Ann Wilson Brings A Little Heart to Warren
I attended eighty-two concerts last year. You name it I saw it; across each genre there were both definite highlights and a few letdowns. On the rare occasion did I see a show that sparked my wit, causing my writing to go into a hyberbolic overdrive. I hate to use such big words to describe a show, especially when it tends to make me look like a gushing teenager seeing his first nudie flick.
But Kathy Mattea at Akron’s Tangier last October was one of those experiences. Her voice, a concealed WMD if there was one, lit up the old dinner theater accompanied only by a backup guitar and a single white spotlight. There were no theatrics to speak of; her voice was the only weapon she needed. And it brought down the house.
The same thing went for Jazz trumpeter Chris Botti. His Rocksino show was a tad more theatrical; the lighting package complemented the glitz of the Jazz ensemble he had collected onstage.
Well, for the first time in this calendar year a performance gave me goosebumps and an unfettered desire to devolve into unchecked hyperbole.