POP REVIEW : subdudes They Are Not in Soulful Sets

The subdudes may belong to the k.d. lang we-spell-our-name-with-small-letters club, but this New Orleans R & B band’s talent is writ large enough.

Playing at the Coach House on Wednesday, the subdudes had no more use for slick and fancy trappings than they did for that discarded capital S. Instead, these four unassuming fellows offered good singin’ and good playin’ in settings soulful, bluesy or funky.

Soulfulness comes almost too easily to the subdudes. Tommy Malone, the guitarist and main singer, showed a natural proclivity for a high, plaintive, well-controlled cry in which the airways fill with so much emotion that the vocalist seems about to choke.

Think Steve Winwood, and you’ll have a pretty close idea of the effect. Add to that Malone’s sweet touch on acoustic lead guitar and occasional rougher sallies with electric guitar, and, voila --the subdudes had a somewhat smaller version (in physical size as well as talent) of Los Lobos’ wondrous singer-guitarist, David Hidalgo.

The subdudes surrounded their point man with fine harmonies and lots of mellifluous accordion and keyboard work from John Magnie. Percussionist Steve Amedee added an idiosyncratic, back-to-basics approach by keeping the beat mainly by whacking a tambourine with a stick, somehow generating a thick, muffled thwack that made you look around futilely to see where he had hidden that bass drum you were hearing.

The subdudes also brought along a couple of very helpful guests: guitarist Willie Williams, of New Orleans’ Zion Harmonizers gospel group, jolted the rhythm section whenever he jumped in. And hand-picked opening act Pat McLaughlin, one of the best roots-music singer-guitarists around, lent his robust voice to a couple of songs.

All these elements combined in a two-hour set full of interactive playing and an easy, closely attuned interchange between the players. At times, the subdudes, who have been together for 10 years, gathered tightly behind the seated Amedee, looking like a family posing for its portrait as they sought a close-in musical connection.

About the only thing lacking in the two-hour show was striking original material--a flaw that keeps the subdudes from being major dudes, despite their first-class abilities.

The band makes the most of Malone’s freely emotional voice by injecting a subtle humor or affirmative rhythms into songs that are fundamentally yearning or hurting.

Consequently, the songs that painted the sorrow in life also could point toward ways of coping with it (“Poverty,” a burdened-but-surging social commentary from the band’s new album, “Annunciation,” was a good example).

That many-dimensioned portrayal of emotions, a key to good songwriting, was abundant, but indelible melodies and grabbing arrangements were harder to come by. That meant the subdudes’ instrumental workouts and extended vocal vamps were the gist of their set. They stretched out like ‘70s vintage Van Morrison or Little Feat, but without the same songwriting flair.

While the band carefully regulated the mood between dark and light, easygoing and charged, a certain sameness settled in. The unorthodox percussion approach had the virtue of simplicity and ingenuity, but one wished for the sharp, syncopating crack of a snare drum or the snaky shiver of a high-hat cymbal to accent the beat.

As for Malone, as soulful as he was, his vocal hue changed too little from song to song.

In that respect, the subdudes’ friend, McLaughlin, was more involving, even if he doesn’t have as pure a tone as Malone. Besides R & B influences, McLaughlin had a lot of country in his voice. He could sound like John Hiatt, or like some combination of the Band’s great vocal triumvirate of Levon Helm, Rick Danko and Richard Manuel.

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He played his solo acoustic set at a passionate peak, oblivious to an obnoxious minority in the house that preferred to spend 38 minutes in bothersome chatter rather than open up and let something new and rewarding seep in.

McLaughlin, whose recently released “Unglued” is his first album in six years, didn’t let that resistance stop him from playing as vigorous a solo set as anybody this side of Neil Young.

His guitar chops were literally that: He chopped at his strings with a firm right hand, laying down a rumbling rhythm fat enough to dance to. McLaughlin didn’t hesitate, stomping his feet and lumbering about as his own music led him on.

McLaughlin’s songs had that double edge as well. It enabled hangdog humor to intrude upon songs like “Knockin’ Around Nashville,” a country ballad that was primarily a George Jones-style confession of defeat.

McLaughlin did get through to most of the house, judging from the strong applause he drew. Here’s hoping he finds his way back here before long, perhaps with a band that will showcase his talents as an electric rocker. We got an appetizing taste of that in the handful of songs he sang during guest spots with the subdudes, including a cover of the Temptations’ “I Wish It Would Rain.”

On a night of roots-rock and soul experts, the opening act, 9 Days Wonder, played edgy garage rock that was ill-matched to what came after. But the hard-charging home stretch of its set carried an atypical sense of hopefulness and suggested that the Tustin-area band would be worth hearing out in the right setting.