The "File Under: Pop" legend on the back of "Up All Night" (Jarrah) is a vague designation, but it may be the only one broad enough to fit the Waifs, who draw from folk, country, and other roots music sources without fitting into the boxes traditionally dictated by those genres. Led by sisters Donna and Vikki Simpson and guitarist Joshua Cunningham, the five-piece Australian band came across like a mix of Nickel Creek, without the bluegrass foundation, and the Corrs, without the gloss, at the Paradise on Friday.
The Waifs' eclectic style transcends genres
The opening "Highway One" found Donna singing lead and Cunningham getting off an effortlessly stunning acoustic solo, but Vikki was revealed as the group's focus. Despite a fairly unassuming stage position, perched on a chair off to the right and subtly, if impressively, playing harmonica, she handled most of the stage banter, introduced the members of the band, and sang songs like "Lighthouse" and "Flesh And Blood" in a remarkable voice as soulfully expressive as fellow Aussie Kasey Chambers but a little softer.
Still, the attention commanded by Vikki seemed driven not by ego but by what was best for the song. Bolstered by the Simpsons' gorgeous harmonies, the Waifs showed similar restraint throughout their performance. The sisters picked up or put down guitars as necessary and even left the stage completely when they weren't needed, resulting in a fluid lineup that provided the band with the flexibility to follow or defy genres.
There were times, unfortunately, when many in the audience didn't seem to get it, and the band's crisp, clear sound made the constant undercurrent of chatter especially noticeable in quieter songs like "London Still." That wasn't as much of a problem for opener Erin McKeown, whose enthusiastically received 40-minute performance, alone onstage and brandishing an electric guitar, was a huge departure from the ornate pop production of her most recent album, "Grand" (Nettwerk).
Her sparse instrumentation and political comments made McKeown resemble Ani DiFranco, and she offered up her songs as a form of post-election catharsis before ending her set by flipping her instrument over to reveal a sticker bearing the Woody Guthrie motto, "This machine kills fascists." Such moments were leavened with an amiable goofiness, as she introduced one song as being about "love and adaptations for flight" and demonstrated a tendency to step back from the microphone during an instrumental section and sing nonsense syllables just loud enough to be picked up. If her efforts seemed unable to rouse anybody but the faithful, she was in good company last week.
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