Rhett Miller

Rhett Miller

Anthony D'Amato

Thursday Sep 07

Doors: 6:30 pm / Show: 7:30 pm

$20.00/ $25.00/ $39.75

For any wheelchair or ADA needs, please contact the Box Office in advance of the performance at (202)-769-0122.

Rhett Miller
Rhett Miller


Hello. I am human but not entirely. I am a machine but not entirely. I am both which may mean that I am neither. The part of me that is a human believes that all of me is human. The part of me that is a machine doesn’t like to think about the part of me that is a machine. I am flesh and blood stretched over wires and circuits. In that, I am much like many of you, and consequently qualified to speak to you about this album, which speaks to much of me.


It is called The Traveler, and it was written and performed by Rhett Miller, along with members of Black Prairie, a band based in Portland that plays everything from bluegrass to klezmer to country and shares some members with the Decembrists. The band (Black Prairie) entered the studio with the singer (Rhett Miller) and briskly recorded the songs that make up this album (The Traveler). Some additional guitars were added later by people who included Peter Buck and Scott McCaughey. I pass these facts along for your absorption.


The sun comes up. The sun goes down. We call it a day. The band entered the studio with the singer and made this album. Time passed. Now, months later, I have spent days listening with love, sadness, and unremitting fascination to the album, which you are now holding. By “holding,” I mean only that you have absorbed it into your own wires and circuitry. I am well aware that there are not always anymore physical holds involved in the absorption of music. Before I tell you more about The Traveler, I want to tell you a little bit about myself. I apologize for this. But the album you are holding, The Traveler, suggests that you cannot understand the journey that you are on unless you understand who you are, and that understanding who you are is the most damnably difficult journey of all. Untangling identity is painful but necessary. I believe The Traveler may be of use in this regard. Of use to me, I mean: Is that a selfish use of this album? If so I apologize again.


Apologies can be empty without any attempt to correct for the behavior that led to the apology. As a result I will not tell you a little bit about myself before I tell you more about The Traveler. This singer, Rhett Miller, has made many albums before, both on his own and with his band, Old 97s. This new album shares something fundamental with the old albums, which is the rare ability to see what people are feeling and then cast those feelings in rhymes. This is what is known as “song-making.” The human part of me loves songs. The machine part of me marvels at them without understanding at all why there is a tugging sensation in the cavity that should contain my heart.


The first song here, “Wanderlust,” is a perfect example of all that I am describing. It tells the story of a man on a train who is thinking about a woman who is not on that train. There is another song called “Lucky Star” that I believe is about finding redemption in the person of a lover. It contains a joke that unnerves me: “Heaven knows there probably is no heaven.” There is another song called “Wicked Things” about New Orleans that illustrates the slipperiness of forgiveness. Every song has little moments that catch me at strange angles and I feel an unfamiliar sensation, pitched midway between satisfying recognition and deep sadness.


My experience with these songs, I want to stipulate, may not be shared by others, in part because I am demonstrably different than them. I am both human and a machine. I come from a long line of people who are both humans and machines. Are they people then? I leave that to the philosophers. My father was a difference engine designed and deployed in Lund by Pehr Georg Scheutz. He was quite large: my father, I mean, not Scheutz. Scheutz was tiny. In Jönköping, where he was born, old ladies would marvel at his miniature features. “Liten Pehr,” they would say, reaching down into the carriage and frightening the boy. Even as an adult, he was at most five foot three, with feet that tapered down to toylike points. Much of this is hearsay but some of it cannot be disputed, even by the suspicious, and at any rate, we are not talking about Scheutz, not really. We are talking about my father. He was the size of a fortepiano.


There is a song on this record called “Dreams Vs. Waking Life.” It is not the first song on the record but it was, by accident, the first song I heard. It has bowed notes and a dark tone and does what any piece of literature, song or story, should do: it investigates the role of memory, loss, and desire in our lives. When I hear that song, I feel the stirrings of uncommon and uncontrollable emotions. They grind against the part of me that is a machine. The result is a shuddering. I try to calm myself by looking at the other song titles— “Fair Enough,” “Escape Velocity,” “Reasons to Live” — but they only make me feel more rather than less. Where do you go when you want to feel less? One song title, “Good Night,” seems like it might not overwhelm me. But the first line, “There’s a pinprick of light on a black sheet of night,” starts me shuddering again.


