Pop Music Review : Pete Anderson: Working Hard, Playing Hard

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Ghost House . . . er, I mean the Coach House, is proud to present . . . me .” So Pete Anderson introduced himself to an eerily near-empty Coach House on Sunday.

It was Mother’s Day. It was Sunday night. It was raining. It was one of those nights when mathematical probability held sway and everyone at the same time decided to stay home to watch his monkey write a novel.

Whatever the cause, there were fewer than 50 people scattered through the club--less than one-tenth its capacity--and far fewer, it should seem, than is necessary for a band’s sparks to achieve combustion in the audience. But Anderson and his trio managed a fiery set nonetheless.

Anderson has been best known in his capacity as guitarist-producer with Dwight Yoakam and Michelle Shocked, his snapping, concisely unpredictable Telecaster lines helping immeasurably to shape and enliven their songs.

Some sidemen are merely great embellishers, without the talent for creating a solid piece of work, which can become all too apparent when they take off on their own. While Anderson’s music is more low-keyed than the work of some artists he has worked for, it is solid stuff, which not only endures repeated listenings but also becomes more revealing each time. The songs on his “Working Class” album, released last year on his own Little Dog Records, recall John Prine, and sometimes J.J. Cale, in their dry humor and understated depth.

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Most of that album appeared in his 13-song set, which opened with the title track, its chorus bemoaning the state of tradesmen: “They used to call us working class / But we’re just not working anymore.”

There was a workmanlike quality to Anderson’s performance, but that’s not to say it was at all pat. Rather, unlike so many rock performers who act as if every note were a gift from Olympus, he and his trio simply got down to work, delivering human-scaled music with craft, pride and invention.

Anderson has a limited but engaging voice, not unlike Prine’s, used to its best effect on the torchy “Blue Hour.” His guitar work, on the other hand, was limitless, ranging through blues, country and other styles with no regard for borders, or for anything but the moment and what could be said within it.

His playing was nothing less than stunning on his instrumental version of “Our Day Will Come.” His Stratocaster took flight in shimmering melodic lines that never once landed in a predictable place.

Other instrumentals included the Anderson-penned blues “Tomorrow Night,” the Celtic-tinged “Somewhere a Long Time Ago” and the demented circus music of “Muddy Night at the Opera.”

His band included fellow Yoakam tour mates Skip Edwards on keyboards, Taras Prodaniuk on six-string bass and Jim Christie on drums (and with wild hair that looked as if it had been licked into place by a camel).

The group played with a relaxed fervor, never breaking a sweat but playing intense music that at times seemed to skip--with a loping New Orleans rhythm no less--along the precipice of musical chaos.

There were two opening acts. The New Frontier Band--its name a slight misnomer--played solid, mainstream country that was well-delivered but without a hint of anything new.

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Second-billed Robin Pearl and her band, however, showed considerable promise on several fronts. First is her voice, a big, wide-ranging thing that recalls Dusty Springfield’s a bit. While she sometimes took it over the top, going for effect rather than intimacy, on her own “Clear Blue Sky” she also seemed capable of meaning every word.

On that song and a couple of others she also showed herself to be a writer whose songs can connect with life. That’s not a consistent quality, though, and other songs, such as “Wild Wild Ride,” were merely clever and formulaic. Pearl’s band played with plenty of personality and nuance.