Saul Conrad

I met Saul Conrad in a narrow, underground bar that looked like a rich Deadhead’s man cave. At the time, he was in musician-in-residence for one week. Each night he played two sets, one a sit down, acoustic, “easy listening” batch of tunes, the other a stand-up, electric piano, “hard listening” repertoire. He had a “damn the torpedoes” attitude. You could have called the evening “Two Sides of Saul.” He’s unclassifiable, like most true artists. You can’t put a name on what he does. He’s a soundmaker, and he makes the sounds in his head. He’s recorded fugues and preludes and requiems. Idiosyncratic, instinctive, difficult. He’s recorded dreamscape songs in which he laughs to sailors (“I Was Talking”), singing eerily over chunky piano. “Carousel” is bluesy and anthemic, pierced by high falsetto. Songs from “Poison Packets” go down easier, but there’s still something sideways about them. Chords don’t end up where you expect them to. I think of songs like “Bonfire Blues” and “Sycamore” as campfire tunes, but it’s a campfire at which everyone’s on acid. Conrad played “Sycamore” the night I saw him. It highlights his vulnerability. He says he’s “gonna hide in your legs till the pain goes away.” The final three lines are questions: “Do you love me? Am I worth it? Do I deserve it?” That night two drunk women in the front row called out “Yes.” - William Todd Schultz