WE ARE REAL: What I Learned From A David Berman Tribute Night In Seattle

Some of you may have noticed several events paying tribute to the late poet and songwriter, David Berman, a few months back. Many of the announcements were reposted by one of my favorite Instagram accounts, Secret Knowledge Of Backroads, which does a magnificent job of continuously curating and unearthing Berman-related content. These gatherings have been appearing in various cities around the country. This isn’t the first year they’ve taken place, and David is far from the only artist or musician to inspire celebrations honoring their work, but I’m not sure I’ve ever made the effort to attend anything like this. Perhaps, I’ve always been a little skeptical or smug about them. Maybe even a little lazy. The truth is, it’s probably a combination of all three. This year, the lady and I made an exception and hit up a tribute at Conor Byrne pub in the Ballard district of Seattle. It’s been three months since it happened, but I just developed some film that includes images from that night, and it has me reflecting on the experience and events like this in general.

David Berman was born in Williamsburg, VA, on January 4th, 1967. The Seattle tribute show was held on January 3rd. It was the same day the wingnuts drunk behind the wheel of our government jumped the curb, snapped the driveshaft, and kidnapped President Maduro. It marked an escalation from exploding Venezuelan fishermen with the imperialist zeal of disturbed tweens burning ants with a magnifying glass 🔎 and plucking wings off ladybugs 🐞. It was – and continues to be – a time of horror and malaise. The winter can freeze you numb, but the hot sink water defrosting your paws can shoot lightning through your finger bones. Sometimes, we need to be caressed from our tombs.

We arrived a bit early and squeezed through the crowded bar, moving toward the back where a small stage was located. It was encouraging to see such an impressive turnout at the start of an already tumultuous year. I imagined that many of us who were there had considered staying in, but sensed that we probably needed this. The same emotional exhaustion that isolates us can sometimes prompt us to leave our homes. I, for one, am grateful that we forced our weathered bodies into the brisk winter streets, dragged by our own shirt collars like old-timey cartoons. Some of that motivation came from the desire to support those performing and an appreciation for those who organized the event. If you have to be in a crowd, you could do a lot worse than a room full of people who love David Berman.

As advertised, the night would feature various performers presenting David Cloud Bermans‘s work, either by performing songs from his Silver Jews and Purple Mountains catalogs, or reciting his written pieces like the poems from his book Actual Air. To what degree that sounds appealing to you may be somewhat complicated and layered. I know that it was for me.

In the general sense, I feel like there’s an absurd entitlement in gatekeeping something that you love. It can reflect a flaw in your own sense of self to fear that you could somehow dilute the uniqueness of your identity if others share your special little interests. I’ve written plenty about Berman on the site, including a piece where I had the opportunity to interview him, so I’m clearly all about spreading the gospel of the Joos. That said, if you love something, you might not have any desire to watch someone else try and interpret it, let alone trust them to do it justice. Then there’s that vile skepticism where the lesser part of me that recognizes the posthumous uptick in popularity for artists like Berman and MF DOOM leaves me questioning what percentage of this desire to try and replicate what many of us find sacred comes from the heart versus it being a very on-trend thing to attach oneself to. Having great respect for the select people whom I knew were involved in this particular show, however, had me leaning on the side of optimism.

Kay Redden made the flyer for the event and was the one who first told me about it. I’m not sure of the specifics, but I know she was involved with helping put this thing together. As the manager of Sonic Boom Records, a karaoke host at Hattie’s Hat, and assistant booker/door person at the Sunset Tavern, Kay has her hands in some of the coolest elements that exist in the area. Whether you refer to her as “the unofficial mayor of Ballard” or “the Duchess of the Ruckus,” her involvement adds a level of legitimacy to most things. For the last 10 years, she’s been running Den Tapes, the independent cassette label she founded to highlight local music. I’ve always respected how she devotes herself to giving a voice to the community that she believes in. I also know how deeply she has always loved Berman.

Redden read a selection from Actual Air and accompanied another performer on vocals for a pair of songs. In typical Kay fashion, she took the Conor Byrne stage to highlight not herself but the work that has meant so much to her. At the same time, it’s been nice to see her gradually begin to perform, as of late. She’s done plenty for those around her.

The inclusion of Martin Douglas on the bill was another thing that brought us out to the pub that night. I saw Martin DJ as an opener for a Tropical Fuck Storm show last year, but he’s primarily known for his writing, podcasting, and music journalism. His work has appeared in publications from Pitchfork to Maggotbrain, but he really made his mark with projects like the Cobain 50 podcast and the column Throwaway Style for KEXP. For years, the latter was a monthly newsletter spotlighting music from the Pacific Northwest until the station abruptly pulled the plug in December — something I interpret as a lapse of appreciation for long-form, in-depth music analysis. In the wake of losing a position he’s held since 2018, Martin has resurfaced with his Substack, Trick Bag. Just like Kay, Douglas has spent years and untold energy championing art that he believes deserves more attention, and Trick Bag is proof that the mission will continue. Now the veteran music journalist would be on stage with all eyes on him, positioned at a mic stand, and sharing the work directly.

