Live at Vaudeville Mews, Des Moines
Words by Jacob Henneman//Illustration by Sonia Kreitzer
Being born with ten fingers like magic wands is enviable. When you place a guitar in between those fingers, a musical Houdini is born. Joe Pernice is one of those talents that can seemingly pluck a song out of mid-air, wrestle it down, and beat it into a soft ball of Silly Putty, prime for molding as he pleases. As “Somerville” ended, the 17th song and last before the encore, it was clear that there are songs floating all around us like fireflies waiting to be captured in old glass jars. Some people are just lucky enough to be able to see them. Joe Pernice has not only captured scores of them, but he has unscrewed his lid to the world, and no doubt has an attic full of stacked jars jittering in corners next to cobwebs and hatboxes, awaiting future liberation.

Though working in the trade of 1970s AM radio pop, the music travels through wormholes and arrives in this new millennium, sounding as fresh as it ever has. If you squint real hard you might have mistaken the Pernice Brothers for their influences like Brian Wilson or Elvis Costello, especially in songs like “Microscopic View.” Combine those weighty influences with a voice that makes a lucid mountain stream seem murky by comparison, you can see why Pernice and his boys can put on a clinic. It’s the sincerity his voice effuses, as if the Gospel itself was being spilled out over the audience. In fact, it was the gospel of Joe Pernice, pulled from the pages of journals and bar room napkins and translated into relatable anecdotes, impossible not to cozy up next to. “So intimate I’m gonna have a drink,” Pernice admitted before “Overcome by Happiness.”

The stage introduces an extra bite that their records don’t necessarily strive to achieve, without sacrificing the elegance and genuineness. They rifled through their entire catalog playing almost all of Live a Little. The five members operated in unison with a splash of flavor thrown in (an electric guitar flourish, a couple percussion fills) just to please those with a penchant for an attention to detail.

New England counterpart Elvis Perkins and his boys played host to organized cacophony. Eight legs stomped the stage into submission in harmonious accord. Perkins himself took the center stage with his voice and harmonica squealing over the shouldered marching band bass drum that thumped maniacally at stage rear. At times it seemed like anarchy was threatening to break free from the rusty chains of burden, but the beast was sedated after a few intimidating glares. “Hey” was a contagious word that was first whooped and hollered by the band, then ricocheted back off the walls and ceiling from randomly dispersed audience members, to Perkins, who peeked out sheepishly from behind a sophisticated pair of wire frames. My only complaint of the set was that it was over just as I was getting settled in.

Pernice and Perkins are not doing anything groundbreaking, but they are hanging their hats on some very hallowed artists and songs. With such amazing knacks for melody and matched poeticism, it is clear why Pernice has been doing this for so long, and how Perkins will surely be doing it for years to come.

Elvis Perkins
Pernice Brothers