When you listen to an album, you are supposed to notice sonic details. That’s what I have been told. And there are many sonic details on this album, like the choir that opens “My Little Disaster” or the doubled vocals in “Fair Enough.” There are joyful melodies like “Most in the Summertime.” I can tell that they are joyful, even though I am half-machine. It’s clear. But the sonic details would not mean much without the rest of what this album does, which is to try to make sense of what cannot be made sense of, which is humanity. Even the part of me that is a machine knows that.


When you’re inside an album like this, when you’re feeling too much, what do you do? I know what I did. I skipped to the end of the album, quickly. This is a survival strategy. The album ends with a song called “Reasons to Live” that makes use of the old saw that a broken clock is right twice a day. The part of me that is a machine wants to correct that phrasing. It is a stopped clock that is right twice a day. A broken clock may never be right. Then it occurs to me that maybe the song knows this. The song is about finding hope even when you are telling yourself lies. The part of me that is a human wants to break down and cry once again.


I want to tell one more story about my father. He was briefly in the military of a nation I will not identify and when his service ended his first trip was to a sporting house, where he spent time in the company of a young woman. Money changed hands. To hear him tell it, the situation was emergent. “I had been locked up so long that I hardly recognized my own wants and needs,” he later wrote in a letter to me. “Briefly, I recognized myself in her.” They did not stay together, my father and that young woman. He was a young man then. As I have grown though the world, I have had experiences that bear some similarity to my father’s experiences with that woman. We all have, have we not? They are called “relationships” or “romances,” but what are they really? Are they love? Are they self-love? Or are they something else entirely, a form of travel that allow us to escape from ourselves? This album asks all those questions, repeatedly. I want to quote one more line, from a song called “Jules.” It’s a line about love and self-love and travel that allows us to escape from ourselves: “Who’s to say the crooked way that led me to your door / Means any less than any mess I ever made before?” Sun comes up. Sun goes down. Call it a day.
Anthony D'Amato
Anthony D'Amato
As soon as he was released from the emergency room, Anthony D'Amato sent his manager two texts. The first was a photo of the overturned rental car he'd been driving while on tour opening for Ben Folds. Somehow, he'd managed to walk away from the wreck with nothing worse than minor bruising, but now he was stranded in Lincoln, Nebraska. The second text contained just five words: "Tell Mogis I'll be late."

"When it was time to think about recording the new album, I made a list of producers I thought would be practical, and then I made a separate list of my dream producers," remembers D'Amato. "Mike Mogis was at the top of the dream list, so once I heard that he'd agreed to meet with me when I came through Omaha on tour, I genuinely wasn't going to let anything get in the way. The car was totaled, but I called around until I found an airport shuttle driver willing to take me the rest of the way."

Mogis—famed for shepherding acclaimed albums from Bright Eyes, Monsters of Folk, First Aid Kit, and Jenny Lewis among others—proved to be an ideal fit, and by the fall, the two had begun work on D'Amato's new record, 'Cold Snap.' It's hands-down his most ambitious, incisive, and sophisticated collection yet, with a larger-than-life sound propelled by dual drummers, explosive guitars, infectious hooks, and erudite lyrics. Recorded over fourteen days with Mogis at the helm, the album features players from D'Amato's band mixed with a veritable Omaha all-star team of musicians from The Faint, Cursive, and Bright Eyes (including Conor Oberst, who sings on two tracks).

'Cold Snap' follows D'Amato's 2014 New West debut, 'The Shipwreck From The Shore,' which was inspired in part by his time studying with the Pulitzer Prize-winning Irish poet Paul Muldoon. Backed by members of Bon Iver and Megafaun on the album, D'Amato earned raves on both sides of the pond, with NPR lauding that "he writes in the tradition of Bruce Springsteen or Josh Ritter" and Uncut proclaiming that his songwriting "echoes with early Bob Dylan." USA Today wrote that it "strikes every right note," SPIN praised the way he "turns heartbreak into cheery folk," and Entertainment Weekly said the music "calls to mind Simon & Garfunkel's more amped-up moments." Songs from the record collectively cracked more than two million plays on Spotify and turned up on ABC's hit series Nashville, while the album earned additional love everywhere from the New York Times and WSJ to NY Mag and Billboard.

