Dave's True Story (Club Helsinki, 5/5/01)
By Seth Rogovoy

(GREAT BARRINGTON, Mass., May 6, 2001) - Jazz-lounge act Dave's True Story conjured up an aura of cynical bliss, if such a thing is possible, in its two sets at Club Helsinki on Saturday night. Dressed in vintage cocktail dress and backed by her husband, Jeff Eyrich, on acoustic bass guitar, singer Kelly Flint cooed and purred guitarist/songwriter Dave Cantor's wry, ironic, post-hip takes on contemporary romance that filter the wit and sophistication of Cole Porter through a David Lynch sensibility.

In one way or another, Cantor's songs were all about sex: sex in the city, the impossibility of monogamy, sex and commerce, sex and obsession, sex and consumption, sex and clothes, phone sex, computer sex and sex and literature.

Cantor's wit, gift for rhyme and for narrative invention made each song a surprise, and kept listeners rapt and listening closely to Flint, whose sweet, whispery voice could and did grow to a trumpet blast on occasion. The contrast between her disingenuous delivery and phrases like, "I've got this urge to consume you in pieces/I've got desires to swallow you whole" - plus the additional irony of her very visibly pregnant belly - made for delicious, gleeful contrasts.

Songs were pitched variously as bossa nova, cocktail jazz, torch songs and jazzy blues, in spare duo or trio arrangements that emphasized their spare minimalism, served the vocals, and never drew attention to themselves.

Soloing was kept to a bare minimum. Other than the lyrics, there were no sounds that couldn't have been heard before 1950; Dave's True Story wasn't interested in complimenting its thematic irony with any musical irony.

This was both the group's strength and weakness. Cantor's songs displayed a hyper intelligence; one medley, "for the English literature majors," name-dropped Kafka, Kant, Cervantes, Charles Bukowski, Joyce, Henry Miller, William Blake and Shakespeare. "Austen is awesome/Dickens is a kick/But no one packs a whallop/Like Trollope," sang Flint as convincingly as when she declaimed "I know this trick that could bring you compulsions" or sang about "sex in a garrison state" in the group's signature tune, "Sex Without Bodies."

Over the course of an evening, however, the lightness of the music tended to evaporate, and a sleepy sameness crept in. One longer for a bit of contrast for depth or color: the brush of a snare, the cry of a horn, or the kick of a bass drum, something more than just Cantor's guitar to set off the deadpan, noirish quality of Flint's voice.

By the end of the evening, whatever tension the trio had built fizzled like a slow, leaky balloon, trickling out like the steady stream of clubgoers who said goodbye before the band had called it a night.

[This column originally appeared in the Berkshire Eagle on May 8, 2001. Copyright Seth Rogovoy 2001. All rights reserved.]