Melissa Ferrick

January 9, 2000 – Miracle upon miracle, the Knitting Factory's December 12th show was void of the typical hour or so delay. At 8 p.m., I was expecting Billy Bob Dung Beetle and his quartet of albino kazoo players followed by depressing, black-and-white films of planes crashing or post-war Russia. My knees hurt just thinking about it. But this time around, the schedule proved to be accurate. Punctuality is everyone's friend.

Emerging singer-songwriter Howie Day opened the show with impressive guitar skills, goofy boyish charm, and a passion for his music that was quickly recognized by those in attendance. A Jeff Buckley-type crooner with a bit of Godsmack's Sully Erna's growls, Day offers an extra dose of youthful angst that keeps him from sounding polished and pleasant. He succeeded in doing what all opening acts hope to do: bowling over the apprehensive audience.

Now, imagine going to see a performer like Ani DiFranco right around the time that she was rising to the top. You gather all your friends, make a mass exodus from your dorm, pack into a pathetically ventilated joint like the Knitting Factory, meet up with a group of people that are friends of a friend of yours, and oh-my-god-those-girls-are-making-out-with-each-other! and so on and thanks for the memories. Good times. Well, happy days are here again. The world of women-lovers joined forces inside the venue to rock out with one crazy sonofabitch: Melissa Ferrick.

Melissa Ferrick has been around, in every sense of the word. She opened for Morrisey on his 1991 tour, rapidly secured a rabid-fan following, cut a couple of albums, and has been delivering raucous, naughty live shows since she began.

Lights down. Then, like angels in the air, she came. "Oooh, ooooh. H'yuh, yuh, yuh, yuh, yuh. Oooh, ooooh. I think I did it again." Britney was pumped into the Knitting Factory at full-blast. Out sauntered Ferrick, bassist Marika Tjelios and drummer Brian Winton in their best cheese-pop dance routine, shrugging shoulders, pouting lips, squinting eyes. The shtick lasted for as long as they could keep from laughing (not long). Melissa Ferrick has a Britney-thang, just like the rest of us. "A little Britney goes a long way," she explained. The screams of the crowd were deafening. God damn, that was great.

And then the slender, hyperactive folk-rock star created a fault line under the club as she ripped into the title track of her latest release, Freedom. Ferrick doesn't often take a band on the road with her, so the rock-factor was hiked up about a hundred notches. The drum and bass brought an almost-frightening amount of power to the already frantic delivery that makes this artist stand out.

Melissa Ferrick proceeded to blow the skin right off of the crowd's bones with tracks like "Till You're Dead," "Particular Place to Be," "Win 'Em Over," "North Carolina," "I Will Arrive" and "This Is Love." The woman has a soul of an ancient high priestess with some banshee/amazon thrown in. There is enough intensity in Ferrick's body to power all the vibrators in the world at the same time.

Ferrick vigorously cut through her guitar strings with unrestrained gusto. She'd flop her head down, and let her arm take off, raking up and down the strings and the neck of her guitar. All that could be seen was the uneven part in her scalp, like a bolt of white lightening, seared into her sweaty, reddish-brown hair. She's so damn wound up that she shakes when she talks, and twitches when she howls out her lyrics.

The great thing about a Melissa Ferrick show is that you never really know what to expect since she's so damn wacky. All the songs are turned on their heads, with improvised lyrics, extended choruses, and unrestrained vocal forays into the land of biddie-bee-bop-ba-dip-dip-do. And we mustn't overlook the highly entertaining banter provided by the hostess. Midway through her set, Ferrick announced that she's getting ready to be an aunt to her very first nephew. She rambled about being very excited to buy "boy toys." Ahem.

"This is my only tragic love song" she said, tuning her guitar. "Just kidding, all my songs are tragic love songs." Understatement. Talk about the perfect, intimidating way to get back at the lover who scorned you: Write a blistering, defiant folk-rock song and have your fans scream the lyrics along with you. That'll teach the unappreciative bimbo.

Like Huckleberry Finn used his raft as a vehicle to run away and go places he shouldn't, so does Ferrick navigate her guitar and vocals to the unsavory yet irresistible realms of heartache, rebel-love, self-examination and necking with your ex-girlfriend.