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January 21 - 28, 2000

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Cat proof

If you gotta have folk, you gotta have Hart

by John O'Neill

Dan Hart There's this old saying about swinging a dead cat around. The deal is you're suppose to grab it by the tail and let it rip in a clockwise direction (or counter, depending on which foot you favor) with the implied result being the Blister Formerly Known as Rusty (that, when not yeowling for food or to be let out or to be let back in again, was -- except for those rare instances when it would stretch its sleep-atrophied muscles by hanging from the drapes -- already comatose) could only make a couple of revolutions, tops. Then, it would smack into the intended generic subject of the experiment (unemployed musicians, Young Republicans, etc.). The principle behind the theory is, there is such an abundance of the specific group in the room that kitty is guaranteed to broadside at least one in its travels. And should you ever get around to applying this saying of "you can't swing a dead cat without hitting . . ." in conjunction with crummy singer/songwriters, you'd better make sure you have a big room, a strong arm, and a litter of ammo. They're everywhere: gently strumming in the corner of coffee shops, sitting cross-legged in the park on sunny afternoons, leaving numerous messages on the voicemail of horrified music columnists. It seems everyone with an acoustic guitar and at least one failed relationship qualifies as a card-carrying member of the White Male Songwriter's Guild. They've become such a phenomena, there are not enough venues or open mic nights to accommodate them. Most tragically, their soft-headed mush has become so pervasive they threaten the livelihood of that all-too-rare artist -- the singer/songwriter with real talent. A guy like Dan Hart.

"The white male singer/songwriter has had his day, and the people got sick of 'em. Now they like female singer/songwriters," says Dan Hart with a laugh. As part of the subspecies, Hart knows it's rough times for troubadours trying to squeak out a living.

Though he's released two excellent CDs, toured worldwide, won awards, had his song "Traffic" featured on Car Talk, and had his parody work in rotation on Dr. Demento since 1982, Hart (who plays Cafe Fantastique this Friday and the Java Hut on January 28) is still an unknown. Which brings us back to swinging the dead cat.

"At [Club Passim's] open mic, you'll see several people a night that will floor you. But for every one talent, there will be 30 mediocre or no talents. There are two kinds of folk singers: self-indulgent [singers] with little self-revelations -- like a WASP goes to a sweat lodge and think they've found the meaning -- and people who don't hit you over the head. I don't write a whole lot of message songs. The primary goal of music is to entertain. You can put the message [out] if you entertain [people] first. Otherwise, you'll lose them."

Although Hart's been a performer since he was old enough to get into bars, it is within the past decade that he began to take music seriously -- as a vocation. Hart has become one of a handful of area singer/songwriters (Mike Duffy, Mark Fisher, and Jim Infantino also fit the bill) who are bringing a much-needed and untraditional freshness to folk music. For Hart, who had been playing guitar since he was nine and writing songs all along ("They were bad songs. . . . I wrote my first good one in '81."), the seeds planted early in life sprouted just in time to save him from his own impending private hell.

"I was a PhD in psychology, but it never thrilled me. It was fun studying in school, but arguing with HMOs and insurance companies . . . I figured if I'm going to be poor, I might as well be poor at what I like."

The watershed moment came in 1987, after he attended the Philadelphia Folk Festival and realized there was a like-minded underground network. From there, he was on the fast track (well, right track) and soon landed opening slots for Bill Morrissey, John Gorka, and for Robin and Linda Williams. He also hit the road as a serious touring artist for the first time. The next big break came after unsuccessfully attempting to secure a one-off gig in a small Philly bar: "The booking agent told me there were no openings, but he had a month-long gig in Denmark. Would I be interested?"

Copenhagen subsequently led to stops in England, Austria, and in Italy, where, "they like original American music and seem fascinated with mysterious characters like Dylan and Neil Young. I did best with my original music there. But I'm a total musical prostitute. I even played "American Pie" for Paul Cellucci. He was over on some junket, spending the tax-payers' money. That was before I lived in Massachusetts so I didn't know who the hell he was."

Since returning Stateside, Hart released To a Silent Drum in 1995 and Apocalypse Now & Then in '98 (both on the Stone Boat label). Required listening for anyone who thinks folk music ends with frosty winter mornings, train wrecks, and protest songs, the discs are excellent examples of what separates Hart from the rest of the pack. Touching on everything from '60s nostalgia as seen by a not-so-grateful alum, and the forehead-slapping absurdity of modern technology, to ESP, the environment, and love, sweet love, Hart is a wry observer of the human condition. With a razor-sharp wit that focuses on absolutes that are as tongue-in-cheek as they are the bald-faced truth, Hart rolls through a catalogue that reflects blues, Americana, country, and pop rock as well as it does non-traditional folk. Though that ability to branch out is a fine display of his overall craftsmanship, the real charm is in the message: rather than toss missiles and thunderbolts at anything that annoys him, Hart coerces us along with seemingly simple tales that almost always win us over with their disarming cleverness. In fact, Hart's work has more in common with quality fiction writing than it does with simple tunesmithing. Which again, brings us back to swinging Rusty.

While many of his so-called contemporaries would end up at our dinner party ready to vomit a fur ball, Hart would have a place at the front of our buffet line. He is a songwriter of rare ability (he'll make you think while you laugh, and he'll impress you as a performer on many levels); and he deserves much wider attention. But that's a maybe for some other day. For now, it's back to whomever will have him for the evening, which is just fine by him.

"It's not about money. I've had to stay home lately because I lose a lot of income from my day job, but I still go out to exotic places, like South Bend, Indiana. If you find out about the clubs, someone will always put you up for the night on their sofa. That's the folk circuit: play for the door and move to the next town. It's not very romantic, and groupies don't tear your shirt off, but you can have a meaningful experience."

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