This evening I find myself sitting in a venue that is obviously far too trendy for me, but I have ten dollars I borrowed from a friend, so they let me in anyway. Tonight’s subject is Gregory Alan Isakov. He’s a singer/songwriter from Colorado that I was turned on to by a friend who lives out there. We’re catching the last show on a small tour that he’s doing, and it’s at The Hotel Cafe in Hollywood. This is an early show, which is actually nice. The uncrowded room and relaxed atmosphere fit the music much better than a few hundred screaming teenagers and a giant stage. As I order a couple of beers I look over at my friend Beau and notice that he, unlike me, is wearing the correct attire for the occasion. He’s got on jeans that cost more than everything I’m wearing, a faded t-shirt from a record label he used to work for, and a corduroy jacket that suggests he should probably be reading a very tragic novel.

The band comes out unannounced and begins with a lilting tune that sets the mood with an almost country style. Again, I thank God that the audience is not made up of over exuberant adolescents, as they could conceivably drown out this unimposing sound. Isakov is picking gingerly at an acoustic guitar and seems not to be terribly concerned with the forty or so people watching him play. Distant isn’t the right word, but he apparently has a job to do, and isn’t going to be bothered with trying to tell jokes or charm with spoken word. Accompanying him is his band, The Freight. They are Jeb Bows on fiddle, Phill Parker on Cello, and Jen Gilleran on drums. Watching a female drummer, I vaguely begin to understand woman that get all bent out of shape over any guy behind a shiny kit. As they continue to lilt on, Isakov switches between a regular mic and one that spits out an old-timey, Lo-Fi, voice. They start their second song and I begin to get over the indie-ness of it all. They really are pretty good so I ask Beau if he can spot me the cash for a CD at the end of the show. I always forget these places never take plastic at the door or the merch booth, and I sure as shit am not going to pay five bucks to use that miniature ATM machine.

The sound is folksy and soulful, and they play super tight, which is impressive considering all the volume changes. Right then the thought strikes me that since I attend mostly punk shows, I probably haven’t seen a band use real dynamics in their volume in a very long time. It’s especially interesting because the audience is forced to speak pretty quietly, if at all. This keeps us focused more on the music, and less on how cool we all are. And believe me. We are cool. I keep forgetting to starve myself more and see if I can’t cultivate a sort of tortured artist motif. I guess us Norwegians will have to settle for hulking metal maniac.

By the third or fourth song a gentleman has made his way up on stage to add a banjo to the mix. He is introduced as Bob Schmidt of Flogging Molly Fame. I sort of chuckle to myself, imagining Isakov up on stage with Flogging Molly, trying to dodge beer bottles and look sensitive all at the same time. Schmidt adds some great sounds to the mix though, sometimes playing a mandolin instead of his banjo.

Isakov introduces the next song as a ballad to the girl working the gas station down the street from his home. He sings the whole thing in Lo-Fi, and the audience obviously picks up on the sympathy and genuine concern he feels for this girl. It’s always more impressive when a musician can inject energy into a set without screaming into the mike or making everyone clap along.

My favorite song of the evening is the title track to his full length CD. It’s an almost jazz style number called Salt And The Sea. He says it’s a tribute to the Pacific Ocean. You would have to listen to it, but I kept changing my mind whether it sounded more like jazz or a luau. The violin stayed high and whiny while the drummer mostly just kept time with a shaker. It seems that every great folk singer has a song about a train and this is his.

As skeptical as I was when I walked in that evening, the musicianship and evocative lyrics won me over in the end. There was an atmosphere in that room that left everyone there with a real musical experience. This was emphasized when the merch girl, who turned out to be the bands manager, wanted to sit and talk all about how we’d heard of Isakov and the show. I’m hoping to be able to cherish this memory when these guys go all rock star, and play the Staples Center with fireworks and a smoke machine.