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Malcolm Holcombe
Another Wisdom
Purple Girl Music
By Jud Block
 Most of today's singer/songwriter's
have nothing more to offer than what can be found in the average
high school swain's diary, but exceptions do exist; of course,
they won't be found on the radio, at an awards show, or even
on a semi-major label. No, most will be discovered knocking around
in the darker recesses of obscurity, making just enough money
per gig to buy gas to get them to the next show. Just ask Malcolm
Holcombe, he can probably tell you all about those nights where
twenty-three dollars is the soul's going rate.
I first heard Malcolm Holcombe at the Comet Grille in Charlotte,
NC. The place is basically a two-story corridor, so the performances
are extremely intimate and for that reason (as well as the grilled
pimento cheese sandwich) it is one of the best venues in the
city. When I first saw Malcolm, he looked like either a very
hip or eccentric college professor - - a long ponytail jutted
out from under a nondescript baseball cap, a brown jacket, and
a pair of glasses balanced precariously at the end of his nose
as he checked the settings on his PA. I was sitting at the end
of the bar closest to him trying to figure out if I was going
to be subjected to an evening of strum and mumble or lesbian
tree-hugging tales, when this unassuming, academic bohemian-looking
fellow sat down on the stool not five feet from me, grabbed his
guitar, played the first note, and channeled Satan. For the next
two hours Malcolm Holcombe glared, growled, spit, screamed, and
damn near kicked his stool through the side window in a hellacious
acoustic performance I have yet to see approached on this side
of the river Styx. I left that night carrying as many of his
homemade discs as I could afford and wondering why this guy wasn't
the franchise player on someone's independent label.
As I did more research into the enigmatic Mr. Holcombe, I
found that he had released a studio disc a few years ago called
A Hundred Lies that garnered a lot of critical and professional
praise and not much else, so ever since he'd pretty much kept
to himself and sold his live CDs at shows. So when I heard he
had returned to the studio to record a new one, I couldn't wait
to get my hands on it, and prayed that he wouldn't change his
sound in an attempt to make it more commercially appealing. I
needn't have worried. Malcolm Holcombe's latest, Another Wisdom,
has all the hallmarks of what makes this man one of the best
singer/songwriters in music today.
Malcolm Holcombe deftly mixes blues, folk, and Appalachian music
into a sound that is unmistakably all his own. His stentorian
voice can by turns sound menacing, reflective, ebullient, or
deferential; and his guitar playing is an aggressive hybrid of
strums, picks, slaps, and pulls. At times, his sound seems the
musical equivalent of a very soulful epileptic seizure. Then
there are the lyrics. It doesn't seem fair that a man blessed
with such a remarkable voice and guitar skills should also be
able to write lyrics that would have Carter Monroe raising a
glass, but we all know that tooth-grinding adage about life.
The opening track, for example, a song called "The Station"
about the destitute at what could be either a bus depot or just
a hub in the poorer section of town, becomes a character study
and philosophical rumination on those who gather there.
Dreams are born on the faces
In the hands inside the pockets
Screamin' like a rocket
Here in the station
Desperate dirty winos
Skin and bones of widows
The crippled, lonely heartbroke
Here in the station, here in the station
Life's taken all they've done
Left ev' rything they hope to do
And given 'em a place here
In the station
"Woman Missing" is about the emotional struggle
of trying to get over someone and falling short. The bluesy guitar
riff and addictive rhythm and sing-along chorus will have this
one so deeply entrenched in your head it'll be practically subconscious.
You can slam that telephone way on down
Cut your ears off to the ground
You can put your foot right through the floor
She ain't out of the picture no more
Tell that bastard it's a very fast world
And you ain't worried 'bout growin' old
You love her like a diamond in your breast
She sparkles the blood flowin' through your head
You gotta woman missin'
But she ain't missin' you
You gotta woman missin', hey mister
She ain't out of the picture
"Who Carried You" is unquestionably one of Malcolm
Holcombe's masterpieces. As with many of his songs, the meaning
can be debated and the lyrics interpreted in any number of ways;
it seems each time I listen to it, I get something different.
This song is representative of Malcolm's ominous folk style.
The dark chords being picked or plucked from his guitar leave
the listener feeling slightly unsettled, as though something
untoward is taking place just beneath the surface. Whether it's
the effects of an abortion or of being abandoned is up for discussion;
either way, it's one hell of a song.
From a cajun diner to Carolina
Sick in the mornin' to see the town doctor
Life and Agatha Christie in a trailway
Back from New Orleans
Who dunnit, who carried you
From the churchyard to the liquor store
From the clothes line clean out the door
Life and Agatha Christie in a trailway
Back from New Orleans
Who dunnit, who carried you
Well, dammit, I've rambled on way longer than I'd intended
to, but when you come across an artist of Malcolm Holcombe's
caliber it's hard not to. Malcolm Holcombe is an original and
that becomes more obvious with every note and word you hear from
him. Very simply put, no one out there is making music like this.
If you want to hear what a true singer/songwriter sounds like
get a copy of Another Wisdom as quickly as possible -
- it'll open your eyes.
* There's no need to over-think this one, get over to www.subworks.com
and pick up your own copy of Another Wisdom.
Contact Jud Block at jud-at-rockzilla.net
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