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A
holiday treat: the Roches.
Photo:
Joe Putrock
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Angels
We Have Heard On High
By
Shawn Stone
The
Roches
The
Egg, Dec. 4
It was a Christmas show we were promised, and it was sort
of a Christmas show the Roches delivered on Saturday night
in the Swyer Theatre. The sisters were festively dressed:
Maggie Roche sported a bright red shawl, and Suzzy and Terre
donned the yin and yang of Christmas colors, the former in
red and the latter in green. They opened, after a thunderous
reception from the almost sold-out room, with “We Three Kings.”
This is a carol that’s as grave as it is joyous, recounting
the Magi’s journey to Bethlehem and the gifts they bring for
the Christ child, and Suzzy dug into the third stanza: “Myrrh
is mine: Its bitter perfume/Breathes a life of gathering gloom/Sorrowing,
sighing, bleeding, dying/Sealed in the stone-cold tomb.” If
one has a moment to reflect, these lines are pretty blunt
foreshadowing of the manger baby’s destiny. Except that the
Roches, clever devils, cut this moment short. Suzzy paused
for a beat after “tomb,” and they launched into “Jingle Bells.”
It got a terrific laugh.
It didn’t cheapen “We Three Kings.” That’s not their game.
In the Roches’ musical world, the grave and the absurd sit
side by side. That’s life; take it or leave it. (And if you
recall the story, Jesus skips out of that tomb, too.)
After “Jingle Bells,” they reintroduced themselves to a room
full of die-hard fans with “We,” which, for over 30 years,
has doubled as calling card (“We—are Maggie and Terre and
Suzzy”) and statement of purpose. It’s funny and smart, and
allows them to show off the vocal gymnastics and shimmering
harmonies that are the thrilling hallmark of their sound.
Their songbook is jam-packed with musical goodies. In the
longer, first part of the show, they offered up their own
holiday gem, Terre’s “Star of Wonder,” and a comic atrocity,
“Winter Wonderland” sung horribly off-key with stereotypical
Jersey accents. (They’ve lived in New York City most of their
adult lives, but they’re New Jersey born and bred.) Highlights
included the plaintive, defeated plea to “Mr. Sellack,” and
a cover of their NYC pal Paranoid Larry’s hilarious “No Shoes.”
“Face Down at Folk City,” which Suzzy introduced as being
written in response to a command to “write a hit,” had real
punch; with its odd, retro structure, it still sounds like
it should have been a hit for the Association in 1968, not
the Roches in 1985. The first part ended with the split- second
intricate vocal interplay of “Ing.”
After the break, they continued to dazzle with those crazy
harmonies—harmonies that age has only slightly dinged. Like
the Boswell Sisters, with whom they share the ability to sound
warm one minute and chilly the next, there are times when
you can’t tell which Roche is singing which part. Listening
to three voices blend like this is better than getting high.
“Hammond
Song,” which is about family and choices and sex, hasn’t lost
its emotional wallop; “Big Nuthin” had a rueful power—based
on experience?—that the original arrangement lacked; and “The
Hallelujah Chorus,” performed a cappella of course, was perfectly
appropriate. They even had the audience come up on stage for
a final seasonal sing-along.
It was like a visit from Santa, only Santa wasn’t a fat guy
from the North Pole, he turned out to be three sisters from
Jersey. And God—who, as the sisters sang a few times, is undoubtedly
a she—blessed us, one and all.
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