Michael Claytor does not sound like he looks. He does not look like he sounds. And in the crosshairs of this odd interchangeability is the fact that he is probably the nicest person I have ever met.
There are three things you need to know. (A) His music sounds like you're walking through Kentucky bluegrass, just as the fireflies start to crackle, and the sun is dipping below the horizon leaving a golden orange residual shine that mixes with the milky white of the clouds and envelopes you in warmth. (B) He plays with an ease and a grace that demands intimacy and friendship simultaneously. (C) He is the most unpretentious guy in the world.
Flaco's on Wednesday night is a scene. The back room where the band plays every week is dark, but it's weathered and warm. Flea market paintings reflect the red and green lights that soak the space. A wide glass window faces the street. Passers-by can peer into the temporary commune of song. There is no cover. The band gets paid in sandwiches. I arrived at around 9:30 p.m. while the band was setting up.
The band is Michael Claytor, 22, banjo, guitar and pipes; Michael Pedron, 22, upright bass; Evan Garfield, 22, the skins and guitar; Aaron Colverson, 22, violin. The band's origin involves drugs, a road trip, a psychedelic school bus and a circus. With the exception of Colverson, the guys are members of another popular Gainesville group, Umoja Orchestra.
"I really think charging money would ruin the atmosphere of this place. If we got paid it would feel like a job," Claytor said. "It's really a group of friends who get together every week to sing and hang out."
He's referring to the hipster patrons that file into the room over the course of the four hours I am at Flaco's: An actress from the Hippodrome wears a knitted beret-like deal; A tall, bearded fellow with a meticulously sharp beard double-fists two PBRs and flirts with two young women in vintage dresses and flats; A boy with slicked back blond hair pulls from a silver flask just outside the window, and his drunk girlfriend eyes him with sloppy lust as he pours some in her beer. My friend precariously balances between the door, as he stretches to smoke a cigarette outside the door (can't smoke in) and keep his beer inside (can't drink out).
Claytor prepares me for the crowd participation. He explains to me that over the course of his tenure (roughly 19 months) at Flaco's, a sort of community has grown up. There are parts to his songs where audience members sing along call-and-response style.
After a warm up from two indie-acoustic acts, Claytor and band get up to perform. Colverson is late but rushes into the room as Claytor is singing and throws down some flawless harmony vocals while testing levels on his violin. Impressive.
Claytor is sporting a beat up pair of brown loafers. His blue jeans are torn at the left knee, and when he plays he sways, and that tear sings with him. He wears wide, clear owl-frame eyeglasses and an aged trucker's hat on his tussled blond hair.
The chanting begins. At times the small room sounds like a church choir. The band plays a tune called "Mountain Dew," and it brings the room of 20 to its feet to stomp and dance. I join in for fear of missing out. With fists in the air, the crowd chants "solidarity forever," in a full boar-ish roar.
The atmosphere is truly something to be experienced. This is not an exclusive event. It's a community thing. A way to make new friends. That's what Claytor's aesthetic is all about.
"The band is called 'and friends' because I wanted as many local musicians as I could on my album." Claytor said.
The album is called "We Have an Elephant," and it's surprisingly fluid and mature for such a young artist. At the show, he plays my favorite song, "New River."
I know this sounds lame, but my stomach aches when he sings it. I asked the band to come to my apartment and let me film them playing so everyone can hear it. Get on a computer, go to your search engine and type in "Michael Claytor living room," right now. He wants to be friends. He's singing it to you.
