Ian Moore

The Real Deal - In Concert at Cafe Paradiso in Fairfield

BY JAMES MOORE

Sometimes you find yourself exactly where you want to be.You’ve just enjoyed the most beautiful day. The kind of 70-degree, happyskin, pre-bug tree-bud spring day best enjoyed at a friend’s cabin surroundedby nothing but sunshine and 24 acres of woods.

The kind of day that makes you forget your government is expanding its SpecialOperations Communications (SOCOM) strike force—a 53,000-strong commandwith an $8 billion budget for 2007—by 13,000 special ops corps, includingArmy green berets, Delta Force operatives, and Navy SEALs. Small teams havealready been dispatched to U.S. embassies in some 20 Middle Eastern, Asian,African, and Latin American countries. (Seven thousand are deployed overseas,clandestine “special mission units” to engage in worldwide reconnaissance,intelligence gathering, and man-hunting, as well as partner with foreign militariesto eliminate terrorist sanctuaries and counter extremist ideology—plansrecently approved by Iraq overlord and Def. head Donald Rumsfeld, to fightthe war on t[error] by an administration with a “cold war” mindsetand a “hot war” mentality). In a “subtle” shift, thePentagon will now inform—rather than seek approval from—U.S. ambassadorsbefore conducting military operations, reports the WashingtonPost. More blurredlines of command, just what we need.

Speaking of command, I find Ian Moore in concert at Café Paradiso inFairfield. He is doing the singer/songwriter thing with multi-purpose trumpet/keys/vibesaccompaniment by Kullen Fuchs. Admittedly, I have a latent folk anti-bias becauseas a kid, folk music was what we played in guitar mass. We did Peter, Paul & Mary’sversion of “Blowin’ in the Wind,” know what I mean? I lumpedDylan in the same bag because the Beatles had exploded, girls were squirmingin their seats and bleating, and I couldn’t care less if some guy wantedto hammer in the morning or not. (Discovering Dylan years later, I died a thousandpetites morts.)

By the end of Moore’s first song, I am transfixed. It is something abouthis pied pipes and lit literate composure. He has one of those effortless vocalcommands that can soar, or whisper with a little ground-pepper gravel, or flipinto a silken falsetto in a heartbeat. His guitar-work is pure Soma. Generallynot a big fan of in-between-song singer/songwriter banter, I find Moore’sobservations and anecdotes so intimate and real you feel like you’rein on some act of mutual discovery. It’s as if he’s just talkingto you, someone said later. I said, no, man, he was talking just to me.

The coffeehouse is filled to the gills. Moore (no relation to the author,or Michael Moore, or Roger Moore, or Demi Moore, or James Moore, author ofBush’s Brain) is dressed simply, hair shorn, a strong jaw, good looks.Self-possession is the word that comes to mind, natural. Even though fullyengaged as a performer, working the mic masterfully, he is golden eared, empathic,interactive, a total grok-it man.

Talent big as a breadbasket, accompanied by a squid-like gracefulness, notso much ego as a sheer-joy-of-expressing-oneself well, being firmly-in-one’s-own-dharmakind of undeniable gift that when coupled with great songcraft, deft-definingdynamics, and seamless, heartfelt accompaniment, makes your inner cartwheelswant to join the Peace Corps, swim with endorphins, save the world from oppressionand disease, and pop the hot err balloons of preemptive doctrinaires.

He sings a song he wrote called “Bastards” about the chilly receptionSinead O’Connor received at a Bob Dylan tribute when the audience booedher for having ripped up a picture of the Pope on a Saturday Night Live show.He recounts how afterwards Kris Kristofferson put his arm around the Irishwaif and said, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.” Lateron, Moore nails Dylan’s “You’re a Big Girl Now” andthe Buddy Holly ballad “True Love Ways,” one of my favorites.

Born in Berkeley, raised in Austin, Moore and his band arrived on the scenein the early ’90s with a blues/rock undercoat that drew comparisons tofellow Texans Stevie Ray Vaughn and Doyle Bramhall. One of Moore’s firstgigs was playing guitar for the illustrious Joe Ely. He’s opened forthe Rolling Stones, ZZ Top, Paul Weller, countless big-name acts. I mean, theguy can play brass-ball monster-lead guitar and sing scorched-earth blue hallelujahswith the same facility that he blows the candles out of the sensitive singer/songwritergenre without even exhaling. His label, Capricorn Records, wanted him to bethe next Allman Brothers. With ample chops for roadhouse rock confounded bythe mystical soul of a southern Goth, he chose the artist’s path wherethe journey is the destination.

His latest CD, Luminaria, is a luminous gem. The songs float, unmoored bysupple instrumentation, sure-footed melodies, and flowing chord arrangements,anchored by heart-of-gold vocals. They have a pop sensibility but in the bestsense. “[S]ongs surprisingly rich in atmosphere and emotion . . . suggestingsuch influences as Brian Wilson, Van Dyke Parks, Leonard Cohen, Tim Buckley,the British pop invasion and the ensuing wave of psychedelia,” accordingto the Washington Post. Billboard writes: “Moore puts the listener inthe passenger seat right beside him, and he drives down real-life roads.” Anew album is in the works.

I don’t remember the last time I was this blown away by a performer.Maybe it was Ryan Adams. Dude is versatile, personable, and nothing but affable,equally engaging offstage. Moore, who is now married and has a kid, tells mehe immigrated to Seattle when Dubya defeated Ann Richards and became governorof the Lone Star State. He was high school friends with Scott McClellan, whotill recently was the president’s spokesman.

I ask him about the president’s lost years. I’d always assumedthose stories were mostly bitter grist for the rumor mill. No, he knows theprominent family whose son partied hearty with Bush for a decade or so andthe Houston club they frequented where the president—himself a nicknamelover—was dubbed “Hot Tub” for his love of taking the ladiesback to the steamy waters. The president’s old party chum is still tryingto kick a cocaine habit, something Mr. Bush’s conversion to Christianityseemed to fix, no pun unintended.

Moore is well-informed, strongly opinionated, but not in a my-way-or-the-highwayway. I find him inquisitive and inclusive. He tells me his wife sometimes giveshim shit about it and I nod knowingly, smiling about my own Canadian reflectingpool. Politics, music, recording, equipment, food, the environment—theman seems fat-soul passionate about everything. He wants to explore FloydianPinkness, talks about doing a Rockpile-style record, this incessant eclecticismperhaps the reason he has yet to explode the mainstream’s jugular.

Bottom line: Clapton may be God, but Ian Moore is Cherry Coke. Jeez if youlove honkus. And don’t even get me started about Venezuela.

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