Rachelle Garniez Brings Her Irrepressible New York Wit, Charisma and Songcraft to the East Village for Two Shows
Accordionist/multi-instrumentalist Rachelle Garniez was the first artist ever covered at this blog. Considering how the music blog demimonde is as crowded, and generally anonymous, as a Chinatown mall, if you’re going to hang your shingle out there, you want to go into business with a bang, really make it count, right? Four and a half years after that hot August night on the Lower East Side, Garniez – widely considered to be the gold standard for New York songwriters – has seen her career skyrocket, touring worldwide with her own group as well as playing in edgily shanbling blues/swing/Carribean/klezmer kitchen-sink band Hazmat Modine. Garniez also has a killer new album, Who’s Counting, just out and a couple of shows coming up on December 7 and 14 in the intimate, sonically exquisite piano room at Pangea on Second Ave. between 11th and 12th Sts. Cover is $15
For Garniez, ecstasy and despair are two sides of the same coin. She sings in character, and she’s got a million of them. deadpan ingenue, wide-eyed schoolgirl, hazily smiling hippie chick, opera diva, slinky silent film-era flapper. And also venomous oldschool punk rocker, outraged 99-percenter, wounded veteran of the psychic wars. irrepressible bon vivant, born-and-raised streetwise New Yorker with a sentimental streak as wide as Broadway at Park Place. Many of those characters inhabit the same song. Garniez loves to work that live, just as much as she likes to mess with the audience. One of her favorite shticks is to open a number, or write a first verse, that leads you to believe that the song’s going to be blithe and contented all the way through – and then she flips the script.
The last time this blog caught her live – at Barbes back around Labor Day – she actually didn’t mess with the crowd much. Instead, she was all about the songs. This was an intimate duo show with her regular bassist/sparring partner Tim Luntzel, who took centerstage on the macabrely funny Flat Black, a jaunty bass-and-vocal blues. Otherwise, he hung in the shadows and supplied a slinky backdrop, Garniez opening on accordion with the uneasily summery Manhattan Island, segueing from there into Tourmaline, a big crowd favorite with its bitter metaphors of semi-precious stones who go unappreciated. The high point of this particular show was Vanity’s Curse. She played that one on acoustic guitar, an Elizabethan-tinged Britfolk guitar waltz that goes on for awhile as a cozily nocturnal portrait of domestic contentment (and decor) before Garniez rips off the mask and reveals the source of where all that luxe came from.
Then she went to the piano for New York Minute, saloon jazz in the same vein as Mose Allison – if he’d been a girl from the Upper West in the days before yuppification, instead of a guy from Mississippi. The rest of the show ran the gamut of styles and her rich back catalog. There was the strutting, aphoristic Weimar blues Just Because You Can; God’s Little Acre, a defiantly hilarious kiss-off to a fling from the past turned Facebook stalker; and the understatedly grim existentialist gospel of the new album’s title track, all spiced with stinging, extemporaneous between-song banter. If this sounds like fun, it ought to be even more so next week in Garniez’s old East Village stomping ground.