Luke Herbermann
Heaven Can Wait
East Village, NYC
1/26/24
Just kitty-corner to Tompkins Square Park is a music venue that never once in my four, five, six, or seven times attending has had the same name. This place has been known as Berlin, Lulu’s, Coney Island Baby, and a few other less memorable monikers. It’s now going by Heaven Can Wait.
Charming, truly. All more charming for the fact that the name stands no chance of sticking.
Being honest, it’s one of my least favorite places to attend a show. The layout is weird, there’s no good place to sit or stand unless you position yourself directly in front of the band, the sound is usually trash. All to say, it takes something special to get me to go to this place. That special thing this time was Luke Herbermann.
I wrote about Luke in the first review I ever did for this publication. The subject of that review was the KGB Red Room Open Mic, though toward its end it very much felt to me like a review of Luke’s performance. He stood out in the slew of comedians and poets and other singing songwriters, and I’ve been meaning to catch a solo show of his for some time.
Luke was joined on the bandstand by bassist Julian Tamers, Julia Segal on keys, and drummer Jake Staffin. Every one of them joined in on vocal duties to enrich the already full-throated Luke’s efforts. The music they make together is a seemingly simple concoction, influences readily deduced — the Strokes, Dylan, Bruce, and jangle-jangle guitar rock of all stripes — but the aspects drawn out were always surprising: For every upstroke-laded groove, there’s a folky four-part harmony; for every pummeling bump in the rhythms section, there’s tender legato and the reach for a soaring post-rock soundscape.
Herbermann’s at his best when in full-on rollick mode, at the height of the song’s crescendo. In moments like this — songs like “Doesn’t Suit The Light,” “Meadow,” and “Drunken Delight” — his voice breaks from all the necessary backbeat and chug like some great golden bird, the sheer size of which makes it’s flight a wonder. All to say, this kid’s got pipes.
But that’s not all — too many folks in this sort of music try to get by on a good voice and good-enough lyrics. Herbermann’s not only got the vocal power and something sweet to say, he’s also got chops. His approach to the guitar is largely finger-style; don’t think I saw him strum with a pick once. His attack is clean though, not muddled in the slightest, glittering at its best.
After I saw him at the open mic last year, I listened to his song “Meadow” over and over again for the better part of that following day. Trust that I’m now doing the same with the entirety of his catalogue on Spotify. It’s difficult to wax poetic about a musician whose poetics are already so integrated into their sound. There’s nothing to explain, because nothing’s hidden. Luke Herbermann does it right, does it clearly, and will hopefully be doing it for a long time to come.
