If Buddha were a 63-year-old country-blues singer from New Orleans, his name might be Chris Smither
There’s a reason why most articles about singer-songwriter Chris Smither quote his lyrics. If there was ever a gene that enabled taking the tough questions about life’s meaning and compressing them into addictive, one-line, quiet epiphanies and fundamental self-truths, Smither has indeed been blessed. His song “Origin of Species,” a minor jab at creationism, harbors evidence of his omnipresent sense of humor (God said “I’ll make some DNA, they’ll use it any way they want/…The whole thing works like clockwork over time/ I’ll just sit back in the shade while everyone gets laid/ That’s what I call intelligent design), while songs like “Small Revelations” reveal his penchant for soul-searching (Passion is feeling in motion/ Compassion is standing still) and “Confirmation,” his characteristic, good-natured self-deprecation (If looks could kill I’d be six feet underground/ I never was good lookin’, but now I’m too old to let that get me down). As far as being able to laugh at one’s self, Smither considers it absolutely crucial for any hope of perspective on a greater journey. “Humility is our only protection against pride,” he says. “And pride is the source of all personal downfall. It’s the worst, and it takes a long time to realize that.” But if Smither as a poet has an overarching gift, it would have to be his ability to talk his listener down from the precipice of worry. Take, for instance, “Outside In,” a song off of Smither’s 2003 disc Train Home, that, with its consoling chords and prevailing logic, could easily be offered as a quintessential lullaby, capable of soothing the consciences of the newly born and fully grown alike. “Don’t worry ‘bout the future, you know you can’t afford the price,” he sings. “There’s madness to the method when you pay the piper twice. Once when you start to worry, once again when you begin to take the future on the chin.” Smither’s theory as a songwriter says you’ve got three or four minutes to get to someone. If you can get a line of your song to stick in his or her head, something they can walk away with, then you’ve won. “Oh, it definitely takes effort,” says Smither. “It’s the essence of all good poetry and all good writing, the ability to condense things. I mean, you can listen to two people tell a joke and if one of them can tell it in half the time, it’s funnier. It’s that brevity, that condensation, it just has a way of expressing whatever it is faster. It just increases the power of the punch so to speak.” It helps that Smither’s big shaggy, shambling voice has that rare James Taylor-sincerity that makes everything sound like gospel. Also aiding his appeal is his one-man band delivery. It has nothing to do with the modern trend of one musician who’s mastered six instruments and basic looping technology. Think archetypal bluesmen, folksters and songwriters like Mississippi John Hurt, Eric Von Schmidt and Randy Newman, respectively, who Smither cites as inspirations to his technique—well those guys and the young Smither’s fear of embarrassment. “I actively avoided bands,” admits Smither, who grew up in New Orleans and honed his chords in the coffeehouses of Boston. “Basically, I was a self-taught musician and I was very apprehensive about hanging out with people who actually knew something about music. I didn’t want to appear ignorant, which I was,” he laughs. “It never occurred to me that if I played with other people I could learn more. It was just not the way I was built. And gradually, as a result of that, the songs and the performances all became very much a sort of self-contained operation and that’s the way they are to this day.” Smither is known for hanging near the door to greet his audience before a show (“It reminds me of who I’m talking to,” he says, humbly). When he takes the stage, all he has are his steel-string and a piece of high-density particle board, which he rocks his foot back and forth on for percussion. His fingerpicking arrangements are fast-paced and full-bodied, giving ideal momentum to his existential meditations. Emmylou Harris, Bonnie Raitt and Diana Krall are just a few of the musicians who have coveted and covered Smither’s songs over the years. But it wasn’t until his 60th birthday party that Smither realized just how much of an impression his music has made. The affair featured performances of Smither’s songs by a host of bigwigs of the mod-folk scene, including Jeffery Foucault, Kris Delmhorst, Peter Mulvey and Mark Erelli. “It was wonderful,” says Smither, now 63, the delight still lingering in his voice. “I couldn’t even recognize most of the songs until they started singing. I’d hear the lyrics and I’d say ‘oh, it’s that song.’ It’s just like seeing your kids come home all grown up. You look and them and say ‘wow, you’ve changed, but you did good. And I like your friends.’ ” Still, in spite of his admired oeuvre, Smither admits that he’s not always sure how his songs happen. “But I’ve learned a lot of tricks to make it happen,” he says, chuckling. “I mean if I sat around like I did when I was in my 20s, I’d never get any songs written. I have to sit down and actually work at it.” And when he does, surprisingly, he insists it’s not for want of a spiritual catharsis. “It’s a very good question to ask why I do it, because for the most part, it’s a very troublesome, painful operation,” he reveals. “It’s not something that flows naturally and makes me exuberant. I get extremely happy after having written them, I’m really pleased to have done it. But the process itself is fraught with all sorts of negative things, like am I ever going to get this goddamned song done and why won’t this go some place and does this say what I want it to … I feel a sense of duty to it. It’s the sense of duty that you feel toward something that has been demonstrated to you that you’re good at and you ought to do it. And it makes me feel really good to have done it.” Chris Smither performs with Ray Wylie Hubbard at 7:30 p.m., Friday, Apr. 4 at the Rio Theatre, 1205 Soquel Ave. in Santa Cruz. For information, call 479-9421. Tickets are $23.
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