Tim Easton has nowhere for you to hang your hat... ...while Eitzel's sorry ass is more impressive.

Seriously, though, if there's ever been an artist with a self-image problem, it's Mark Eitzel. Throughout his mostly sparklingly brilliant fifteen year career -- first with Bay-area ensemble American Music Club, who were perhaps the one independent band that topped critics' year-end lists more consistently than any other in the late '80s and early '90s, and currently with his slightly less consistent, but nonetheless quite artistically successful solo period -- Eitzel has been identified as one of the nation's best and brightest songwriters. Of course, these critical accolades haven't exactly translated into multi-platinum sales, and for the most part, Eitzel continues to languish in "critically acclaimed cult favorite" status. This is probably due to several facts: Eitzel's irrepressible, self-deprecating personality, his refusal to "dumb down" his material to suit a broader audience, and his Neil Young-like dedication to doing whatever the fuck he wants, critics be damned. The sheer diversity of his solo efforts thus far bears witness to this; from the jazzy 60 Watt Silver Lining to the relatively poppy, accessible collaboration with REM's Peter Buck, West, to last year's critically lauded experiment in Pro-Tools recording and electronica-lite, The Invisible Man, to his latest disc of inscrutable cover songs, Music for Courage and Confidence, if there's one thing Eitzel hasn't done throughout his career, it's stand still. The constant throughout all this unrepentant genre-hopping is, of course, Eitzel's mindblowing songwriting and lyrical prowess, and his amazingly rich, expressive voice. These factors ensure that no matter what style Eitzel feels motivated to write in this month, the results will, if nothing else, always sound like a Mark Eitzel song.

This evening's performance came at the end of one of the first truly beautiful days of Seattle's "false summer" (the temperate period that fools even the most grizzled native Seattleites into thinking that the nice weather has finally come, despite the fact that everyone knows that there's at least another month and a half of grim greyness to be had before summer truly arrives) -- which, I suspect, had something to do with the lackluster attendance. The fact that Sunday night is one of the least popular showgoing nights probably didn't help much either, but even so, the crowd was pretty pathetic -- hardly even 75 people.

I arrived at the club in time to catch a few of opener Tim Easton's songs. Easton is an excellent guitarist, with a rich, expressive voice that's equal parts sandpaper and honey. However, something about his songs failed to connect. His lyrics and songwriting, while hardly weak, didn't really provide any immediate hooks to hang your hat on, so to speak. Others in the audience seemed more than appreciative of Easton's efforts (not the least of whom was Mark Eitzel himself); he was even coaxed back onstage for a brief encore. Nice, but not much compared to Eitzel's mastery.

The first thing that Mark Eitzel does when he gets on stage is...fart. Twice. Loudly. Now, I'm not saying that he does this every night, but he did tonight, and it certainly set the tone for what was to be an evening of belly-laughs and impressive emoting. Despite the dour nature of many of his songs, when it comes to live performance, Mark Eitzel never seems sure whether he wants to be a musician or a stand-up comedian. He's constantly poking fun at himself, the audience, and pretty much anything in sight. It's all part of his stage persona, which, depending on his mood, can be extremely jovial or positively depressive and chilly. Thankfully, he was in quite an entertaining mood tonight. When I spoke with him at the door, I asked him if he'd be playing mostly covers tonight (given the newly released covers album). He replied, "About half and half, with some new stuff, too." Thankfully, he lied, and his set was a satisfying sampling of his entire career, with a grand old American Music Club chestnut ("I've Been a Mess") thrown in for good measure.

I say "thankfully" because, to be honest, this covers album that he's touring behind, Songs of Courage and Confidence, is pretty god-awful. The reason for this is not Eitzel's performance, which is fine, but rather, his choice of cover material, which runs the gamut from Culture Club ("Do You Really Want to Hurt Me") to Kris Kristofferson ("Help Me Make it Through the Night") to frickin' frackin' Anne Murray ("Snowbird"). I mean, come on, Mark, Anne Fucking Murray? We all knew that you had a penchant for Las Vegas-style schmaltz (AMC's "The Hula Maiden" is a testament to this, as is "Johnny Mathis' Feet" -- although the latter is actually a great, great song), but this crap is all but inexcusable. In fact, pretty much the only decent song on the record is the only one written by a songwriter of any note, Phil Ochs' "Rehearsals for Retirement". Although I think Eitzel's voice is magnificent, the main reason I'm a fan is because of his songs. When he uses this voice in the service of singing cheesy, maudlin cover songs, the result is not nearly as compelling, just as the best actor in the world can't do much to save a poorly-written script.

Okay, rant over. As I said before, Eitzel only performed several of these songs -- one of which was a rendition of the just-fine Ochs tune, another a hilariously over-the-top performance of "Help Me Make it Through the Night". Eitzel's live rendition of this song was a totally different animal than the recorded one; recorded, he tackles the song virtually irony-free, which ultimately renders it just as silly and pointless as the original. However, when he's on his knees, belting the thing out to the audience while unbuttoning his ludicrous Hawaiian shirt, it descends (or ascends, depending on your point of view) to the level of burlesque, and, though the musical and lyrical content remains as silly as ever, at least you can laugh along with him. With his recorded version, Eitzel doesn't allow his listeners the luxury of doing this.

The rest of his set was devoted to many new songs, which were typically stunning (let's just hope it takes him less time to get these out in album form than it did the songs that make up The Invisible Man -- and let's also hope that he's gotten all that Pro-Tools fuckery out of his system), as well as a decent selection from other solo records. If you've only ever heard the recorded versions of these songs, especially some of the gems from the glossy Invisible Man (such as "Sleep", or "Can You See"), Eitzel's live renditions will be nothing less than revelatory. His voice is twice as huge, powerful and shiver-inducing live as on record, and the accompaniment of his lightly fingered acoustic guitar serves to underscore the power and emotion of his performance.

The juxtaposition between his on-stage clowning and his mostly-serious songs (apart from the occasional one-liner thrown in to keep the audience on their toes) is always quite astonishing -- he'll leave you gasping for breath from laughing one minute, and will be tugging at your heartstrings the next. When a girl hooted in recognition of the intro to a particular song, he stopped and hooted back, then started back into the song in a goofy French accent. He must have stopped and started the song five times, always eager to relate an anecdote that had just popped into his mind, crack a joke, or try to sing the song in a different "pan-European" accent. When he flubbed a guitar chord, he would usually call attention to the mistake by pointing to his fingering hand. At one point, after fucking up an intro, he stopped and remarked, "You know, I'm one of the thousand best guitar players in the world! No, seriously, somebody wrote a book, and I'm like number 648 or something," before launching back into the song without missing a beat.

Throughout the course of the evening, Eitzel proved, over and over again, exactly why he is consistently lauded as one of the best songwriters of our time. Plain and simple, he is. His wordplay reveals his intelligence but doesn't shove it in your face, his voice is truly a thing of beauty, capable of the most finessed of whispers as well as a bellowing roar, and hey, he's one of the thousand best guitar players in the world! You just can't argue with credentials like that. If the new songs he presented tonight are any indication of its overall quality, his next record is going to be just as much of a treat as all his others have been. Except for the damn covers record. Man, it's a stinker.

Article and photos by Jeremy Schneyer.