Jimmie Dale Gilmore’s aching, fluty yodel of a voice has its origins in at least two species of apartness: first, the remote area of Texas where he grew up and recorded his first work (with Joe Ely and Butch Hancock in the Flatlanders, back in 1971), and second, the almost antediluvian beginnings of folk and country blues that inform his music. That music, of course, is very traditional, and this is a very untraditional time: he will sound anachronistic, almost foreign, to some. But wait: beneath those dreamy waltzes, rollicking twosteps, and seemingly straightforward ballads lies a simple metaphorical poetry of great power in which the moral integrity of his music is put to the fire of life’s somewhat less tidy demands. The result is an unnerving sense–never quite articulated–of darkness, unreality, and (again) apartness. Which means he’s a modern after all. Gilmore’s two solo shows this weekend are highly recommended to anyone interested in the beauty and power one man with a guitar can convey. Tonight and Saturday, Schubas, 3159 N. Southport; 525-2508.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Scott Newton.