ERIC ANDERSEN AT THE DOLDER 2
FEUERTHALEN, SWITZERLAND JULY 27, 2007
When Edith showed me Eric Andersen’s name advertised for a Friday show at the Dolder 2, it set off a buzz of memory. Crossing paths in Austin, the Kerrville Folk Festival, and Nashville, the last time I had seen him was in the late 1990’s in Piran, Slovenia. An old friend of Townes Van Zandt, Eric was a living link to the storied days of early sixties Greenwich Village, and a stunning songwriter in his own right. Scheduled to be held outside in the garden, this was an evening not to be missed.
It was still warm, the heat of the day beginning to let go. I’d played outside down by the Rhine the night before, and it looked like the weather gods would cooperate again. While any open-air show is subject to risk, there’s nothing better—for playing or listening—than when it’s just right, outside on a mild summer evening. Long tables were set up on the grass, but having sat in a hard café chair the night before, Edith chose a sofa off to the side of the stage. It was set up with two microphones, and an electric piano. A sunburst Gibson J-50 sat in a stand, flanked by another, cutaway model Gibson with more flash and electronics. Eric began the show with the cutaway, an old song, instantly familiar, ‘Other Side of this Life.’
I made a few notes of the songs in their order, though I wasn’t always sure of the titles. The next two had a French connection, beginning with ‘Trouble in Paris.’ Switching over to the J-50, he sang a song about a French girl who works in a thousand bars, followed by ‘Violets of Dawn,’ an early song showcasing a clean finger-picking style. Eric went to the keyboard for two numbers, the unearthly beautiful ‘Wind and Sand’ and another with the lines, “Seems like a river washed away your walking shoes…”, accompanied by the club owner, Tom Luley on harmonica. Eric introduced his wife, Inge who came up to sing harmony on the next two or three songs. He was telling a story when the nine o’clock bells from the 15th century Munot fortress across the river in Schaffhausen began ringing. “I hope that’s not for me,” he quipped. No, said Tom, explaining that those were the bells announcing it was time to close the city gates. Eric played the Tom Paxton song with the refrain, “Are you going away with no words of farewell...” I’d never met Tom Paxton or seen him perform, but I knew that one by heart. It was Townes who first turned me on to Eric’s Blue River, a record I played over and over. Now he was singing a song with the words, “… blue street, blue lights, blue rooms and blue goodnights, no blue is as blue as one blue heart…” I didn’t know this one, or the following song with sea imagery… waves, foghorns, seagulls. I was going to have to buy a CD; that was plain. Often a new song comes in a wash of impressions; I am taken by the melody, the weaving and the flow, and only later—sometimes much later—coming round to focus on the text. Another new one for me, the last song of the first set was called ‘Before Everything Changed.’
Eric opened the second set with a song so transcendently lovely I forgot to take notes; then dropping his bottom e-string sang a darker ‘Going, Going, Gone,’ an edgy tale of broken love. He introduced Francesco, his guitarist from Rome who was laying down cool, understated support on a cherry-red Statocaster. He strapped on the cutaway Gibson, and was joined by Tom again for a rousing bluesy number called ‘Shame, Shame, Shame,’ followed by a medley of slow blues. Then he played ‘Blue River’, title song from album I’d played back when: “…keep us safe from the deep and the dark, we don’t want to stray too far.” Back on the J-50, he played another river song I didn’t get the title for, followed by the long-forgotten familiar, ‘Close the Door Lightly When You Go.’ The encore, played in E minor position capo’d up, a spooky song with a la- la- la chorus… “Some would call her savior; some would call her slave…”
Most of what I knew of glory days in Greenwich Village came from secondary sources. Still a couple of years away from taking up guitar myself, my roommate and I rode the train up from Washington D.C., four or five hours away. Drunk on Chianti we wandered around the Village; saw Carolyn Hester at Gerde’s Folk City and walked the tab. Shame on us, college boys on a spree. Eric would soon become part of that scene and put a record out on Vanguard, the same label Joan Baez was on. Dylan, Paxton, Phil Ochs—those people would become like demigods to me, when I became aware of them a few years later. No one invented the modern singer-songwriter, but Eric was one of the originals. Before—a seismic, sea change away—was Woody Guthrie; you couldn’t match up ‘Blue River’ with ‘Going Down That Road Feeling Bad’. The times had been a changing; forty years on, they had changed again and again, but the songs still worked.
