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- An Interview With Roomtone
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Getting Intimate with Meg Baird
It’s not easy to make a name for yourself as a folk singer, and it’s especially tough if you cover others’ songs. But if you’re Meg Baird, Espers founding member and Philadelphia’s soft-spoken sweetheart – it’s not wanting to make a name for yourself that really sets you apart.
Touted by Pitchfork and Prefix Mag alike as America’s next anti-folk goddess, Baird understands that a well-chosen repertoire and emotional honesty can go a long way, as has been quietly building a fan base with her delicate tunes and distaste for the spotlight.
I caught Baird for the first time this past Tuesday, September 23, at the Megawords storefront in Chinatown. Megawords is a free, local, bi-annual arts and cultural magazine, which recently celebrated the opening of their new studio with a slew of free, daily events.
She’s joined by multimedia artists Marc Zajack and Micah Danges, presenting their installation Moss Forest, Looming Midst. The installation consists partially of two projectors casting old video footage of city life on to the back wall of the studio and the street outside. These images repeat, on constant loop, throughout Baird’s performance.
She chooses local musicians/friends Kurt Vile and Jesse Turbovich to accompany, and Vile to open. He’s just as I remember – slouchy, disaffected—although this time at least his hair is pulled back so I can see his face.
Vile plays just 3 solo numbers, then brings Baird and Turbovich to the front. They settle in without speaking, and Baird strums her guitar, breathes into the microphone, and lets out an effortless, earthy warble.
“I can tell by your eyes, you’ve been crying forever,” she croons, imbuing a sense of passion into Crazy Horse's “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice is soft and floaty and washes over me like a wave. Vile joins in on guitar and Turbovich on bass and harmonica. The audience, a growing crowd of about 50, sits transfixed on the cold, linoleum floor.
During her short set, Baird plays just four songs, but it seems like more, as each morphs and meanders slowly. She only speaks once – to announce her last number—and seems lost in the music, eyes closed.
When the show is over, Baird smiles shyly, then puts her guitar down and heads outside. I catch her leaning against a wall and congratulate her on her performance. She thanks me and we chat for a while before going our separate ways.
I’d liked Baird ever since her debut album, Dear Companion came out, and walking home that evening, I only like her more. In a sea of musicians resorting to silly antics and gimmicks to try to win attention, it’s nice to find someone just in it for the music. Meg Baird is that person. I can’t wait to see her again!
Touted by Pitchfork and Prefix Mag alike as America’s next anti-folk goddess, Baird understands that a well-chosen repertoire and emotional honesty can go a long way, as has been quietly building a fan base with her delicate tunes and distaste for the spotlight.
I caught Baird for the first time this past Tuesday, September 23, at the Megawords storefront in Chinatown. Megawords is a free, local, bi-annual arts and cultural magazine, which recently celebrated the opening of their new studio with a slew of free, daily events.
She’s joined by multimedia artists Marc Zajack and Micah Danges, presenting their installation Moss Forest, Looming Midst. The installation consists partially of two projectors casting old video footage of city life on to the back wall of the studio and the street outside. These images repeat, on constant loop, throughout Baird’s performance.
She chooses local musicians/friends Kurt Vile and Jesse Turbovich to accompany, and Vile to open. He’s just as I remember – slouchy, disaffected—although this time at least his hair is pulled back so I can see his face.
Vile plays just 3 solo numbers, then brings Baird and Turbovich to the front. They settle in without speaking, and Baird strums her guitar, breathes into the microphone, and lets out an effortless, earthy warble.
“I can tell by your eyes, you’ve been crying forever,” she croons, imbuing a sense of passion into Crazy Horse's “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice is soft and floaty and washes over me like a wave. Vile joins in on guitar and Turbovich on bass and harmonica. The audience, a growing crowd of about 50, sits transfixed on the cold, linoleum floor.
During her short set, Baird plays just four songs, but it seems like more, as each morphs and meanders slowly. She only speaks once – to announce her last number—and seems lost in the music, eyes closed.
When the show is over, Baird smiles shyly, then puts her guitar down and heads outside. I catch her leaning against a wall and congratulate her on her performance. She thanks me and we chat for a while before going our separate ways.
I’d liked Baird ever since her debut album, Dear Companion came out, and walking home that evening, I only like her more. In a sea of musicians resorting to silly antics and gimmicks to try to win attention, it’s nice to find someone just in it for the music. Meg Baird is that person. I can’t wait to see her again!
