Here is the review of the Ryan Adams gig from the Georgia Straight, Vancouver's entertainment guide. Thanks to Cassie, who led me to the review by quoting one of the fantastic lines from it....
Ryan Adams and The Cardinals
By adrian mack
Publish Date: 11-Aug-2005
At the Commodore Ballroom on Tuesday, August 9
In spite of his best efforts, Ryan Adams made it out of the Commodore alive on Tuesday. The mercurial and possibly very troubled singer-songwriter has been provoking reams of copy for as long as he’s been making records—in fact, it’s hard to figure out if he’s more prolific as a composer or a loud-mouthed dickhead. He’s a major talent in both respects.
The first two-thirds of his performance was low-key to the point of narcosis. The high drama and spectacle came much, much later and was so exquisitely painful and humiliating that it seemed like a setup. It wasn’t—something just cracked—but an hour of midtempo plod in the Crazy Horse vein established a Mogadon vibe that wasn’t improved by silent longueurs between songs. Adams didn’t say a word during this portion of the set. Most of the interest was provided by his hair and the chance that it might slide off. Hunched over a black SG or a piano, the alt-country veteran displayed the browbeaten mien of a man who spends the day avoiding blows to the head. Not surprising, really, as he habitually fights with band members, critics, and fans. That doesn’t explain the apparent attack of ennui up on-stage, though, especially considering what happened later, but suffice it to say that “To Be Young (Is to Be Sad, Is to Be High)”, the great faux-Dylan rave-up from Adams’s first solo album, Heartbreaker, was reworked into a tepid slice of gothic country that received a disproportionately generous cheer. And so it went on, the same dirges ending in squalls of unhinged guitar. Adams seemed to be channelling Neil Young from his Tonight’s the Night period, giving us uncompromising sludge peppered with beautiful moments of relief (“What Sin Replaces Love?”, “Mockingbird”), all of it underscored by barely contained psychosis.
And then the container broke.
Adams went visibly and incontestably nuts at the two-thirds mark, first threatening to punch someone in the face, then railing about the Internet, then bargaining with the crowd for a smoke break. He got it, and when he bounded back on-stage the man was reenergized, to say the least. Starting with a cover of “Wonderwall”, the manic version of Ryan Adams complained that the Commodore was filled with snakes (like New Mexico) and was apparently swarmed by invisible aphids during “Sylvia Plath”. He bitch-slapped his sound guy. “Ryan Adams!” he said, baiting the hapless knob-twiddler. “He’s so fucked up! He’s the end of music! It’s not my fault if they forgot to build a house at the end of the street, Mister Man!” This was one of a number of baffling speeches that he would make for the rest of the performance, though his second skirmish with the sound department was a little less equivocal.
“Dave!” he screamed. “What the fuck? Are you taking the night off?!” In fairness, Dave seemed to be doing a fine job while Adams, struggling to stay upright, was more or less engaged in relearning to play guitar. Later, bassist Catherine Popper would tell him to go fuck himself when he melodramatically called a halt to “Let It Ride”. It wasn’t necessary—Adams had already fucked himself quite comprehensively by that point.
So there you have it. I exaggerate not.....