pedroza in a voice that was clear and firm, but with a strong shading of world-weariness).

Kristi Lewis, formerly the backup singer in Too Many Joes, opened with a set that made a strong claim for her own place in the spotlight. Playing in an as-yet-unnamed duo with harmony-singer Tracey New, Lewis sang beautifully, recalling such pure-sounding sources as Joni Mitchell, Maria McKee and some of the more ethereal female singers on the British alternative rock scene. She strummed guitar purposefully, and displayed lots of confidence and the ability to project herself on stage. New was a reticent performer, but blended with Lewis in fine close harmonies.

Lewis and New clearly have ability, but they didn’t have any good songs. Everything in their 35-minute set meandered without melodic or lyrical focus, sounding more like outpourings in a diary than well-shaped songs. The duo’s outlook, though not its sound, resembled the Indigo Girls’: ever-earnest examinations of what it’s like to be in limbo between adolescence and that elusive moment when one figures out an adult purpose for one’s life. It’s perfectly legitimate to sing about that post-adolescent search for identity and meaning, but it has to be done in a way that’s resonant, not self-involved.

Blow Up is the creation of co-editors John Surge and Bobbi Villalobos, Long Beach residents who met when they were journalism students at Humboldt State. Surge said he saw a need for a publication that would spotlight the Long Beach-Orange County alternative rock and poetry scene, which he felt received short shrift from the underground music press in Los Angeles. Using their home computer, Surge and Villalobos publish a 16-page tabloid edition every other month and distribute 4,000 copies for free.

Surge said his next goal--not yet in sight because of tight finances--is to have Blow Up sponsor a compilation album that would spotlight local performers and perhaps serve as a first step toward creating a regular independent label to go with the magazine.