The Shepherd’s Dog - Iron and Wine by Joe Schell

I received The Shepherd’s Dog in the mail and listened to it several times, unimpressed. As an Iron and Wine fan, there was nothing I wanted more than to like it. The thought that Sam Beam had changed bothered me, but I was not going to pass one of my favorite lyricists to the wayside. I picked up the disc again and played it over and over, and slowly, but surely, it grew on me. The once simple expression of a man had turned into a lively, full thunder. I realized that he had allowed what he had been hinting at all along to take shape, leaving only the essentials of what was before (Sam Beam). Now a mesmerizing classic of mine, The Shepherd’s Dog is one vividly inspiring song after another.

As is Beam’s metaphorical songwriting style, The Shepherd’s Dog draws on the smaller details of life that many of us take for granted. Details that you don’t think are significant, important or even lyrical until put to music. For example, these lyrics from “Flightless Bird, American Mouth”:
“And when the cops closed the fair, I cut my long baby hair, stole me a dog-eared map, and called for you everywhere.”

Simple, yet majestic—nothing out of the norm, but a poetic and striking depiction of a situation, which I leave feeling a part of. These subtleties of word and Beam’s incorporation of a full band reflect the light that The Shepherd’s Dog is painted in.

The night of December 3rd I got off the #2 and headed up to 2nd and Virginia, where The Moore sits. As I moved up the block I could see a back door to The Moore open. Thinking quickly, I ran over to it hoping to catch a glimpse of the band backstage, but there was nothing—just an empty hallway. I turned out of the alley, back toward the sidewalk, and looked up to see Sam Beam and a couple of bandmates coming toward me from across the street.

He’s one of those unmistakable people, Sam Beam. A mane of a beard and a head of dirty blond hair dwarf his wiry frame; I looked at him and all I could manage was a “Hey man” and a smile. He looked at me, smiled, nodded and waved back with a quiet “Hey.” I stood there like an idiot, thinking I should ask him for an interview. I should go get my picture taken with him, or at least shake his hand. Ultimately, I managed to get one unfocused picture of their backs disappearing down the rain-soaked alley and into a doorway a couple hundred feet down.

Califone opened the show, a jumble of instruments on stage with them: various percussion instruments, electric and acoustic guitars and a banjo. They jammed along with yells from the crowd of “Who are you guys?” and “You guys are great!” A large screen behind them flashed time-lapse photography and other still images. Their sound reminded me of The Shepherd’s Dog, harnessing what seemed like chaotic clamor to create innovative, thumping rhythm and noise. Beam even came out for a couple of songs, playing vibes and piano.

The old vaudeville theatre is grandiose in style and presentation, but is showing age with chipped paint and several large sections of plaster peeling from the walls. As I sat there taking it all in, a girl behind me muttered, “All right Iron and Wine—where are ya?” Seconds later the lights dimmed, and out walked the band.

Eight people walked onto the stage, wasting no time as they took their seats, stools and places. Opening with “Lovesong of the Buzzard,” Beam sang in his soft, melodic southern twang; sometimes coy, sometimes brash and raspy.

The band, made up of an all-star cast of players, includes Paul Neihaus (Calexico) working wonders on the pedal steel and LeRoy Bach (Wilco) tickling the keys and electric guitar. Drummer Chad Taylor (Sea and Cake), bassist Matt Lux and percussionist Ben Massarella (Califone, Red Red Meat) make up the backbone of the band. Each played several of the myriad instruments, which included: accordion; piano; electric bass; upright bass; various percussion instruments, including an eight-tone drum; vibes; pedal steel; fiddle; tambourine and electric guitar. Playing fiddle and complimented by his sister Sarah’s backup singing, Beam shown brightly in the dark theatre. Much of his time on stage was spent with his back turned to the crowd (to my and others' dismay), as he seemed to orchestrate the band, cuing the musicians from one tempo change to another.

After 18 songs and two hours of what I thought was an enthralling show of musicianship and the presentation of a mesmerizing opus, Beam and the band turned in.
I left the show grinning ear to ear and thinking they should come back more often than every two years. I walked down the alley where I had seen Beam before, through puddles and past the walls of graffiti, and found Beam and several other band members sitting in a fenced stoop smoking cigarettes. Speaking up I chirped, “You guys put on a great show. You guys are really great.” It was all I could muster. “Thanks man, thanks a lot. Be safe,” he smiled back. With that, I headed back down the alley to the street and back on the #2 with his vivid imagery and his low southern twang playing in my head.