REVIEW: The Good Lives On - The Sadies Live at Volcanic Theatre Pub

 by Zac Bentz

When I first started familiarizing myself with legendary Canadian rock band the Sadies, I was shocked by how much of their catalog I recognized. Not just because my dad had listened to them constantly when I was a kid (he had a special love for “Hold On, Hold On,” their iconic collaboration with singer-songwriter Neko Case), but because their sound seemed to blend together the entire sonic landscape of my childhood, spent growing up on a patch of isolated forest farmland in Oregon. 

I straddled two lives – my dad ran a welding business out of an old barn he converted into a workshop, and my mom worked in conflict resolution at the bustling, nationally renowned University of Oregon. When my parents divorced, she moved into town, and my brother and I would travel back and forth between the urban expanse of downtown Eugene and the mystical patch of forest where we’d grown up raising chickens and goats, hunting deer and turkey, and riding around in my dad’s pickup truck. My mom had a deep love for bluegrass, and my dad listened to country music and hard rock, with the occasional splash of indie folk, so musically my ears were always being tugged in various directions – not necessarily in opposition, but rather stratified layers of a distinct generic and cultural history. 

I feel that same push-and-pull in the music of the Sadies. Every juxtaposition, tension, and unexpected harmony I felt as a child is reflected in the way they blend genres that are sonically different but directly indebted to each other’s cultural histories. Country, bluegrass, rock, punk, it’s all there. The urban and the rural, the cold and the warm. And even after the tragic passing of lead singer, guitarist, and founding member Dallas Good last year, they still sound as mystically, urgently fucking good as ever. 

We showed up to Volcanic Theatre at the invitation of Roddy Rosetti and Kenny Roy Meehan, (who previous Birdbath readers might recognize as members of my favorite band and friends of the magazine, Daniel Romano’s Outfit!!), who had been tagging along on their US tour the past couple of weeks, respectively selling merch and working sound. They introduced us to Travis Good, Dallas’s older brother and the band’s new full-time touring frontman, who has the presence of someone who’s been a legend for over 25 years but still wants you to feel like the most important person in the room. We shook hands and chatted about the tour, but as the evening chill began to set in we all made our way inside. 

They took the stage about an hour later, and I spent that time catching up with Roddy and Kenny before it was time for the show. When Travis stepped on stage, followed closely by Sean Dean and Mike Belitsky, you could feel all the air in the tiny little room suddenly rush toward the stage, which bore a massive, floor-to-ceiling tapestry of Dallas, a guitar tucked under his arm and a cosmic, pensive downward stare. Heads turned, feet pulled themselves off chairs and toward the stage almost of their own volition. Travis dedicated the show to his little brother, and before I could even take a breath, the band ripped into the opening chords of their latest album’s opener, “Stop and Start.” 

Travis Good is by far the best live guitarist I’ve ever seen on stage. He plays like he fucking invented the thing. Song after song, I stood there entranced, watching these three legends overcome the pain of losing their friend, their family, playing these songs written for four with such an insane level of technical skill that it was easy to imagine they’d only ever performed as a trio. But Dallas was right there with them, not just literally looming over the stage but in every note they played, every beat they hit, every word Travis sang that Dallas had written – and even the ones he hadn’t. The parts Dallas had played when the songs had originally been written were also played by Travis, blended seamlessly into his own, almost as though the two brothers existed inside a single body, trading riffs and chords and melodies in a cathartic expression of a lifetime of musical partnership. Roddy even joined them on stage to play acoustic guitar for a few songs. 

I asked Kenny after the show if Travis used to sing at any of the shows before Dallas passed. He leaned in, and in a quiet voice, said, “Maybe two songs a set.” 

Herein lies the miracle of the Sadies. I don’t think any part of them can ever truly vanish. It’s near impossible to imagine a time where they weren’t around, because their music feels like it taps into the most primordial and inevitable elements of artistic creation. It existed long before they ever wrote or recorded it, and we should cherish getting to hear them play it while they’re still touring. I don’t know what the future holds for the Sadies, and I’ll always mourn the fact the fact that I never got to see them before Dallas passed, but I’ll never forget watching Travis’s face up on that stage, only ten feet away from mine, as it suddenly became the face of two men.