Oklahoma Daily
January†30, †2003

A night at Mike’s with one of today’s best kept secrets

John Estus
Entertainment Editor

Smooth enough to lure jazz addicts under her spell, mystical enough to maintain her Cajun stems, peppy enough to turn heads in a gruff college bar, rootsy enough to keep the cowboy boots kicking, chocked full of enough attitude to move the toughest skinned listeners and brilliant enough to put the best songwriters of the past century to the ultimate test. Oh, and one of the most arresting, fresh voices since Jeff Buckley, just for good measure. She only has one name, but Myshkin is no diva. Wednesday night, while huddled in the corner of the stage at Mike’s College Bar, she came across as a biting testament to the few remaining artists true to the art, not the dollar. With a crowd of next to nothing in the palm of its hand, Myshkin’s Ruby Warbler’s ran through two sets of songs coming mostly from their gossamer 2002 release, “Rosebud Bullets.” It’s Myshkin’s sixth release in the past decade, and the Portland, Ore., based New Orleans native indicated through her sturdy but vulnerable stage presence that she is as proud as she is affected by these gloriously crafted tunes.

Her lyrics are classic transcendentalism, dwelling deep in nature, decorated with vibrant symbolism paralleling the rolling fields of her mind. Her vivid analysis and stories are so dead on that they’re often times funny, maybe because she is so observant and eloquent simultaneously or maybe because it’s simply so unbelievable. She’s a nearly flawless poet, a striking artist (she does all the artwork for her CDs, and it’s all stunning), an accomplished guitarist and above all an essential musical voice.

With Brent Martens strumming the upright bass and Scott Magee exercising perfect and eclectic drum theory on his three-piece kit, Myshkin’s tightly-tuned guitar work secretly disappeared into the worldly rhythms. Opening up with a down tempo version of smooth blues number “Rosebud Bullets,” Myshkin’s Ruby Warbler’s easily laid down the first of many of music’s most emotionally driven genres. The group followed with a hot-footed Cajun jam, then totally reversed the course of the show with a flawless change in tempo to a jazz-structured suite that later broke down into a flat-footed folk boogie with Magee’s tightly-crafted drumming holding the band down to earth. One of the most instantaneously gratifying aspects of Myshkin’s Ruby Warbler’s set came in their ability to deconstruct and intertwine standard rhythms from all corners of the musical spectrum into one breathing entity. During the elongated “Ruby Warbler” jam, Myshkin stretched her heart-pounding, bird-like alto voice further than any other point in the set, seeming to drift further and further away, out of the College Bar and back into nature where she finds most of her lyrical solace. “Cory Jo” is a standout track on “Rosebud Bullets” and opened up Myshkin’s Ruby Warbler’s second set of the night. Myshkin is an artist as well, and her skills on the canvas add a touch of life to the song with the chilling images that are evoked in the verse “calling me up every night, sneaking around my backyard. You’re looking inside out and charred, like the winter trees thirsting.”

Martens and Magee added a few rounds of un-miked harmony to the second set, balancing Myshkin’s seemingly impossible melodies with steady, rootsy call-and-response rounds. The bouncy Latin and bluegrass mix in “Rosie” managed to spur a few of the lackluster patrons to their feet for a few hapless dances. Myshkin spits her vocals with an unrelenting fury in “Rosie,” still coming across as a beautiful, commanding voice but adding an almost urban time structure to the delivery. In between the resident bar heckler (when Myshkin asked early on if everything sounded all right, the only response this fellow could muster was “beer!”), the group of shot-slamming girls celebrating their friend’s “big 2-1” while disregarding the mystical on-stage artistry, Myshkin’s Ruby Warbler’s still managed to play a set of beautifully crafted, energetic, worldly music that Stillwater rarely ever has the privilege to see.

Myshkin is off to the culturally thriving Lawrence, Kan., tonight for a sure to be successful show at The Bottleneck, but the baker’s dozen of enthralled listeners at Mike’s College Bar Wednesday night were treated to an evening hosted by one of music’s finest lyricists in decades — and one of the industry’s only “journeywomen.” Myshkin is a jewel, hidden beneath many rigid, unforgiving stones. She is a jewel that should be treasured if found, and Stillwater (surprise) forgot to find her. Hopefully, she will give us one more chance.