The event had been scheduled for the large outdoor stage but rain drove us inside to the much smaller indoor venue. Too many people and not enough room. Plastered to a wall feeling guilty for having a seat while most are forced to stand. I sit alone, alternating my gaze between a wall of fat asses and my watch, considering another hour and a half of this, and contemplating blowing the whole thing off when a voice fills the room and silences the din. It doesn’t take long to forget my discomfort.
The voice is large, kind of a cross between Joan Osborne and Janis Joplin, low to mid-range but powerful. The words are well-enunciated, easy to understand and the accompanying music instantly engages the room. People crowd in trying to get a look at the source of all of this, further diminishing my view of the stage and giving me a microscopic view of the asses. I rise to my feet in an act of desperation, like a diver breaking to the surface for a breath of air. I have to maneuver to find a crack to see through: when I do I spot a pretty blond head. The face sings with eyes closed and an almost pained expression, like the woman it belongs to has gone some other place for the words. When she does open her eyes, the travel of her gaze extends only to the microphone. I am sure she knows we are there, but her mind is focused on the job at hand, finding words and sounds from well-practiced territory and bringing them back to us.
Two men share the stage with the woman. One plays bass. He too plays with closed eyes, in perfect sync with the woman. The other plays drums.
The first song is very good. The second proves that the first was no fluke: this woman can sing. By the third song the woman finally acknowledges that she shares the room with the rest of us, but just between songs. She always sings from this other world.
By the time the set is done, an hour of nothing but very good music and well-crafted original songs, I know I have witnessed a rising star. Those that participate on the American Idol show should be thankful: if this young woman showed up, they’d all be packing their bags and going home.
After the set, I give up my seat in exchange for breathing space and move to the back of the room, then to the yard outside and stand in the rain. I finally decide to leave. I can hear Lucinda on the CD player in my pickup truck and there’s no place inside the building I want to be that allows me a view of the stage. On the way out, I see the face of the woman, sitting behind a table near the door, selling CD’s. It’s attached to a much smaller body than I anticipate. I am left wondering how so much sound can come from this petite person. The bass player sits beside her.
I walk up, introduce myself and buy a CD, after signing and giving them a couple of books I had brought for Lucinda. On the way home I listen to the CD, read the jacket and listen more. I discover that not only do the songs sound good; there is substance to go with the sound, and the woman, Erica Wennerstrom, has written all of them.
Remember that name. If you get the chance, go see the Heartless Bastards. They’ll be opening for Lucinda for a while longer, but with the talent they have, it won’t be long before they are the main act and filling rooms on their own merit. Lucinda is opening the door: the Heartless Bastards tear up the place once inside. The CD I bought is well worth your time. The Heartless Bastards’ Web site has a good preview of their music.
The sound might be a little hard for some; I am tempted to call it Rock and Roll, but if Cross Canadian Ragweed qualifies as Americana, then so can the Heartless Bastards

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