Live Review: Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats

Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats promise a high energy evening from the start. As the lights dim, the six-piece band — The Night Sweats — take the stage and prepare for what will be one of many rhythm-driven crescendos. They deliver a tight, thumping build in their backcountry-blues that peaks only when Rateliff and his guitar take centrestage. From here, it's full steam ahead at a hip-swinging pace that will churn on for the rest of the evening.

This is full-body music. Wesley Watkins on trumpet never lets a beat past him that his body doesn't match and on guitar Joseph Pope III's feet never seem to stop shuffling. Rateliff himself is a kinetic wonder, his music seems to flow through him: he stamps his feet, jerks his shoulders, pulses his hips, he slides, he taps and jives. It looks a bit chaotic up there — no one is choreographing this — but what you are watching ends up looking like pure unadulterated joy.

They only pull back from this energy occasionally, briefly revering harmony over rhythm. For Howling At Nothing, the band shows unexpected control and pares back, letting the melody slide into focus before setting down their instruments for one moment of full-band vocal harmony. The effect — against the backdrop of their near constant, thumping big sound — is arresting. Interestingly, these moments are the ones that really make the show. Their tight and clear unity as a group of musicians sometimes gets lost in the relentless rhythm, so these short moments of restraint frame the rest nicely. 

In this vein, Shake was actually the highlight, it let the group show off a darker, swampier sound that complicated their punchy blues tempos. Rateliff largely put his voice aside and let his talent as a guitarist shine through on a slick, slow-burning solo (that also gave their audience permission catch their breath).

As a finale, they pull out their so far runaway favourite, S.O.B. Before they start Rateliff asks the audience to refrain from throwing their drinks at them. This small plea and S.O.B's bar-singalong call and response welcomes the audience into Rateliff's humble, middle-America, backwater origins.