Tylan,
formerly of the folk-pop group Girlyman, played last night at Ann
Arbor's Green Wood Coffee House (despite the large dangling cross, an
intimate and meditative venue). She's on tour with her first solo
album, 'One True Thing', a huge shift away from the three-part
harmonies and stage banter of Girlyman. Not that Tylan has left
Girlyman behind; she sang some tunes she wrote for the band, and her
melodic style very much defined what Girlyman did in the past and
what Ty is doing solo now. She even began with a Girlyman song,
“Empire of Our State,” which jarringly pushed my memories of
familiar Girlyman harmonies against the reality of Tylan playing it
alone on stage.
After
playing that first tune solo, Tylan was joined by Ingrid Elizabeth of
Coyote Grace, a bass player who also happens to be Ty's “steady
date.” Without her, I think I would have missed full sound of
Girlyman much more than I did; she helped fill in the sound I
remember from other recordings.
Sometimes
you listen to music on your iPod or in your car or on the radio, and
it's evocative of a certain perspective. Seeing the same music
performed live, even by the same musician, adds layers of meaning.
Maybe it's because roots musicians tend to feel the need to expand on
what they're already expressing with their music; even if only the
'Cliff Notes version' of a song: “Getting screwed over sucks more
when it's done by someone who's awesome.” Or because musicians
rarely play a tune exactly as it is on their album. Or there's
something to that live show experience, something about the way the
sound waves move; the intangible interaction between the audience and
the performer that seems nonsensical because the audience only offers
laughter, applause, whoops—nonverbal cues—in return to the
performer's words and music. Whatever it is, I have come away with a
changed idea of this album. Each tune has become clearer, more
distinct. The meaning I draw from them has become more complex,
layered with not just my own interpretation but the way the Tylan
presented them.
“House
Song,” a truly sad song, she introduced by saying, “Have you ever
been in a couple's house where everything screams 'We're going to
break up?'” She didn't often play this song, she said, because
people would want to know if everything was okay—but she wrote it
about someone else. Now, I can't separate her presentation of the
song from my experiencing it. This, I think, is part of why folk
singers appeal to us sitting in the audience. We take their joy and
suffering, the memories they offer us, and appropriate them so that
these musicians become friends sitting for a chat and a cup of tea at
our kitchen table. I have seen Ty perform at least seven times that I
can think of, and Ingrid twice before tonight. I gossip about them,
about Girlyman with my friends: Ty's relationships, Girlyman's
break-up, band member Doris's cancer, new album Kickstarters. And
yet, as much as we may feel that we know these people on a personal
level, they don't know us as individuals—even as they make us feel
welcome and appreciated at every show.
Tylan
finished her show with a tune from one of Girlyman's earlier albums,
“Young James Dean.” Dealing with being treated differently for
being gay, for dressing dapper, for stepping outside traditional
gender roles, I think this song must still resonate with moments of
Ty's life after years of being sung. After all, she introduced it by
telling a story about being told she used the wrong public restrooms
until she started wearing a pink barrette in her hair so people would
know without any doubt she was a girl. A barrette that she happened
to have in her pocket.
It's odd,
being on the wrong side of the mirror from someone. You end up
knowing so much about them, and they wouldn't recognize you if you
lived next door. Isn't that still magical, though? To love the art
that someone gives the world? To embrace a new perspective? I like to
think so.
