The monsoon was obliging Monday, considering it was late July in the Mojave. Flocks of doves and then the occasional itinerant bat swooped in to see what we were up to as the low-scudding pastel clouds turned evening gray; a moderate breeze sprung up to spread the smoke from the bundle of sage smoldering behind Wendy Rule. The pagan Australian vocalist and songwriter delivered an energetic and full-throated performance at her back-yard \u201chouse concert\u201d in the quiet village of Blue Diamond, at the south end of the dramatic Red Rock Canyon, 10 miles west of Las Vegas.<\/p>\n
The brunette is a long-time fan; it was her idea to put together one of Wendy\u2019s first concerts in Massachusetts, a decade ago — in Salem, actually. I was glad for a first chance to hear Ms. Rule\u2019s strong and jazz-trained voice up close, as she got inside her tunes and helped us discover some firm and confident notes we otherwise wouldn\u2019t have known were in there.<\/p>\n
And all this on her back-up guitar, as one of the tuning heads on the black Yahama steel-string had finally given up the ghost. (I recommended retrofitting with adjustable Grovers. But what do I know?)<\/p>\n
She offered selections from \u201cWolf Sky\u201d and \u201cWorld Between Worlds,\u201d as well as from her latest; was moved by the visiting bats to do her impression of a flock of Australian fruit bats (\u201cwith bodies about the size of kitty-cats\u201d) whooshing overhead, and regretted her 19-year-old son\u2019s band, Amanita, is playing their first gig at a Melbourne pub this week, \u201cand I can\u2019t be there.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rolling Stone Australia calls her stuff \u201cdark, sensual sonic theatre.\u201d That\u2019s accurate.<\/p>\n
The turnout was sparse, though the few and the lucky were happy for what verged on a private, command performance. Even on a Monday night, I\u2019m surprised more of the local sort who don gowns and armor for the annual Renaissance Fair at Sunset Park didn\u2019t turn out.<\/p>\n