Wednesday nights weren't made for football, I guess. I'd be more inclined to believe they were made to allow for people to attend goofball bluegrass shows. One such show I did witness was that of the Packway Handle Band, in the Arts Guild Theatre, Greenock.
Upon their arrival on stage, the immediate talking point - at least in my mind - was the standard bass. A bluegrass band with no double-bass, you say?! That's not right! Facetious remarks aside, the band romped through "All the Time in the World". The band's first impression hinted at a very traditional bluegrass show, with gusto. However, this wasn't to be the case all night. Bassist Zach McCoy cut a lonely figure by the wall, not contributing any vocals but playing away like a sulking schoolgirl. Meanwhile, the remaining four were huddled around the microphone, baffling this reviewer with splendid harmonies that owe as much to the Beach Boys as to Appalachian mountain singers. Each band member excelled on their own instrument, and their first set closed in fitting bluegrass style; a tribute to Bill Monroe.
A second set would shortly follow, allowing the band to deliver another term of slapstick bluegrass, so masterfully delivered, each and every face in the room had the visage of a botched Botox victim. This was only exacerbated by "Earl the Duck", a loving tale of gender confused duck. Fiddler Andrew Heaton's vocals really milked this song. From here it only got more and more absurd. "Satan's in Space" couldn't be further from traditional bluegrass song matter, but this is where part of the Packway Handle band's appeal lies. While adopting a serious attitude to their playing, the band are almost self-deprecating in both their lyrics and their delivery. Just as I thought the night had reached its peak, McCoy departs the room, and returns with the crowning touch. A big ol' double-bass! The band signed off with "Sinner, You Better Get Ready", to a thorough and deserved ovation.
The Packway Handle Band are not your typical bluegrass band. Drawing on influences as far astray as Romania and Mexico, they have certainly come a long way from their roots in Athens, Georgia, and they are all the better for it.