We talked later, joined by Francesco and Inge. Catching up and telling stories, we spoke of Townes; and Piran, where we had last seen each other at the Club Maona; about David Olney, and Sergio Webb, both here recently. I spoke of our life here; the years playing with Thomm Jutz and how he had won the green card lottery and moved to Nashville with his wife Eva, where he’s playing with Nanci Griffith now. Edith who had been saying goodbye to her friends Erika and Monika came back and sat down. The evening had grown cooler. The women all agreed that Eric looked young for someone who had been around since the sixties, and handsome still; but up close you could see a little fatigue had set in. Edith and I were about ready to go, waiting for an opening. “Just one more song,” Tom asked, “Can you play ‘Rain Falls Down in Amsterdam’? Play us just one more.”
It occurred to me that another singer might not take so kindly to the owner sitting in, as Tom had off and on through the evening, but Eric said he had played with Tom before. He liked Tom’s playing and said he preferred the chances and possibilities in spontaneity over fixed arrangements. He said he never told a musician what to play. The sound was still on when Eric stepped back up on the stage and strapped on the cutaway Gibson, but it had gone out of tune in the night air. “I’m doing this just for you,” he said, but the moment seemed lost once the tuning was done. Then the words didn’t come. “I think we’re going to have to wait until next time.”
Eric gave me three CDs to take home. I spent the whole next day thinking about the show and in the days to follow began listening to the records. Sometimes you don’t know what you’re getting into before you begin to dig. Among other things I learned was the first song Eric opened the show with was a Fred Neil song. There you go—he didn’t need to be singing anybody else’s songs, a fact confirmed by a visit to the discography section of his website where I counted over thirty LP and CD releases, an inspiring body of work by any measure. Among the songs from Memory of the Future I found the song about rain falling in Amsterdam, a stark and powerful invective against the neo-Nazi movement. Another CD, You Can’t Relive the Past featured three songs co-written with Townes. Tall and rail-thin, Eric recalls Townes in some ways: the gentleness, the lyrical gift, the rapt attention of women. Close enough, though manifestly Eric has taken far better care of himself, and we are all the luckier for it.
I made a few notes of the songs in their order, though I wasn’t always sure of the titles. The next two had a French connection, beginning with ‘Trouble in Paris.’ Switching over to the J-50, he sang a song about a French girl who works in a thousand bars, followed by ‘Violets of Dawn,’ an early song showcasing a clean finger-picking style. Eric went to the keyboard for two numbers, the unearthly beautiful ‘Wind and Sand’ and another with the lines, “Seems like a river washed away your walking shoes…”, accompanied by the club owner, Tom Luley on harmonica. Eric introduced his wife, Inge who came up to sing harmony on the next two or three songs. He was telling a story when the nine o’clock bells from the 15th century Munot fortress across the river in Schaffhausen began ringing. “I hope that’s not for me,” he quipped. No, said Tom, explaining that those were the bells announcing it was time to close the city gates. Eric played the Tom Paxton song with the refrain, “Are you going away with no words of farewell...” I’d never met Tom Paxton or seen him perform, but I knew that one by heart. It was Townes who first turned me on to Eric’s Blue River, a record I played over and over. Now he was singing a song with the words, “… blue street, blue lights, blue rooms and blue goodnights, no blue is as blue as one blue heart…” I didn’t know this one, or the following song with sea imagery… waves, foghorns, seagulls. I was going to have to buy a CD; that was plain. Often a new song comes in a wash of impressions; I am taken by the melody, the weaving and the flow, and only later—sometimes much later—coming round to focus on the text. Another new one for me, the last song of the first set was called ‘Before Everything Changed.’
