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Tune Chic and Johnny Memphis at Ceili’s,
April 1, 2006 by Brian Gillie
It’s 9:30 on a warm Saturday night in April
and the party from Ceili’s (pronounced “Kay-Lees’) Irish Pub in
Guilford has already spewed out into the street. Party lights,
laughter and acoustic music make for an inviting concoction as I
approach the steps leadin’ up to the minglin’. It’s an unusual spot
for a brewhall, nestled confidently at the edge of a residential
street, but perhaps its Ceili’s positive vibe that makes for
forgiving neighbors.
Stepping over the threshold is like stepping
across the Atlantic. Bly-mee, it’s Ireland, don-cha-no. I pass by
the chalkboard of dinner specials boasting menu items like Irish
Toastie, Sheperd’s Pie and Ceili’s Colossal Corned Beef. Already,
I’m in an Irish mood. The eye is quickly drawn to the Kelly green,
Guinness Beer clovers stretching the length of the room on a
ceiling-high laundry line, and no fewer than ten poster ads for the
same brew. Hmmmm! Nearly everyone at the bar has a Guinness
mustache. OK! Now I’m thirsty.
Over my shoulder I see the Ceili’s merchandise
for sale: Kelly green sweatshirts, tee shirts, vests and foam hats
inscribed with “Ireland” or (surprise) “Guinness.” Over my other
shoulder I watch the bartenders, Diarmuid Mulhall, an actual Irish
bloke from Kilkenny, Ireland, and Jessica McGrady. Diarmuid’s
authentic Irish brogue has customers inventing questions just to
hear his witty, inflected chatter. His smile isn’t too shabby
either. Jessica’s is even better. Perfect party instigators.
I count only seven tables, a dozen stools at
the bar and several “leaning” posts. This lack of seating makes for
a congregation of standing bodies in the middle of the space. There
is much rubbing of shoulders and bumping of butts which, of course,
makes for the perfect mingling madness. It’s a party begging to
happen.
Jumpin’ Leprechauns, the party is hoppin’ to
the sounds of some stellar musicians. Yes, the Irish are cunning
enough to know that you can’t rely merely on a bag of Irish
“ditties” and the luck of the Blarney Stone to keep the party
hearty-in’ ‘til midnight. On this night the music bag is full of
blues/rock/folk/pop charts flowing from the local duo sensation that
I’ve come to hear: singer Tune Chic (that’s “chick,” not “sheek”)
and multi-instrumentalist, Johnny Memphis.
The second set is just tipping off as I settle
in amongst the green. The pair are strumming guitars to Dire
Straits’, “Money for Nothing.” Tune Chic (Sandy Connelly) has
satisfactorily warmed her pipes in the previous set and I note how
her surprisingly warm and soulful voice gently manipulates the crowd
as chattering gradually subsides. I look twice to be sure that the
pitch-perfect, soulful sound is coming from the lovely lass at the
mike, and sure enough, the Guinness is not playing tricks on me.
True ‘tis, I’m in a wee-bit o’ shock.
Sandy is Shirley Temple cute, wholesome in a
Mousketeer, Peter Pan, Lennon Sisters’ way. So how’s this blues
thang happenin’? Maybe I’ve set myself up for the disconnect. In
the bio she’s sent me ahead of my visit, she admits to impressive
credentials, though not those you’d predict from a blues sort.
There’s a B.A. in Music from a college in Tennessee, a state where
singers often catch a soul virus from the legendary Booker T/Wilson
Picket/Otis Redding, Stax/Volt recording studios, or perhaps a
chronic blues contagion from just down the Tennessee road apiece
where Elvis and Jerry Lee once shook ‘em up and jump-started a
revolution at Sun studios. But NO! Sandy was only in the
Nashville/Memphis state to follow in her father’s operatic footsteps
and serendipitously, she headed back north with some highbrow
singing chops.
Sandy’s epiphany hit at a Bonnie Raitt
concert. As she says, “I felt like everyone had been hiding this
music from me all of my life.” Irretrievably inspired, she did not
hesitate to “throw some dirt” on the pure sound she’d once trained
for and even took up smoking to add a further dash of grit to the
arpeggios. Add mother-of-three to her resume for a measured dose of
requisite singing wisdom.
So, I’m here at Ceili’s expecting some kind of
operatic semi-pop with an Avery Fisher Hall delivery. Forget that
history. On this night, from somewhere behind that polite, engaging
smile, comes a voice that is indeed clear and pure, but who would
have imagined such profound expression, articulation and
musicality. As the set plays on with appetizing arrangements of
“Tax Man,” “Chains,” “Moondance,” “Messin’ With the Kid,” “Harvest
Moon,” “Ain’t No Sunshine,” “Mocking Bird” and “Good Man, Good
Woman,” I’m jotting down notes trying to pinpoint comparisons to her
appeal. Darn if I’m not hearing vocal vibes from unexpected and
epic realms.
