Ignoring performance norms, a thin older man in oversized clothes, messy pony-tail, and cheekbone chops breaks into song. “My heart loses time / Oh where has it gone / Your love has the answers / In the mountains of home.” When his sweet song ends, he mumbles, “I’m Malcolm,” and moves his swollen knuckles quickly to his next country-folk tune, brimming with heavy picking and drowning in his own gravel-rasp.
Barely keeping all four legs of his chair on the floor for an entire song, Malcolm Holcombe played folk standards and depressing blues, and told stories with twists that led nowhere. “My wife told me last time that I ran my mouth for eleven minutes—this time I’m gonna try to keep it under eleven,” he laughs, interrupting his own yarn. He mentions “the mission” and “god” more often than I’m comfortable with, but the once “self-destructive” Appalachian madman can sing, and he has the unapologetic humor of a cowboy that meshes well with the music he plays. When asked by a fan whether all of the songs were original, Malcolm humbly jokes, “I mean, I don’t think so.” He writes his own songs. And his performance was straightforward: guitar. strap. chair.
“Glad for Malcolm, good change. It’s typically Lycra-wearing bands due to my dubious past, yeah, and they break our gear,” says Holly with a smile. “And they hurt our ears! Usually,” adds Lawyer Dave.
The “bitter married couple” shtick Holly and Dave present works well (although I wish the sound had been better at IOTA Sunday, louder please!). Dave teases, “We don’t condone domestic violence; we’re just really good at it.” Holly needles Lawyer Dave about each song’s tempo, “Can we play this next one twice as fast as usual, too?” They pause to pat themselves on the back for their recent barring from Salt Lake City for singing “Gettin’ High For Jesus”:
