From a 2006 story on Daytrotter, before V2 imploded:
What follows is where Langhorne Slim comes from. Its amazing all of the intimate details you can glean about a person using a cocktail of fabrication and poetic license. Most of what youre about to read is concocted from some random, base facts about the man who used to school and now resides in New York City and twice as much from what can be inferred when you solder a friendly acquaintance with he, drummer Malachi DeLorenzo, and bassist Paul Defiglia to much lyrical inference. Its staggering the conclusions that can be made and confirmed just based on the contents of 2005s When The Suns Gone Down and the new songs he and the group have released here and elsewhere, digitally on the Engine EP. One of the first things Langhorne tells me when we meet in a small downtown bar, elbow-to-elbow with the already drunk is that he and DeLorenzo are gay together as in, You know were gay together, right? Its a joke that the dial up from time to time publicly and much more often while driving the mean streets of America in Langhornes grandmothers white Toyota Camry the condition of which makes one assume that it is the only running vehicle any of the three members of the band recently signed to V2 Records, the home of Mr. Jack White (which makes something like a spring tour with The Raconteurs not completely out of the question; can it really be such a great leap?) have in their lives.
Theyve learned to make it work with a drum kit and an upright bass crushed in there and still enough room for the bodies. Langhorne is packed into a pair of boots that appear to have been through a dozen or more cattle drives and rustlings, capable of applying a thick thumping to a stage. The band brings themselves to you in a continual state of sousing with beer, sweat, the kind of body odor that women are still drawn to, cigarette smoke, adulation and a healthy cut of the heavy stuff thats rubbed deep into their fiber. They seem to come from where nights have no expiration and the moon provides the lamplight for mischief and smoldering heart and mind situations.
Take yourself if not physically, then mentally to somewhere up in the hilly regions of Wisconsin this time of the year, as autumns started to settle in and the odorous potpourri of drying, dying leaves and scalding apple cider take the place of barbequed burgers, brats and firecracker exhaust in the wind. Strips of corn husk and hardening silk are floating in the same air as the geese honking south for the change of season. Langhorne Slim would fit comfortably in with the laid-back country folk of the Midwest and his songs, this time of year, would lend themselves favorably to a hayrack ride and possibly later on, quite literally, a roll in the hay. Hes got the essence of Cat Stevens in his voice, dancing with the nuances of Dylan. Theres languish and strength in the words that rise from the pits of his body to fume out into the open air, slaking themselves of any saggy melancholy and indenturing themselves to a guy whos worn his skin a time or tow, gathered an ass-whupping on occasion and endured more than his fair share of broken hearts. Where Langhorne Slim comes from is where people use their porches more than their tables in the dead of summer. Do not let his voicemail message of Leave a sexy message distract you. He has sexy down, but most definitely not in the way youre thinking. Its his for demonstrating the realism that can sneak up on you if you just let it fuck you up a little bit. All it takes is a good and brash devotion to clipping and saving all of lifes inconveniences and making them work for you. Its like saving pennies pretty soon they add up to something. Slim brings us a prime example of raising a toast to letting the string go, watching it get caught in the highwire and then lamenting on what could have been done differently and what youd do exactly the same.
Langhorne Slim in a man, with a posse, who you would expect to see nestled onto his very own particular stool at the greasy spoon diner on the corner of small town America. Actually, hes the man again with the posse who wouldnt be seen at that diner. Hed be built into the Formica countertops, worn thin from the wear and tear of sliding coffee cups and pie plates, like the fly on the wall, taking and living the stories of every patron. Without even trying, hes already them. Just wait and see. Youll feel like them too.
High Noon Saloon
701 E. Washington Ave
Madison, WI 53703
|Minimum Age: 18|
|Kid Friendly: No|
|Dog Friendly: No|
|Wheelchair Accessible: No|