Ohioan & Native Kin Friday & Sunday, Jan. 11 & 13

[January 9th, 2008]

[REVOLUTION ROCK] Ohioan & Native Kin was born in a hair salon in Pearl, Ill. After a visit to the Midwest in 2005, O. Ryne Warner shrugged off his return flight to Portland in favor of a long walk. “I just wanted to get some dirt under my nails,” he says from his rehearsal space, its orange walls decorated with album art and chunks of an American flag that once served as van curtains.

So Warner walked—guitar in tow—out of Chicago. When he got to the small town of Pearl (via various modes of vagabond-style transportation), a stylist came out of his salon waving a $20 bill at the then long-haired Warner. “I thought he was gonna bribe me—‘Look at the hippie! Let’s fucking cut his hair!’ But no, he asked me to play in his salon.” Warner played “She’ll be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” for the shop’s clientele of cheerleaders and old ladies.

The simple folk tunes Warner played that day are a far cry from Ohioan & Native Kin. The band’s debut, Being of the Good River, features rich, emotive playing from an ensemble that includes Shaky Hands drummer Colin Anderson, Au’s Mark Kaylor, Evolutionary Jass Band bassist Bob Jones and all-around ass-kicker Lauren K. Newman (who performs as LKN). Its songs are thick with modal, oft-meditative horn parts, as influenced by jazz releases of the ’60s and ’70s (Charles Mingus’ The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady and John Coltrane’s Impressions made Warner yearn for a horn section in the first place) as they are by Woody Guthrie.

Of course, Guthrie’s there, too: On “Clean Water,” Warner’s wail meets what sounds like a New Orleans funeral procession for a powerful but folk-simple exchange: “Do you want to be free?” the Ohio native (hence the name) asks his band in song. “Yeah!” they scream, in harmony. “Then you’re already free,” he calls back.

In concert, Ohioan’s lyrical themes take shape in a profoundly natural fashion: Whoever wants to be in the band, Warner says, is in the band provided they bring instruments or voices. And behind the merch table, he prefers trading albums for meaningful promises or home-cooked meals to accepting cash. “I’m convinced that this music is going to contribute to us completely dismantling this horrible fucking culture,” Warner says, cross-legged on the rehearsal room floor. “That’s why I do it.” After a pause, his tone lightens. “And to make people feel good.”