Henry Jamison (featuring Spencer Murphy), Elizabeth Laprelle and Brian Dolphin
Black Birch Recording Studio
6452 Greene St.
Philadelphia
April 12, 2026
Wabi-sabi, sleeplessness, broken-down cars, children drawing on the floor: last night at Black Birch had it all. If you’re unfamiliar with wabi-sabi like I was, I’ll let you do your own research if you want to go deeper; the term comes from Japanese culture and art and aesthetics, and it encompasses principles and notions like asymmetry, roughness, simplicity, economy, austerity, modesty, intimacy…basically it boils down to, it’s good when things are a little busted, a little pimpley. That was a valuable lesson to keep in mind for myriad reasons: Black Birch is a recording studio in Germantown with intentional acoustics and an enviable collection of gear – they recorded the audio of the whole show, naturally – and sometimes, being recorded can invite too much scrutiny, too much preciousness or anxiety about how a performance will translate. (I should know, ‘cause I just spent one of the absolute best weeks of my life recording my music at Black Birch! Time of my life, for real, can’t recommend the place enough.)
Henry Jamison, the singer-songwriter-guitarist on tour with the bassist and singer Spencer Murphy accompanying him, had other reasons to embrace wabi-sabi beyond knowing that this performance would be documented: the dudes arrived in Germantown via public transit because Jamison’s car is a little busted (and possibly pimpley? I didn’t ask) – and had to be left behind, out of commission for now, in Connecticut. Between songs, Jamison was good-humored and hilarious about his own sleep-deprived deliriousness amidst all the “unexpected logistics” they’d endured.
To my ears, Jamison and Murphy seemed no worse for wear: while their performance was certainly intimate and stripped down to the simple essentials, the music was pristine, Jamison’s melodies were beaten into indelible shapes, his voice in fine, flexible form, blending in perfect harmony with Murphy’s, even at their most syncopated. Jamison is an exciting, crafty storyteller with a gift for world-building: the dreamy song “The Rains” drifted sneakily between 4/4 and 5/4, perspectives and lucidity shifting:
The rains came heavy from the north
They were in their little boats
But I was not
I was in bed
And I pillow bite
In my dream I sleepwalk
And I drink a beer
With Doris Day at the café down the block
Jamison’s banter was just as great: “I have not slept in 48 hours…Mostly when I play shows I try to make as many jokes as possible, but one thing that sleeplessness has done to me is it has made everything very poignant,” he admitted, to big laughs. The show began with a similarly stunning set from Elizabeth Laprelle and Brian Dolphin, singing crazy-tight harmonies and playing old time fiddle and banjo and guitar tunes, and a mixture of traditionals and songs they’d composed, including an awesomely blunt finger-pointing protest banger with this eloquently inelegant lyric, sung sonorously:
Fuck ur dumb
Fuck ur dumb fuckin shit
Yes you
Fuck ur guns
Fuck ur guns, money too
Yes you
Your god’s not real if he says kill for me
