Tommy Stinson, Ken Will Morton
The beautiful thing about rock ’n’ roll is that whenever your faith waivers or you become the least bit jaded, along comes someone unexpected to restore balance. Tonight in Atlanta, at candle-lit venue Smith’s Olde Bar, it’s Tommy Stinson.
After rocking out in various acoustic, electric and pedal-steel duo incarnations, the former Replacements bassist declares, “I’m getting a drink. You can come with me if you want.” And sonofabitch if he’s not dead serious. Acoustic guitar in hand, Stinson steps off the stage into the crowd, saunters over to the bartender and orders himself a stiff drink. He takes a long slug, hops up, plants himself on the bar and starts strumming a few chords. “I’m a lot more comfortable up here,” he says. Then, unexpectedly, he breaks into Loudon Wainwright’s “One Man Guy.” The few people chatting it up across the room are instantly silent, and the crowd draws closer, forming a semicircle around the impromptu troubador. When the chorus comes around, the club becomes a drunken, late-night living room singalong. Stinson plays another unplugged tune, just sitting there on the bar amidst old Atlanta friends, fans and recent converts. It’s music in its purest form—for a lucid moment, stripped of all pretension.
Suddenly, a ghostly sound emerges. Opener Ken Will Morton—who proved a hell of a songsmith himself, spilling inspiring, whip-smart ballads full of social commentary, heartbreak and beauty—materializes from the crowd blowing sweet, lonesome harp. Stinson welcomes him to the bar and they jam a bit before finishing the song. Finally, Stinson returns to the stage, fully amplified to close the show.