The Bowery Presents

Music Hall of Williamsburg upcoming shows

David Allan Coe
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Johnny Corndawg
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Tim Barry
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So how's this for living the rock 'n' roll dream? You dwell in a cinderblock garage in Richmond, Virginia, a decidedly unglamorous city with zero hipster cachet. You release your music - recorded on the cheap in a buddy's house -- via MySpace or a small indie label. When you're on the road, you drive yourself from gig to gig in a dingy used van. When you return home, you plunge right back into normal life -- toiling as a carpenter for a ballet company.

Such is the life of 37-year-old singer-songwriter Tim Barry.

But don't get the wrong idea. Barry, a thick, grizzled character whose singing voice ranges from crystalline to Joe Cocker-gruff, isn't griping about his lack of fame and riches. He honestly doesn't yearn for the mansion, the pimped ride, the groupies, and all the other crap. The truth is Barry's perfectly content with his simple, low key existence - what do you expect a guy whose favorite pastimes include taking long meditative walks and sitting on the porch strumming a battered guitar?

Since 1990 he's charted a course through the music industry that's been more about the music and less about the industry. As the frontman for Avail, the critically-lauded punk-hardcore-rock powerhouse, he helped steer the band away from a big-dollar major label deal, choosing instead to put out records on labels run by friends and tour mostly mid-sized clubs. As a songsmith - he began performing solo in 2004 -- he's taken a thoroughly noncommercial path, crafting low-fi tunes informed by vintage country, American folk, and classic rock that don't remotely resemble anything you'll hear on the FM dial.

Collected on a pair of CDs (“Laurel St. Demo 2005” and 2007's “Rivanna Junction,” both released by Suburban Home) and a pair of websites (timbarryrva.com and myspace.com/timbarryrva), the songs are built around Barry's voice and acoustic guitar. Think: Ragged. Quiet. Pretty. Earnest. The hard-luck characters who star in his lyrical narratives are surviving from the paycheck to paycheck, or welfare check to welfare check. They sit by the roadside and pray for a driver to pick them up as they hitchhike through the south. They find themselves camped out in lonely motels, and “throw empty beer cans at the TV” while watching the news. They wind up patrolling the streets of Fallujah, 'cause, Hey, what else is a broke kid in a futureless Virginia town gonna do?

“The lyrics I write are based on journal entries or are telling the stories of folks I've met firsthand,” he explains. “I'm a firm believer in experience. I interact with my environment a lot. I consistently try to put myself in abnormal situations -- whether it's hitchhiking or riding freight trains or just walking around in different neighborhoods.” Barry's new Iraq war-focused song, a barn burner titled “South Hill,” was “inspired by a kid I met from a small town in Virginia who joined the military for basic economic reasons.” The resulting verses tell the tale of a young soldier grappling with his conscience as his unit dodges IED blasts and sniper fire.

Over the past two years Barry has toured relentlessly, gigging with acts ranging from the Bouncing Souls to William Eliott Whitmore, and earning his share of raves -- “[h]is honesty absolutely grabbed the crowd and almost every single person in the place was shouting along,” wrote one reviewer on Punknews.org. It's also, frankly, put a little cash in Barry's pocket, which is helpful given the grim economics of the music business - ie: tanking CD sales -- these days. “The only way to make any money at all is to play shows, to tour,” he says. “The flip side is that gas prices are insane.”

Freed from his role as Punk Band Dude, Barry is enjoying a newfound flexibility. He can take the stage, as he often does, backed by a second guitarist and a violinist, or bring along a full band, including a keyboardist and drummer. If the mood strikes him, Barry can strip the tunes down to the bones and belt them out with nothing but his voice and guitar. He's also had a chance to collaborate with his siblings, James Barry, a contemporary classical composer who lends his piano playing talents to “Rivanna Junction,” and violinist Caitlin Barry, who tours frequently with Barry and is also featured on the CD.

“The autonomy has really lifted me. It's freed me,” Barry says, adding that he loves the “eclectic crowds” that turn out to see him. “It's fun to try to stoke out the white-hat Dave Matthews fans and punk rockers at the same time.”

A.C. Thompson - Summer 2008
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