Steve Poltz is like my favourite caffeinated beverage: energetic, enigmatic and effervescent.
He’s a little weary after playing a string of shows for a long time, and in Australia since 24 February. This matinee at the Bison Bar (7 April) on the Sunshine Coast began his last day of shows before heading back to Nashville, for a welcome few days off after who-would-know how long.
Through ‘Ten Chances’, Steve Poltz gently eases himself and us into the communion waters of this intimate show. “I only had three words that I wanted to tell ya, but it would be easier if you were here and I could smell ya,” he sings. “Words are fallin’ out, I know, they drift, they pass, they melt like snow... I collapse into your loving arms again.”
His sunburst Taylor guitar always sounds amazing.
He talked about staying in a spaceship last night, where a lady had given birth to all her children, and other gifted experiences and items like a black cockatoo’s red tail feather, and the small-brim Akubra that he was wearing the feather in.
Someone even bought him the R.M. Williams boots he sported, after he played at Port Fairy Folk Festival. It’s a fascinating result of the ‘giving of yourself’ that being a travelling singer-songwriter is: it encourages people to give in return. #authenticity
You never know what’s fact or entertainment with Steve, but his Canadian apologetics and amicability assuages any animosity. (And encourages alliteration. Obviously).
He has a tendency to unplug and stroll around the venue – I’ve seen him do it at Woodford Folk Festival at The Garland stage, no less. Here in a more intimate space, he surrenders to that impulse a few times, singing up close to the manager’s phone on video call to Bison Bar owner Pete Townson, currently on tour in Melbourne with his band Shifting Sands.
“Maybe I don’t love you,” he croons, “I just love a mystery…” Story of my life, buddy.
He’s got such a unique style of playing: it’s goofy and mesmerising and awkward and totally effective. It’s peristaltically Poltz (‘cause once it gets in you, it keeps going through you). The Taylor sings so clearly, and he strums and plucks sans plectrum: vibrato at-will stands out brightly in the cleanness of the tone.
“I prognostically packed my merch,” he says, having sold all the CDs he brought to our island as well as all merch “except for what you people are going to buy today”.
Someone asks for 'Folk Singer'. He started an improv song in D and hilariously talks us through melding that into the request as he frolics around the room.
He puts the guitar down and talks about our lingo for a minute. He says: “Australia is Canada done right.” (we gasp) “And I can say that because I’m Canadian… we’re just too apologetic.”
We’re told he once asked someone how you would say something is broken, in Aussie. The response was a cringeworthy: “****en thing’s ****en ****ed,” so he uses this line at some shows for his looped, vocal-effects-pedal trick number, and makes no apology.
I ask Elischa, part of the Perch Creek posse and the lady mentioned earlier who birthed the next gen in their bus, for her two cents: “Thank goodness they didn’t medicate ADD and ODD when Steve was born, because we need more unbridled galactic joy.”
It’s always such an out-of-this-world trip with Steve. Here’s wishing him a safe journey to Nashville and back.
