Eric Church began his concert Friday at a near-capacity Sears Centre spreading the word about a revival that will happen once a “Country Music Jesus” arrives. If the burgeoning vocalist/guitarist’s 90-minute set proves any indication, and he gets his way, this appointed savior will indulge in whiskey, wave the flag, live for the moment and sing honky-tonk with a pleasing drawl. Currently on his first headlining arena outing, Church came across as a well-schooled veteran, reinforcing his bad-boy status with Southern imagery, blaring guitars and outlaw attitude.
Proudly outspoken, the North Carolina native doesn’t adhere to the typical mainstream mold. Since debuting in 2006, Church has invited trouble and sparked debate, whether concerning his being kicked off a tour for disobeying rules or, very recently, profanity-laden comments that disparaged reality-TV singing competitions and identified several participants by name. While he’s since clarified his intent, Church’s views on artistic authenticity extend to a no-muss stance owing as much to hard rock as Nashville. He’s one of the few country performers to have appeared at Lollapalooza, and, fittingly, his five-piece backing band played with a harder edge than many of the rock groups invited to last year’s festival.
Church’s spunk, and adoration for big, crunchy 70s-minded sounds, made his numerous tales about drinking, fighting and smoking seem less like wishful macho boasts and more akin to honest personal anthems. While he concealed his bearded face underneath a pulled-down baseball cap and behind dark sunglasses, he gave the impression he was the protagonist in nearly every narrative-based song, and that nothing was sung for the sake of affectation. He found sentimental security on the balladic “Carolina” and familial bonds on “Homeboy.” Rousing declarations and loaded statements infused heel-stomping fare (“How ‘Bout You,” “Pledge Allegiance to the Hag,” “Lotta Boot Left to Fill”) tethered to traditional country themes such as patriotism, toughness and hard work.
And work Church did, often hollering wordless expressions after verses or kicking his left leg as if it belonged on a bronco, sustaining an agitated energy that peaked when he mentioned liquor or associated vices. Save for extra refrains on the piano-laced “Springsteen,” he wisely abstained from padding hits with crowd sing-a-longs or indulgent solos. Church should, however, ease off on preaching about his relationship with the audience, and how each depends on the other. The clichéd rally banter evoked a high-school football coach’s halftime pep talk to his losing team.
Moreover, for all the whiz-bang stage effects—flash pods, fireballs, explosions, fog—Church needn’t any visual distractions. Rather than add meaning, the Kiss-influenced smoke-emitting instruments on “Smoke a Little Smoke” detracted, even if the lingering smell of sulfur helped conceal the scent of stocking feet once fans removed their cowboy boots and held them up in tribute for the following “These Boots.” Indeed, a stretch during which Church played solo and acoustic registered as strongly as the best blustery material, demonstrating that the deepest connections are sometimes achieved via the simplest means.
