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Listen in to Brendan O’Hara

If you haven’t yet heard him, then you haven’t been out — at least not to Circa 28, Transit, Love/Hate or the Florida Room anyway. And if you haven’t been out to even one of the above over the past month or so, you’re not only missing much of the best Miami has to offer nightlife-wise, but you’re missing the best our town’s got music-wise as well.

Why? Because in each and every one of those bright dark nightspots, a man named Brendan O’Hara has come to sing his swinging songs — and in each the crowd has come undone.

The crowd could hardly fail to do otherwise. After all, O’Hara’s a showman, and even show-offs dig catching a show every week or so. Better, the cat’s a saloon singer, in the grand tradition of that fabled breed, and he’s got the pipes to prove it. Best, the man not only knows the strength and the beauty behind a melody, he shows how such great strength and beauty can burrow to the core of our soul.

Make that hot-buttered, blue-eyed soul, as much Isaac Hayes in his ballad days as Sinatra at his most circumspect. Or, to be rudely blunt, kinda like the cracker equivalent of John Legend, had the soul stirrer spent his nights in indie land rather than church. With a little of Waits’ way with a throwback, The Boss’ innate ability to bleed sweat and Randy Newman’s classicist approach to songcraft thrown into the mix just for fun.

But it’s to Jamie Cullum that O’Hara is rightly kin, as well as, perhaps, Jack Johnson, when he’s not stoned. And as fun as this back alley troubadour makes of the night, his nonstop gigging indicates the cat is nothing if not serious about his career. Monthlies at LA’s Hotel Café and New York’s Bitter End; semi-monthlies up in Philly’s World Café Live; regional run-throughs by the season — hell, even when O’Hara’s at his Hollywood, Fla., home, he seems to be on tour, with his weekly Florida Room residency (opening for the dynamite Angela Laino), just the most regular of his increasingly hectic schedule.

O’Hara, natch, wouldn’t want it any other way, and he couldn’t have it even if he did. Like we said, he’s a troubadour, born to bring his verse from place to place. Sure he was birthed in Sopranos land; yes, he counts stints in Encino, Calif., and Seattle among his pasts; and it’s true he’s been consistently startling South Florida audiences for four years now. But his real home is on the road, among high balls and heartbreak, cigarettes and swoon, even if said road is sometimes only a causeway.

So the next time you hear word that a man named Brendan O’Hara is set to stage near you, head on out, hit the joint in question and revel in the reveal of a song-struck singer who refuses to be anything but sung. You might just hear something you’ve been listening for all along.

See if O’Hara’s on the road again at
www.brendanohara.org

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