Sixto Rodriguez, the singer whose life was significantly affected by film director Malik Bendjelloul, addressed the latter’s reported suicide the way he handled everything else Wednesday at a near-capacity Chicago Theatre — with class and modesty. “He will be sorely missed,” Rodriguez solemnly stated. “Sweden has lost a favorite son there. So have the States.”
Bendjelloul’s death on Tuesday threatened to put a damper on what otherwise unfolded as a real-life fairy tale. The 36-year-old Swede spent more than four years making the acclaimed 2012 documentary “Searching for Sugar Man,” in which he not only discovers rumors surrounding Rodriguez’s death to be false but also learns the Detroit-based folk artist is unaware of his unlikely superstar status in South Africa.
Everyone involved in the project seemed to benefit. Bendjelloul took home an Oscar and multiple international awards. Rodriguez emerged as an overlooked great whose social commentary, political observations and soulful directness evoked music pioneers such as Bill Withers and Love. His two early 1970s albums, commercial flops upon initial release, were heralded as lost classics. Audiences around the world started paying attention. Now 71, after working most of his life as a laborer, Rodriguez is playing the largest venues of his career.
Onstage, the adulation occasionally appeared to overwhelm Rodriguez, who remained reserved even when fans shouted remarks or requests during the 75-minute set. Save for a few quips and sincere expressions of gratitude, he focused on concise songs and hid behind sunglasses. Backed by a capable trio, the vocalist blended acoustic jazz, mellow funk and psychedelic rock strains as backdrops for stream-of-consciousness meditations and talking-blues poetry delivered with conversational ease.
Strumming a guitar, Rodriguez surrendered to steady grooves. He turned songs such as “To Whom It May Concern” and “I Think of You” into the equivalent of listening to a calming rainfall that momentarily cancels out modern distractions. A faithful rendition of “Learnin’ the Blues,” popularized by Frank Sinatra, underscored the simplicity that allowed Rodriguez’s words to stand out. While the melodies often suggested tranquility, his topics and phrasing pointed to lingering troubles.
The chiming “You’d Like to Admit It” reproached an ex without resorting to anger. “I Wonder” betrayed its innocent rhythm by posing difficult questions. Addressing corruption, crime and complacency, “This Is Not a Song, It’s an Outburst: Or, the Establishment Blues” could’ve been written about present-day Chicago. Yet Rodriguez wasn’t going to allow problems or tragedy to triumph.
“I’m gonna live,” he repeated on another Sinatra cover, treating the line as a mission statement and overcoming the week’s tragic news by accentuating determination and positivity.
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