Eric opened the second set with a song so transcendently lovely I forgot to take notes; then dropping his bottom e-string sang a darker ‘Going, Going, Gone,’ an edgy tale of broken love. He introduced Francesco, his guitarist from Rome who was laying down cool, understated support on a cherry-red Statocaster. He strapped on the cutaway Gibson, and was joined by Tom again for a rousing bluesy number called ‘Shame, Shame, Shame,’ followed by a medley of slow blues. Then he played ‘Blue River’, title song from album I’d played back when: “…keep us safe from the deep and the dark, we don’t want to stray too far.” Back on the J-50, he played another river song I didn’t get the title for, followed by the long-forgotten familiar, ‘Close the Door Lightly When You Go.’ The encore, played in E minor position capo’d up, a spooky song with a la- la- la chorus… “Some would call her savior; some would call her slave…”
Most of what I knew of glory days in Greenwich Village came from secondary sources. Still a couple of years away from taking up guitar myself, my roommate and I rode the train up from Washington D.C., four or five hours away. Drunk on Chianti we wandered around the Village; saw Carolyn Hester at Gerde’s Folk City and walked the tab. Shame on us, college boys on a spree. Eric would soon become part of that scene and put a record out on Vanguard, the same label Joan Baez was on. Dylan, Paxton, Phil Ochs—those people would become like demigods to me, when I became aware of them a few years later. No one invented the modern singer-songwriter, but Eric was one of the originals. Before—a seismic, sea change away—was Woody Guthrie; you couldn’t match up ‘Blue River’ with ‘Going Down That Road Feeling Bad’. The times had been a changing; forty years on, they had changed again and again, but the songs still worked.
We talked later, joined by Francesco and Inge. Catching up and telling stories, we spoke of Townes; and Piran, where we had last seen each other at the Club Maona; about David Olney, and Sergio Webb, both here recently. I spoke of our life here; the years playing with Thomm Jutz and how he had won the green card lottery and moved to Nashville with his wife Eva, where he’s playing with Nanci Griffith now. Edith who had been saying goodbye to her friends Erika and Monika came back and sat down. The evening had grown cooler. The women all agreed that Eric looked young for someone who had been around since the sixties, and handsome still; but up close you could see a little fatigue had set in. Edith and I were about ready to go, waiting for an opening. “Just one more song,” Tom asked, “Can you play ‘Rain Falls Down in Amsterdam’? Play us just one more.”
It occurred to me that another singer might not take so kindly to the owner sitting in, as Tom had off and on through the evening, but Eric said he had played with Tom before. He liked Tom’s playing and said he preferred the chances and possibilities in spontaneity over fixed arrangements. He said he never told a musician what to play. The sound was still on when Eric stepped back up on the stage and strapped on the cutaway Gibson, but it had gone out of tune in the night air. “I’m doing this just for you,” he said, but the moment seemed lost once the tuning was done. Then the words didn’t come. “I think we’re going to have to wait until next time.”
Eric gave me three CDs to take home. I spent the whole next day thinking about the show and in the days to follow began listening to the records. Sometimes you don’t know what you’re getting into before you begin to dig. Among other things I learned was the first song Eric opened the show with was a Fred Neil song. There you go—he didn’t need to be singing anybody else’s songs, a fact confirmed by a visit to the discography section of his website where I counted over thirty LP and CD releases, an inspiring body of work by any measure. Among the songs from Memory of the Future I found the song about rain falling in Amsterdam, a stark and powerful invective against the neo-Nazi movement. Another CD, You Can’t Relive the Past featured three songs co-written with Townes. Tall and rail-thin, Eric recalls Townes in some ways: the gentleness, the lyrical gift, the rapt attention of women. Close enough, though manifestly Eric has taken far better care of himself, and we are all the luckier for it.
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