There are musicians who are just natural-born storytellers, and then there are the artists and shows that somehow make you feel as if you’re part of the story, too. I’ve had the opportunity to see Americana treasures The Devil Makes Three twice before: once as a pleasantly-surprised skeptic, thrilled by the rowdy family vibe – and once as a mortified onlooker, embarrassed by a crowd gone too far. Friday night’s show at The Corona Theatre was my chance to see where this narrative would go next. I’d hoped that my third time with The Devil Makes Three would be the charm, so let us praise Satan for the happy ending that we all got.
This chapter of the story begins with Montreal’s own Bucky Harris, and I’ll confess that at first I felt like we were off to a rough start. Lead singer Michael Wynands undoubtedly has powerful pipes. However, flanked by two beat-up guitars, an upright bass, and a minimalist drum-kit, the controlled force and urgency of his vox seemed as though his voice was slightly out of phase with the nearly Celtic strum-and-stomp of the songs around him. While the band has obviously mastered both of these sounds, it still felt like something wasn’t quite clicking – even with the bridging effect of bassist Ryan Khan Logan’s growly harmonies and a surprise pitch-perfect cover of Against Me!’s “Baby, I’m An Anarchist”.
It was also clear that this wasn’t the group’s first time at the rodeo, looking very comfortable on-stage, trading quips, and telling stories about raccoon-related near-death experiences. So then why did it all feel kind of “off”? The answer was revealed during one of these interludes, and suddenly everything made sense: Bucky Harris is actually a punk band.
“This is kind of like our secret identity,” Wynands explained, turning over the trick card and making me feel like an instant ass. To do something different for this set, the band had slowed-down and rearranged their repertoire for an acoustic configuration. This piece of news gave form to my nagging feeling, and I retroactively cheered for the whole set. These ARE punk songs, no matter the instrumentation. Songs like highlight “Abel” are already direct, propulsive, impassioned – but is there anything more punk than throwing the entire rule-book out the window and trying something different? Well-heckin’-played. I probably couldn’t make up for it, but I tried to make some extra noise for the last couple of songs and laid it on a bit thick with the added respect and interest that I feel they were owed.
After a short intermission, it had come time to give the devils their due. Coming out to a crowd that had now been sufficiently loosened up and lubricated, The Devil Makes Three took the stage and quickly rolled into “The Bullet” off of their 2002 debut. The last time I’d see the band, the set was momentarily interrupted when a foreign object was unceremoniously hucked right into the face of guitarist Pete Bernhard by an overzealous fan. Presumably to avoid a repeat incident, a team of five (five!) security guards quickly took their post in the trench between the stage and the crowd barricade. This did not seem to put a damper on the proceedings, however, and the show left the station without a hitch.
While “The Bullet” has some years on it, longtime fans and newcomers alike can see that these songs are anything but dusty. The Santa Cruz act’s repertoire feels lived-in and timeless, like they’re gradually compiling a songbook of new American standards. Ragtimey songs like “All Hail” and “There’ll Be A Jubilee” initially sound like they can be freshly-unearthed discoveries from the Dustbowl discography, but these stories about pharmaceutical overprescription and dreams of ending wars are also thoroughly contemporary.
Much of this “live and alive” feeling comes from the band members themselves. The core trio of Bernhard, banjoist Cooper McBean, and upright bassist Lucia Turino are masters of their craft. It’s almost spooky how harmonious and on-point their voices are – and on songs like “Gracefully Facedown” and Peggy Lee cover “I’m a Woman”, McBean and Turino show that they can easily take the lead as well. But instead of feeling like a well-studied bluegrass recital by ethnomusicology majors, these artists are the real deal. They make music that somehow feels like a beating heart that rolls, tumbles, and bounces its way around the whole room. Further supported by a guest-fiddler and the drum-kit that helped drive their 2018 release “Chains Are Broken”, The Devil Makes Three take some forgiveable mathematical liberties in their strange voodoo ritual to make these songs come alive.
I cannot emphasize this enough: it is impossible to be in the crowd for this show and NOT want to move your feet and/or shout like you’ve been possessed by a primal spirit of the occult. This is drinking music, that’s for certain. But these songs are also for laughing, dancing, clapping, and letting go. This explains the rampant crowd-surfing, which definitely kept the security guards on the clock. But from the smiles on the bouncers’ faces, I’m pretty sure that even THEY were having a good time.
While I was worried that we’d get more upsetting shenanigans like the last show, it seems like most of our rowdy friends have settled down (just enough). This made for a huge relief and an excellent time. After a well-rounded setlist pulling from most of their records, the band closed the show with a single sing-a-long encore of “Do Wrong Right” – almost as a congratulation to the crowd for being on decent behaviour. “If you’re gonna do wrong, buddy… do wrong right”. All hail.
Review – Dan Corber
Photos – Kieron Yates