Martin read a longer piece, delivering it in a somewhat humble manner. There was no big fanfare or overperformative spoken word-like delivery to it. He may have stumbled on a word or two, as we all do when reading pages of text, but it only added to the presentation for me. He didn’t pretend to be Berman or even embody his words; he delivered them as if they were precious to him. He read his piece as if sharing a secret.

I can’t remember everything that everyone presented; it was months ago, and I was uncharacteristically faded. Seated up against a wall, I was, more or less, couched by a reckless alleyway vape hit flavored like generic Baja Blast. I pulled it together just enough to time/snap a few images between the sea of heads in the crowded pub. I wish I had a better angle to dodge that mic, but I collected the photo evidence that the night took place. I was way too spaced and worn out to stay for the entire event, but just because we dipped out early doesn’t mean that we didn’t appreciate the experience or that it didn’t provide some much-needed perspective. Plus, it was great to run into Ray from BIPOC Punk out in the wild. Most of us could probably benefit from a little more community engagement.

Tributes are something that I can be wary of. Maybe some of that stems from so many modern cover bands adopting the term, as if calling yourselves a “tribute” band doesn’t make things that much worse. Perhaps all of those mediocre tribute albums that would come out for the Grateful Dead back in the day left a bad taste in my mouth. In fact, The Dead might be the perfect example, since the best acts playing their music seem to tap into the core feeling and ethos while eschewing more of the showboating and wankery of it all. If you try to play dress-up to fully emulate a beloved act like The Dead, or David Berman, or WEEN, it’s impossible to replicate the intangible qualities that make them so unique, and your hubris will backfire. And these days, with the overwhelming number of WEEN “tribute bands” all over the country, I’d wager very few could even attempt to conjure the group’s delicate balance of absurdity and sincerity without turning themselves into full-on attention clowns.

Incidentally, the first time I’d ever heard of anyone forming a WEEN cover band was my friend Josh, who put his together in the early 2000s, years before anyone was doing anything like that. It was just a side project he intended to do once, but it turned into continued offers to play gigs. Throughout its run, the material was always the star, never him. One temporary member tried to gain some traction in the WEEN community by hyping himself up and posturing like it was his project to achieve some sort of clout from it. Meanwhile, Josh was barely a ghost on social media. He never cared. I know I’m on a bit of a tangent, but along with my point about the importance of intentionality, I bring this up because Josh had a tremendous love of Silver Jews. We would listen to them a lot when we worked together. The first time I’d ever heard of Conor Byrne was from him, because he would play shows there with his other projects from time to time. He passed away a year and a half ago, but I’d never made it out to see him perform at the venue. My first trip to the pub carried an extra, although connective, weight because of that.

Were there certain performers who looked as if they were dressed especially Bermanesque for the event? Sure. There may have been a bit of a cosplay element in the room, but so what? I recall that someone might have played an original tune which they believed was in David’s style, and although that veers into the territory of self-promotion, which corrodes what I’m there for, that’s a small hump to get over and keep the night moving. The legacy of DC Berman looms large. You have to be willing to stumble or come across as cringeworthy when you take on such daunting work. It’s the sentiment that counts in these scenarios, and the reverence that I felt from those on the bill was undeniable. They knew what they had and, when their time came, they offered their piece like a gift to the room. People cared and didn’t want to fumble when they got the ball. Heart reigned that night and, if anything, perfection is the enemy. As David so famously sang, “all [his] favorite singers couldn’t sing.”

My ultimate take is that events like these are good, and they feed the community. Granted, my experience is limited, but this one seemed incredibly genuine. Many of the selections that people chose were unexpected and, in their earnest presentation, provided greater appreciation for pieces I might not have paid as much attention to before. The message was simple: “I love this. Maybe you do or will, too.” I once had a girl explain to me how she first discovered Berman through his poetry, completely unaware of his musical career. She was crashing at a house while traveling with her band when she came across a copy of Actual Air and fell in love with it. We all have different entry points to the things we end up loving. For some, a tribute show could be that very introduction. We’re all tired, and it’s easy to be jaded, but when they are at their most effective, gatherings like this can actually help alleviate some of that.

Attending this show recalibrated things for me and provided a much-needed adjustment in my perspective. I’ve always enjoyed a good Halloween bill of one-off cover bands like the Sunset held last year or the Capitol Theater hosted annually when I lived in Olympia. Maybe it’s because those events feel so tongue-in-cheek that we allow ourselves to just have fun and embrace cringe to the point of sincerity. Mostly, I just have an aversion to anything that feels too self-important. But now I think that it might not be a bad idea to remind ourselves that OUR SELVES are important, especially in celebrating the work of someone whose death was self-inflicted. Someone with whom I discussed his and my own suicide attempts directly, and who had me naively convinced that he wouldn’t ever attempt something like that ever again.

Berman‘s passing fucked a lot of us up in ways we’re still dealing with. There’s something beautiful about the art DCB left behind, having the ability to soothe not only wounds related to his passing but the infinitely broader issues multiplying around us like Gremlins. It took years for me to be able to revisit David‘s work. Hearing what it means to others through the selections they choose offers it somewhat of a comforting second life. We all need to actively support those supporting.