“Someone sent some big-shot
Agent here to take a look at me
But he left before I even started
Then said that I was talent-free
I’m having that kind of career…
Having a kind of career”
– Syd Straw, “Actress”
A night in the career of Syd Straw begins like a bad joke: A woman and a dog walk into a bar … the bar, in this case, being the Cinema Bar in beautiful downtown Culver City, California. The place only holds about 40 people, so Straw’s arrival with Henry is difficult to ignore. The two take their time getting situated – Straw greeting friends, Henry sniffing the floor – while longtime L.A. scenester Dean Chamberlain (whose regular Sunday-night gig Straw is commandeering) and his band clear the tiny stage for her. Just as she’s finally removing her coat, strapping on her guitar and soliciting the last-minute participation of Chamberlain’s bass player, Henry makes the mistake of poking his nose behind the bar — at which point Sara the bartender goes apoplectic. “You can’t have that fucking dog in here!” she yells.
Straw protests – “What did he ever do?” – but Sara’s word is law, so a friend trundles Henry off to an undisclosed location as Straw and her band pull themselves together. She hoists a cheap boombox onto her shoulder, turns it on, and the band launches into a whimsical tune called “Invisible Current of Love.” She gets through about eight bars before realizing that no sound is coming from the boombox, then starts over – only to have the appliance crap out on her about three minutes into the song. That doesn’t stop Straw; she begins riffing that her recent purchase “wasn’t such a ‘Best Buy’ after all,” while her band shuffles along behind her. Getting ready to repeat her chorus one last time, she beseeches the small crowd, “C’mon, sing it – I dare you!” And when her entreaty fails to elicit a full-fledged singalong, she glares at us and snarls, “Hipsters!“
Straw treats her set list less like a regimen than a rough draft, choosing songs seemingly at random and trusting the band to follow along. Deciding at one point to sing Wreckless Eric’s “Whole Wide World,” long a linchpin of her live repertoire, she enthuses, “Oh! You’re going to love this one! … And if you don’t, please just file out in an orderly fashion.” The line could serve as an apt metaphor for many a pop-music career, including Straw’s – except that her wit is so sharp, the most shambolic of her shows so endearing, that it’s difficult to imagine leaving the room for any reason while she’s onstage. Her annual Valentine’s Day “Heartwreck” concerts have long been a highlight of the winter concert schedule in New York (at least until this year, when she was unable to find a suitable venue). “She really ought to make a live album,” one Internet commenter recently wrote, “but it would be a two-CD set with three songs on it!” (more…)
For someone who can talk your ear off, Syd Straw certainly has built an enigmatic career. After establishing her bona fides as an arty modern-rock diva during the mid-’80s, as part of the Golden Palominos collective, Straw released her solo debut Surprise in 1989 – then didn’t make another album for seven years. Her next break, following 1996’s War and Peace, was even longer: a dozen years, ending with the appearance last year of Pink Velour.
The Golden Palominos, Visions of Excess (1985) and 
Blast of Silence followed a year later and featured an utterly different sound from its predecessor; two decades on, it’s remembered as one of the albums that gave birth to the alt-country genre. Fier’s assemblage this time featured Matthew Sweet, Jack Bruce, T-Bone Burnett, Don Dixon, Chris Stamey and many others. Again, however, it was Straw who provided the most resonant contributions, including 