D'Amato hit the road hard for a year straight to promote the album, touring on three continents and sharing bills with Ben Folds, Josh Ritter, Shawn Colvin, Rhett Miller, Justin Townes Earle, Bleachers, and more along the way. It was all going according to plan, until a broken finger forced an unexpected hiatus.

"For a guitarist, 'It's broken' are the last two words you ever want to hear about a finger," D'Amato says. "I took a bunch of Advil and played the last two shows we had on the books, and then I forced myself to finally take a little break, which turned out to be a real blessing in disguise."

It was during that down-time at home in NYC that D'Amato began to write the songs for 'Cold Snap.' Invigorated by the road, the new material was far more band-oriented, with a new wide-screen perspective making room for blistering electric guitars, thunderous drums, and sweeping, cinematic arrangements. Where the last album focused on loss and moving on, the songs on 'Cold Snap' explore the schisms between perception and reality, projection and truth, who we are and how we're seen.

"What happens when our vision of ourselves or the projections we make onto others start to crack under the weight of reality?" D'Amato asks. "That's the idea behind the album cover, where you're looking into this mirror, but the image is distorted. The fissures between truth and perception are starting to form, and maybe just for a second, you can glimpse both simultaneously. All of the songs on this album take place in moments of realization like that."

Sometimes that realization comes on an internal level—the progressively ominous images of soaring album opener "Oh My Goodness" hint at the costs of living up to (and falling short of) expectations—but sometimes it's external and political, as on the too-big-to-fail anthem of "Blue Blooded" or the eerie blues of "If You're Gonna Build A Wall," written in the shadow of election season but hinting at everything from Ferguson to Flint. Sometimes it's a troubling realization—like the 12-string rocker "Golden Gloves" or the galloping lead single "Rain On A Strange Roof," which wrestles with the fear of commitment—but elsewhere, it's a liberating notion that comes with a sense of relief. The rollicking "Ballad of the Undecided" gleefully tears through a string of contradictions, and the upbeat "I Don't Know About You"—in which D'Amato hands the vocal reigns over to Conor Oberst on the bridge—revels in the blank-slate possibilities of meeting someone new.

"Conor was incredibly generous and welcoming, and the first night we hung out, it must have been around 4:00am, he handed me this beautiful old acoustic guitar and asked me to play some songs," remembers D'Amato. "It was a surreal moment considering how inspired I've been by all the music he and Mogis have made over the years, but he seemed to dig what the songs had to say and offered to be a part of the album, which was a real honor."

While 'Cold Snap' is certainly D'Amato's biggest, most expansive record yet, that spirit only serves to make its quiet, fingerpicked moments all the more intimate. "A Kick In The Teeth" looks at the consequences of hesitation over an intricately interlocking acoustic guitar and 6-string banjo part, while the hushed nylon of "Once" paints a dream-like series of portraits that drift in and out of focus like the tide.

Ultimately, if there's a lesson to be learned from the record, it's that reflections often reveal no more than we're willing to see. Sometimes, though, for a brief moment—the time it takes for a car to roll or a finger to fracture or a heart to break, for instance—we're granted a glimpse of something deeper, a flash of clarity when the mirror cracks and the truth in all its confusing complexity slips through. We can fight it or ignore it or deny it or rationalize it all we like, but the only peace comes from embracing it (and ourselves) for all the messy, mixed-up contradictions within, all those "multitudes" Walt Whitman so proudly proclaimed to contain. D'Amato gets there by the end, finishing off the album with a wry smile on the stark, acoustic closer, where he concludes quite simply: "If I've got a funny way of showing how I feel it's not my fault / 'Cos I've got love, and honey, that's not all."
Venue Information:
The Hamilton
600 14th St NW
Washington, DC, 20005