Mallory Hawk, Constant Smiles, The Earth & All Within
Ortlieb’s
847 N 3rd St.
Philadelphia
Nov. 11, 2o25
Before we dive in, check out this Google Maps summary of Ortlieb’s: “Local funk, jazz & rock performers provide the soundtrack for burgers, burritos and beer drinking.” Sir, this bar is a hot dog store. They’ve got jumbo dogs and Chicago dogs and chili dogs and chili cheese dogs and devil dogs (pickled jalapeño and cheeze wiz… questionable, imo) and, uh, pickle dogs – you figure that one out – and vegan versions of all the aforementioned; what they don’t got, my friends, are burgers and/or burritos. That’s ok. I had a Chicago dog and a Pacifico. Not bad. Don’t trust everything you read on the internet. Including this, maybe. But I was there so I’m here to accurately report on what I heard and what’s on the menu, old sport.
A little extra context: long before I ever started on this live-music-writing beat I’d been given the nickname “Mr. Shows,” by some friends here. For years I’ve been a prolific Philly show-goer and show-player; I’m pretty sure the night Lucas christened me Mr. Shows was a night where I played a house show in West Philly, then left my own show to roll up on another, which I also ended up playing. If you know me at all, you know I’m about that life. If music is your drug of choice, you’ve probably done the same thing. On tour it’s even more pronounced (as perhaps every feeling is on tour: more pronounced exhaustion, more pronounced adrenal energy, more pronounced presence and ridiculous emotions etc.), and sometimes I just can’t help myself, like when I literally ran from The Fillmore (while playing bass with Self Defense Family, on tour opening for Thrice and Touché Amore) as soon as we got offstage to catch Ceramic Dog at Johnny Brenda’s.
That’s all to say: naturally, exhausting behavior eventually begets full-tilt exhaustion, and yesterday I was feeling it. I had a four-and-half-hour pre-production rehearsal for a record I’m making next week, then booked it to Ortlieb’s for the Mallory Hawk + Constant Smiles show. With all these miles on my odometer I’m getting to that point where it’s hard to stay upright for a show that doesn’t end ‘til late, but at least these artists kept me on my toes, figuratively. (Gratuitous aside: maybe the Chicago dog and Pacifico didn’t help. Let me live! Another one: the 70’s classic-rock-heavy playlist they played all night at the bar could be a little on the nose for my suiting. “Running On Empty”? “What Is Life”!? Let me live but also, yeah, okay, heard.)
Which brings me to today’s intuitively-chosen metaphor: boxing. You can tell a bad boxer – or a tired one; but in the moment, what’s the difference, really? – by how still they stand. It’s hard to land a jab, let alone a decisive blow, on a moving target. That’s what I liked best about Mallory Hawk’s set: she kept me guessing. As a songwriter she bobs and weaves. I genuinely couldn’t tell where she’d go, and where she was taking us, from song to song: it was crackling barre-chord rock, then it was sludgey-slow grunge, then it was switching on an iPad (“my iBand” she called it) halfway through the set for rackety backing tracks, then it was going Karaoke Mode for an anthemic 80’s-style closer. She took all that on with a casual, unassuming, natural stage presence, dialed in and mesmerizing, with a voice and melodic style that was definitely its own thing but brought to mind songs I love by The Breeders, Cranberries and Portishead. Hawk’s a North Carolina native who cut her teeth in the NYC DIY scene for the better part of the past decade, and this was her first show as a Philly resident, less than 48-hours into making the move. She recorded an album here, at Headroom, which should be out next year. “Now all I need is a band,” she jabbed. Calling it: when that band calcifies, watch out.
I have to briefly mention Constant Smiles, the NYC band formed in 2009, who closed the show out and totally cooked. Their sort of thing is so far up my alley that it’s basically most of the square footage of the alley: tremolo’d fingerpicked guitars with swelling loops, flatwound electric basslines carving fluid pathways, violin pulling perfect melodies out of the ether like a powerful magnet, with a soft bed of insistent drumming for Ben Jones and Nora Knight to sing softly over, layers and layers of sound wrapping it all up. That description probably evokes “Autumn Sweater” in sound and meaning, and I was struck that their set reminded me of everything I love about early Low and recent Yo La Tengo (especially There’s A Riot Going On’s languid, Ebow’d-out dreamscapes) in one package, especially the vocal blend of Jones and Knight. It was as though this is what YLT would sound like if they were from Ohio or Chicago, a little less Velvets, a little more Jim O’Rourke or Songs: Ohia. Beautiful stuff.
