August 18, 1995 No. 179 Roch On Music By Roch Parisien BOB SNIDER Caterwaul & Doggerel **** (EMI) Caterwaul: a harsh cry, off-key screeching. Doggerel: a low form of poetry trivial or inferior, for burlesque or comic effect. As performers like Barenaked Ladies, Moxy Frovous and Meryn Cadell (who count themelves among his biggest fans) are only too aware, Bob Snider's album title finds him far too modest and self-deprecating. You can buy, to some extent, the "caterwaul." On the surface, Snider sings in a rustic, sub-Dylan kind of voice and plunks at his beat-up nylon-six-string with little flourish - both recorded dry and reverb-less. But the whole is deceptively complex. Behind the roughened surface simplicity lies a rare intelligence and elegance of style, delivery, and content that has long championed by other performers on the Toronto music scene. Snider's is a face that has seen a lot of life, a reality imprinted on his songs. With disheveled hair, ragged beard, craggy skin, and glinting eyes, he may look like he's just woken up from a hard night on the streets, but never misplacing a pointed sense of humor, an ability to poke fun in Everyman's language at the absurdities of day to day existence. His captivating songs and delivery take me instantly back to my English Lit school days and a favorite Romantic period poem, Coleridge's "The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner": "It is an ancient Mariner And he stoppeth one of three. - "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? He holds him with his glittering eye - The wedding guest stood still And listens like a three years' child The mariner hath his will." Like the poem's wedding guest, Snider's songs bind listeners in a spell, constraining them to hear out his tales. Then again, you can dismiss all of the above intellectualizing and view Snider as simply a classic rambling street performer; a witty raconteur one-man-band traveling caravan. Where Snider goes, entertainment value is never far behind. His best material really does combine both perspectives. While there's an air of "novelty" about it, burlesque/doggerel it is not. Snider's social commentary is gentle and humorous, devoid of cynicism, which actually makes it more potent than many of his more strident colleagues. "Parkette" tells the tale of a sterile, deserted municipal park - now named "after a politician" and complete with sign warning "no ball playing" - that was once a natural field teeming with wildlife and children. "Darn Folksinger" takes an indirect swipe at big business interests by casting them as the good guys ("the banker is busy spreading it all around the nation") while for the no-goodnik folk singer, "pecuniary consideration is the machinatin' motivation." Coded proof of this singer-songwriter conspiracy lies in the roll-call of the guilty: Ray Price. Johnny Paycheck. Eddie Money. Buck Owens. Johnny Cash. Then there's the exquisite romantic ballads. "Talk To Me Babe" and "If I Sang It Pretty" reveal that there's much more depth to Snider's lispy rasp than he's often prepared to let on. Gentle finger-picking strikes emotional chords, while rounded melodies proclaim the (again, deceptively perfect) likes of "Winter's on the way/I should have had my wood by now/If I was going to stay/But it looks like I'll be leaving." It's a classic, timeless Ian Tyson, Gordon Lightfoot, Jesse Winchester kind of Canadiana image. Speaking of Canadiana, "They Oughtta Bottle Friday Night" almost sneaks one past Stompin' Tom Connors on his own home turf. "Bums In The Park" chisels a vivid portrait of those society has counted out. Acoustic blues, vaudeville, and country touches flavor several selections. Some numbers demand only Bob and his guitar, and are so treated. For others, producer (and new Rheostatics drummer) Don Kerr adds unobtrusive splashes of cello, violin, piano, bassoon, pennywhistle, electric guitar, and tuba. At 49 years old, Bob Snider is one of those "new" artists, suddenly thrust out in the spotlight, who's been around almost forever playing in your kitchen and on market corners. One gets the distinct impression that, should the music industry juggernaut presently dragging him in its wake decide to toss him, he'd be just as happy returning to the Toronto streets where he got his start, or retreating to the Nova Scotia wilderness he now prefers to call home. That's if he doesn't dump the music industry first, of course. Once way or another, _Caterwaul and Doggerel_ captures the work of a true Canadian original for whom "sitting in the kitchen is my favorite thing to do/I can sit in that room and ruminate until the chickens come home to roost/I never have to go very far to cook my own goose." ***** - a "desert island" disc; may change your life. **** - excellent; a long-term keeper. *** - a good disc, worth repeated listening. ** - fair, but there are better things to spend money on. * - a waste of valuable natural resources. Copyright 1995 Rocon Communications - All Rights Reserved