Cat proof
If you gotta have folk, you gotta have Hart
by John O'Neill
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."