![]() In each segment, audience reaction takes its cues from the vibe rather than any particular song, and Farrar maximizes that with a gentle yet crisp pacing and no between-song banter. Kick in the amps and the jolt is that much more effective. The sameness of the material, however, works like a long establishing shot in a film, setting the mood with pedal steel, sleepy banjo and languorous fiddle. Son Volt used its catchy rock tunes as back-end enforcers, taking the first 40 minutes to waltz through breezy country numbers. The days of lamenting the end of Uncle Tupelo, from which Son Volt and Wilco sprang, are over. In 100 minutes, Son Volt affirmed themselves as the visage of this rudderless and mostly indie phenomenon, a movement, if you will, that seems to not be pushing too hard for its big commercial break. ![]() ![]() Tuesday’s show at the crowded El Rey was another chapter of brisk reading in the Son Volt scrapbook, a neatly arranged set with the weepy country balladry upfront, a rock ‘n’ roll midsection and encores of brazen acoustic rockers. ![]()
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