Michael Flynn’s style is unassumingly witty.
He’s a quiet vocalist with enough talent to know how far hushed words and thoughtful instrumentation can carry a solo artist. His work belongs in a hushed venue with a reverent audience. It needs space to echo without interruption and a place where the words aren’t diluted from alternative conversations.
I was late to the show Flynn played a few weeks ago at the City Winery in DC. By the time the usher showed me to my table, everyone else was listening to Flynn and watching intently. He sat behind a keyboard wrapping up "Church Clothes." As I took my seat in the dimly lit, crowded room, I realized I was unaccustomed to the strange silence that’s clearly part of the usual atmosphere in the venue. People were so focused on the music in a way that was notably different than a typical concert. The attention wasn’t caused by the showmanship (though Flynn’s natural rapport with crowd was evident) or the stage lights (they never changed throughout the show); rather, the attention was freely given and easily accepted thanks to expectation set by the venue and its proprietors.
Rather than waving arms or making other annoying gestures or noises, notices placed on tables asked that patrons place a small card in a stand to get a server’s attention. A more unspoken rule, however, was, “there is no need to snap a bad picture with your massive phone.” I felt eyes on me whenever I jotted notes and towards the end of the show I opted to just try and remember key parts rather than endure the mild disdain of my neighbors. This choice gave me the freedom so many others seem to tout in regard to “unplugging.” I focused on Flynn and his work without the myriad of self-made or atmospheric distractions. Soon, I was no longer there to capture an experience but to soak in an incredibly powerful form of art.
Artists are only as good as the outcome of their creative process. After all that brainstorming, failing, mixing, and mastering, tracks are set loose as the final product of a fairly undefined system.
Previously, I had never really considered the dependence some artists have on the venue as a means to promote their work. Flynn played to a sold out crowd and there was little, if any, conversation while he played. The only noises came from wine being poured out at the bar or quiet instructions being relayed between the wait staff. This was exactly the sort of atmosphere in which Flynn’s music thrived; every ear attuned to the notes and every eye riveted on the man creating them. In that place, the moments existed only as a conduit for Michael Flynn’s music. Compared to The Anthem or the 930 Club, two larger, louder DC venues, I walked away with a more distinct understanding of how Flynn plays music and what it means for him to sit behind a keyboard and create something from nothing.
Artists are only as good as the outcome of their creative process. After all that brainstorming, failing, mixing, and mastering, tracks are set loose as the final product of a fairly undefined system. Witnessing that process live and unfiltered automatically creates a transparency and trust between the crowd and the performer. Flynn used a loop pedal to build some of the tracks live while he unabashedly gave us a Don Henley mash-up featuring “Boys of Summer” and one of his own tracks. I could hear the click of the pedal being switched on and off and appreciated the light tonal inflections that denoted whether he was being serious or gearing up for a well-timed jab at himself.
So what if you can’t feel the bass filling up your chest and rattling your eyes at a show? This was about giving a microphone to the quiet thoughts and voices that rarely have a chance to get out and take center stage. For once the slow track wasn’t the energetic low point of the concert. When the whole performance is a fixation of the work, the energy level is maintained by the artist, not dictated by the whims of a mob.
Flynn’s most recent album, Pretend Like, is a soft-sounding record with biting annotations on modern life. His voice can be crooning out the most caustic satire of our evermore digitally dependent world (see: “Professional Network”) and then he’ll be chuckling at his own self-depreciating humor, the audience laughing right along with him. It was refreshing to be in an environment where each person was entirely attuned to the musician and his work. Michael Flynn has shifted my perspective on the need to explore the quieter side of music and the venues that welcome it.
When the whole performance is a fixation of the work, the energy level is maintained by the artist, not dictated by the whims of a mob.
On my way out, I was able to snag a moment with Flynn. We chatted about mutual friends and his recent tour transportation upgrade. The next band hadn’t gone on stage yet and Flynn had some time to mingle with seated friends and enjoy a glass of wine. The venue had lent itself to the promotion of Flynn’s music without letting us forget about the man behind the piano and what he does to get here. We need more places like this. We need more quiet places for quiet music.