Overall, Sandy vocalizes with the best of the
altos we’ve come to admire. The “dirt” has landed Sandy in that
dramatic, instinctively empathetic alto range from whence
impassioned emotions are delivered and from where pain, hope and
truth find refuge in the comfort of genuine understanding. This is
not your father’s Shirley Temple; this is a street-wise Shirley with
a frisky sense of impropriety? Curious, wouldn’t you say?
Bonnie Raitt has provided a prominent piece of
the puzzle, but there’s another side of Sandy’s talent offering
sagacious nuance and tasteful balladeering. I’m hearing a sweet
caressing of notes tendered in the remarkable style of Eva Cassidy,
a pristine, Tune Chic sound that embraces the listener with allure,
symmetry and poise in gentle but courageous ways, unashamed of
wearing her heart on her sleeve in this public forum. Sandy’s CD
version of “Stranger” compares to Eva’s rendition with arresting
likeness and proficiency and without pretense.
Other distinctions emerge. I hear the playful
delivery of Ricki Lee Jones, composed versatility of Mary Chapin
Carpenter, glide-smooth charm of Ann Murray, soulful confidence of
Dusty Springfield, more range than Gloria Estefan, self-assurance of
Christine McVie, and surprisingly, an uncanny likeness to the
country-rock assertiveness of the late Dottie West.
Refreshingly, there is none of the nasal
orientation which sits like an albatross on the copycat shoulders of
today’s pop-rock divas. The vibrato is non-intrusive, just enough
to add a touch of class to the pop-charter and bedeviled torcher.
She can bend a blue note with the best in the business. Dynamics
are intuitive and refined, and she can sneak up on a note at the top
of her range and nail the thing with incredible calm. Then, as with
all originals, there is that quality that is Sandy’s alone and
without precedent. Sweet!
Could there be a stage-sharing equal for such
talent? On Sandy’s right sits a man on a stool whose appearance
reminds of Sting but whose laid-back manner is James Taylor all the
way. He’s at ease strumming chords or picking melodic riffs on his
acoustic guitar. He’s singing back-up harmonies with eyes-closed
passion, and he’s taking a lead vocal on “Baby Let’s Play House”
that smacks of Carl Perkins. On “Moondance” out comes the electric
fiddle, and there’s a Charlie Daniels’ groove that’s suddenly
brought a country flavor into our midst, tempoed securely by Sandy’s
adroit guitar accompaniment and the rock-steady percussions of
part-time trio-mate, Mark Massaro.
I’ve also heard from Johnny Memphis ahead of
the gig. There’s no question that Johnny (John Pendergast) is the
whole package, the kind of professional who would have passed
auditions with Poco, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Pure Prairie League and
the Byrds. He’s been around and paid some dues: swing music and
commercials in California, R&B jug band in Louisville, serenading
the Northeast with Ten Years Late, Nevard and the Barrelhouse boys
(roots of Washboard Slim and the Bluelights), James Velvet and the
Radiators and the Magnetics. A gig with the New Haven Radiators
brought him to Humphrey’s where a certain Sandy was waitressing.
Coincidentally, it was not until Johnny’s niece was taking guitar
lessons from Sandy years later that the two reconnected.
Both acknowledge that their team is the
perfect match. Sandy lovingly intones that she never tires of what
Johnny’s music has to say. Is it the Tennessee connection? Johnny
cites the Stax/Volt soul sounds of Booker T., Otis Redding and
guitarist, Steve Cropper, as his first inspirations. Do we believe
in fate?
Speaking of packages, their genuinely
engaging, upbeat and off-beat personalities complement their music
in seductive ways. Sandy is quite nonchalant about reading some of
the lyrics off a music stand. Who cares? It’s all family, right?
On one song, each starts off in a different key. After a few
measures Sandy stops, confused, until Johnny casually quips, “Care
to join me in the key of D; it’s a new concept in music.” The space
is filled with the laughter as the duo casually takes it from the
top. Despite their talent cum laude, they are dependably human.
For more information, CD purchases, gig
listings and all the details (including the famous Tune Chic
“trading cards”), check out
www.tunechic.com.
But don’t miss an opportunity to enjoy a live performance. Their
big venue sound may not be around much longer in an intimate
setting. Catch ‘em now for you might soon be dishing out top dollar
to see them at the Chevrolet Theater.
Ceili’s Irish Pub is located at 29 Boston
Street near the Guilford Green. Visit www.ceilisirishpub.com.
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