Escovedo Sends His Deep Regrets

For a certain kind of artist, ignoring the warning that “you can’t go home again” must take some guts.

Alejandro Escovedo is precisely that kind of artist, a singer-songwriter whose three-album solo career has been given mainly to probing the consequences of failing to meet the obligations that come with close relation.

The subject Escovedo picks at like an itchy scab is how immersion in a musical career can unbind domestic ties. His albums--”Gravity,” the masterful “Thirteen Years,” and a strong new release, “With These Hands”--are full of the artistic rewards to be reaped from talent and devotion to craft. But they count the losses sustained along the way, and the cost to be paid and repaid in the currency called regret.

Escovedo, 45, began playing music as a late-’70s punk rocker in San Francisco, and, based since the early ‘80s in Austin, Texas, has made his mark as a roots and heartland rocker with a twist. Escovedo spent his school years in Orange County, and Tuesday night at the Coach House he was greeted by a small audience that included a gathering of close kin (he noted the presence of two daughters, as well as sisters and nephews).

The theme of loss and regret dominated the 90-minute show. The bravest, most naked moment of truth-telling came with the encore: “This is about a guy who always wanted to be a better son for his mother and never could reach those heights,” Escovedo said, introducing his quiet country lament “Nickel and a Spoon.”

The song told of support not given, expectations not met, and family harmony never maintained, with just a touch of humor in the chorus to deflect the pain. As his voice rose with feeling, Escovedo came the closest he would all night to stepping over the line of stoical restraint that informs, and enhances, his music.

If Escovedo’s great theme has been an apology for the musical life, the music itself is his ultimate defense and justification for it.

Opening the evening by recalling how he used to surf at nearby Doheny State Beach, the 45-year-old rocker took his listeners on a memorable, undulating ride.

Gritty, Rolling Stones-style riff-rock, powered by the crisp clout and deft timing of drummer Hector Munoz, was one cornerstone of the show, but Escovedo’s music was equally defined by his use of modern chamber-music touches. They were supplied by Brian Standefer and David Perales, an excellent cello and violin duo (Perales also was a strong backing vocalist).

Yes, adding a string section has become a cliche trotted out by half the acts that perform on “MTV Unplugged,” but with Escovedo it is an essential, fully incorporated element of his music. The cello and violin alternately swirled with tension and discord or provided interludes of sadly beautiful reverie. They played an important part in making Escovedo’s sound more than just another Stones or Mellencamp rehash.

The core rock unit, which included lead guitarist Joe Eddy Hines and bassist Scott Garber, meshed with the strings for stylistic combinations not often heard (and not often heard with as fine a balance and clarity as they were here, thanks to a splendid job by the sound engineer).

At the end of the roaring, Stones-inspired rocker “Put You Down,” the strings whipped up a dense psychedelic coda that echoed the mystical churn of the Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never Knows” or “She Said She Said.”

On “One More Time,” the Stonesy cranking would subside and the violin would rise up in a stately but spooky echo of “Heroin,” by the Velvet Underground.

On “The End,” the strings provided an uplifting orchestral richness--not unlike the orchestrated pop-rock of “All Fools’ Day,” a wonderful 1987 album by the Australian band the Saints, that is more lush, but comparable, to Escovedo’s approach. (The work of New Jersey rocker Richard Barone and of Alex Chilton on “Big Star’s Third: Sister Lovers” are other excellent examples of pop-rock heightened by the use of well-integrated strings.)

Escovedo’s nasal, chesty voice isn’t exceptional, but it was very effective. His phrasing and intonation could recall the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Mark Eitzel, the BoDeans’ Sammy Llanas or Rick Danko of the Band without falling into abject mimicry.

His guiding stoicism and restraint served him well: Emotion would well up, but it never spilled over into soppy overacting. Adam Duritz of Counting Crows should serve an apprenticeship under Escovedo. Maybe he would learn that singing with feeling requires a sense of proportion and dignity and is not the same as bawling in tune.

While Escovedo used the Stones’ past liberally, he didn’t borrow any Jagger-Richards stage flash. He was a no-nonsense performer who trusted his songs and his band to make the show vivid. His trust was not misplaced.

As a cult-level artist who records for small labels (Watermelon put out “Gravity” and “Thirteen Years,” and “With These Hands” is on Ryko), Escovedo has plenty of authority to ask in his songs whether a career in music is worth the cost.

It’s a shame the music industry isn’t set up to ensure that fringe artists of his caliber can get the support and compensation they need to keep answering that question with a confident “yes.”

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Anaheim-based Dynamo Hum takes its name from a farcical Frank Zappa song, but the style in its half-hour opening set was a moody, brooding combination of angular rock akin to King Crimson and gothic angst and gloom. The band intermittently held interest as the five members played material from their self-financed debut CD.

The instrumental unit of veteran players was solid, but Dynamo Hum’s prospects rest mainly with a lovely, petite singer, Jennifer Hung. In peak moments, notably the tough, tormented, “Falling,” she mustered urgency that recalled Romeo Void’s Debora Iyall.

For this otherwise faceless band to work, Hung will have to cast off all reserve and dominate the stage like a woman transported and transfixed. That’s a tall order; on the evidence of this six-song set, she has vocal talent and a bit of presence, but not the ferocity and gift for dramatization to make the band truly interesting.