Voice as Instrument



I can still hear my grandfather's stutter every now and then. Eddie would get excited to see his grandchildren and his whole head would fill up with blood– then the words would burst out of his mouth like bats from the belfry. He talked fast in a fast rhythm (bum-bum-bum) with the accent on the last syllable. His sentences were like his hammering patterns, see, Eddie was a carpenter–he drove nails for a living–bang-bang-bang. I always liked listening to Eddie talk, because he used simple words and classic phrasings, he said what he wanted to say and he meant it. There was nothing extra, nothing extra needed. Eddie was a lot like Hemmingway–direct, confrontational. He was a fisherman, self-reliant and articulate, but didn't spoil the soup with fancy adjectives. Eddie made every lure, every sinker, and built the tackle box to house it. Every now and then, Eddie would look at me with a wild eye and address me in his native Polish tongue, and the words (which seemed so heavy and baroque) would erupt from him in the same rhythm as his English. I didn't understand the heavy Polish but I recognized the syncopation, the framing and the breath behind the language. I miss Eddie, he's been gone now for 17 years, and every once in awhile I'll see a "74 GMC burnt-sienna, metallic pickup ghosting along the highway or we'll use his tape measure to strike a line, but I'll never forget his voice, which was as big and real as his hugs.

Last night, at the David Finney Inn, in old New Castle, just down the street from 417 Delaware Avenue, my first home as a child, I listened to another voice from the past and it was such a warm and welcoming homecoming. Nik Everett, a songwriter who has charmed the northeast region for the last 20 years, opened his heart for a special evening of original music, a music that comes from a very deep place within his soul. As I watched Nik effortlessly move through old and new songs, strumming his Takamine and blowing harp solos through the chords, I stood witness to the gentle power in Nik's voice.

Nik's songs are about emotion, they are crafted and true just like my grandfather's constructions–strongly built houses with good foundations, These songs are proud anthems in an ever increasingly apathetic world. It takes a real voice to speak about real places, and Nik's voice not only accompanies the music, it is the music–another instrument. I've seen a lot of performers–singers in the band, soloists, theatre projectionists, slam poets, preachers with their sunday sermons, the new american idol sets with their cleverly cloned pop, but nothing compares to the smooth and throaty refrains that bellow from Nik.

Nik has such control over his voice, and it's evident in the placement of the music–vocals out front–simple and true. We watched Nik breathe in and out throughout the night, holding phrases for what appeared to be 32 bars, lowering his register to create a ballast from which his harp and strings could dance or cutting through a driving rhythm like a whistle of a railway line. By today's hollow standards that champion excess, imitation and strategies of popular style, Nik's voice is a conversation with you–an honest letter marked with the language of love.


Kenneth Jones
3/12/04

Posted: Fri - March 12, 2004 at 10:15 PM        

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