music
The doors open at 8pm and, half an hour later, only 20 people or so circle around the line of cocktail tables at the rear of the Satellite Ballroom, or step over to the bar to grab a Kalamazoo Stout or (in the case of one festive audience member hoping to spite the weather with lighter beer) a Dos Equis, opening tabs beneath the plastic snowflakes that sway over the bartenders’ heads. Better to start early.
According to a news update on the Sons of Bill website, the band claims that it set a bar sales record at Starr Hill Music Hall during their first anniversary show on December 22, 2006. Old C-VILLE music columnist Spencer Lathrop wrote of the same gig that it “felt like the presence of a ‘scene,’ like Trax ’92 or The Hogwallers ’99.” One year later, both claims stood to be challenged: Could Sam, James and Abe Wilson, the sons of UVA professor Bill Wilson, prove that their scene’s longevity and fish-in-water drinking ability were alive and well?
 With a rebel yell, a few drinks and a crowd of roughly 300 people, Sons of Bill proved themselves kings of the local rock scene during a blistering, buck-wild set at the Satellite Ballroom. |
A few longtime Worrell fans arrive early and gather close to the stage for her set: Architect Neal Deputy and artist Sharon Shapiro, Virginia Film Festival director Richard Herskowitz and musician Terri Allard all smile as Worrell steps onstage in a turtleneck, her blonde curls hanging down, and smiles. “Hi, I’m Shannon.” She turns to smile at her longtime pianist Wells Hanley. “This is Wells. We’re gonna see if we can make you cry a bit before you get all crazy for Sons of Bill.”
With a bounce in her knees to match the lilt in her voice, Worrell takes off strumming, alternating between songs that pitch her audience forward into subtle motions (the finger taps and sways of the most rapt enjoyment) and cast them back on their heels in silent, still appreciation. Worrell is articulate to a devastating effect, singing of a “timpani of tiny feet” and urging a character to “bossa nova in the afternoon,” and Hanley reads her well, twisting the knobs on his keyboard so his instrument buzzes or glows a bit brighter to match her. A few more tunes see Worrell in an almost Liz Phair light, not committing wholly to Phair’s gal-grunge guitar style but every bit as sure of herself on her lyrics, notably on obvious fan favorite “Drivin’ in the Dark,” her aggression tempered by Hanley’s harmonies.
| Take a listen to a demo version of Shannon Worrell‘s new song "Drivin’ in the Dark": |
A buzz from behind Worrell’s core audience starts to grow halfway through her set, but your reviewer doesn’t turn around, opting to watch Sam Wilson join Worrell on stage for a weepingly bent-stringed solo in the midst of a song. The other Bills step on for the following number, Sam Wilson’s reverb-slick guitar lines moving from glittering arpeggios to playful country rock riffs.
Worrell wraps up her set and steps offstage, and your reviewer turns halfway around to follow their path out the door when he stops: The 20 or so people in the Ballroom is now 10 times larger, the buzz between Worrell’s songs a steady clang-cheer-crash of bar noise and anticipation, spiking only when James Wilson, the lean, dark-haired lead singer of Sons of Bill steps onstage. “Been too long,” he says with a grin, jaw tight, his brothers taking their spots on either side of him. “Mind if we open up with a new one?”
In a moment’s time, the table in front of me holds six empty cups and three empty bottles, dropped by crowd members that rush forward to crowd the band, and I have my answers. In two years’ time, the Sons of Bill have penned at least a few irrefutably catchy singalongs, topped by the honky-tonk march “Roll On Jordan,” with its brilliant “Hey, ho, let it go/ You’re either gonna die young or live to grow old” hook. And everyone in Satellite seems to know the words.
Sam Wilson is the obvious architect of the band, his firework arpeggios alternately arching low overhead or soaring high to burst into crackling flames, anchored by bassist Seth Green (equal parts the band’s spirited center and metronome) and tempered by Abe Wilson’s intuitive keyboard fills (somebody give this kid an upright piano to round out the country rock sound!). The whole band double-times the ends and bridges of a few songs to keep things interesting, and James Wilson is a blast, preserving the Newman-esque manners to match his good looks onstage, even after the ripping “Lost Love and Indie Rockers,” a joking cattle prod at hip-to-a-fault music snobs that sounds like Son Volt’s Jay Farrar singing over the G-riff in Everclear’s “Santa Monica,” apologizing later for his swearing but crooning “You’re so fuckin’ cool” during each chorus with all the conviction of a Hank Williams fan drunk at a karaoke bar.
I turn and catch Terri Allard bobbing her head next to me, still going strong halfway through the Bills’ set along with what must be 300 people, and it seems a confirmation of the whole night, a sign that, despite UVA students gone for the holidays and families nixing nights out for family plans, the Sons are here to stay. “This?” Allard cries halfway through the band’s set. “This is fun.” Couldn’t agree more, I think, as James Wilson turns to Sam and yells “C’mon, big brother.”
Here’s a clip from the Sons of Bill farewell to Starr Hill performance:
