Like the very best bar band gigging for millennials chewing up mushrooms and guzzling strong fizzy water, Sturgill Simpson and his loose-tight ensemble played elonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngated country-finger-licking, winding psych-rock-out jams as if they were the Band re-electrified. It was a prime selection of Simpson (or Johnny Blue Skies, his fresh nom de plume) originals and vintage covers that titillated Philly’s trucker-hat-and-flannel elites for 26 songs over three hours.
That meant that Simpson—possessed of rough-edged-yet-crystalline guitar lines, a honey-and-homemade-Kentucky-whiskey baritone, a camouflage top and a lyrical mix of deep sarcasm and winsome adoration, plus a handful of weirdly placed Big Lebowski jokes—could waltz through the haughty hillbilly elegy of “It Ain’t All Flowers” (from 2014’s Metamodern Sounds In Country Music), then leap into husky, crusty versions of Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” and Prince’s “Purple Rain,” as well as nightmare-techie, Japanese-anime soundtrack stuff on 2019’s Sound & Fury and the gorgeously melodic new songs found on Passage Du Desir. All without pause or explanation. As the night wore on and his tracks rambled on, seemingly joined together as one long whoa, what shined through most about Simpson is that he’s a butter churner: working his liquid-y junky funk—fast songs and slow tunes—into something sweet, creamy and fat.
Brilliant.
Joining Sturgill/Johnny/Lebowski at the Met in his musky mission was one of the finest union of players (hence that Band reference) I’ve witnessed working onstage in some time: rolling keyboard/saxophonist Robbie Crowell, powerhouse drummer Miles Miller, fluid bassist Kevin Black and Laur Joamets, an epic-conscious lead guitarist and yawning pedal-steel player who often seemed to be joyously dueling Simpson for who could reach the peak of Candy Mountain first. “I’m just a dude, playing with the best fucking band on Planet Earth,” Simpson said proudly.
The non-stop showcase of muscularity and melody found Simpson and Co. coursing through the Stax soul of William Bell’s “You Don’t Miss Your Water” and into their rhythm-and-blissful “Jupiter’s Faerie.” Simpson’s crisply rendered family portrait of “Scooter Blues” and heroic antiwar ballad “Call To Arms” sandwiched a chugging cover of the Allman Brothers’ “Midnight Rider.” The pokey hiccup of “Long White Line” and its “I don’t care where I go” wordiness waltzed lovingly into the racing rockabilly that was “Railroad Of Sin,” the lower voiced “The Promise” (the When In Rome hit?!), the leathery, Phish-jamming “A Good Look,” right into the butch blues of The Doors’ “L.A. Woman” before eventually landing at the clowning, dreamy “Welcome To Earth (Pollywog).”
As this old year comes to a close—and considering best-ofs is essential to any critic’s job—Sturgill Simpson and Co’s tough-and-twinkling night at the Met will be a must add to what made 2024 tick.
—A.D. Amorosi
