I have absolutely no reservations in saying that Lonnie Holley was one of the least impressive musicians I have ever seen in my life.

To find oneself at the bottom of my list is no mean feat; I grew up in Cincinnati, sneaking into the sort of punk shows where one was more likely to find an indulgently self-proclaimed artist vomiting on stage as one may have been to achieve an actual musical experience. This act, however, rivaled any level of hell from which those old miscreants may have crawled. I genuinely believe that had it not been for the classically trained (and remarkably talented) Ben Sollee, I may have had the rare pleasure of watching an elderly lady pelt an obnoxious pseudo-musician with a tomato.

The show in question took place on February 11, 2017, in Concord, North Carolina, a well-to-do suburb of Charlotte. The Davis Theatre is in the center of town, seating approximately 150 people, and is loosely associated with Davidson College. The downstairs area was filled with one-room exhibitions from local artists, and the twin staircases on either side of the lobby lead up to the theatre. The patronage consisted primarily of retirees, interspersed very occasionally with slightly younger “artistic types.”

The room was dimly lit and three-quarters full. As it began, the master of ceremonies came out to thank everyone for attending and introduced the acts. We were told that Ben Sollee, the renowned cellist and headliner of the show, would be performing alongside his friend Lonnie Holley, a “professional sculptor, and part-time improvisational musician.” Mr. Sollee, a slight young man carrying a rickety old cello, then came out to greet the crowd.

“I love playing with this man,” claimed Sollee, “because in classical training we spend so much time learning how to create sounds, how to arrange music, how to craft our pieces in such a perfectly planned and designed way. And with Lonnie… well, with Lonnie, none of that really matters.”

The crowd laughed, not realizing the warning in his words. Sollee took his position at left stage, with his old, beaten cello named “Kay,” while his friend and percussionist took his seat at right stage behind the drum kit. As soon as they started playing, their talent and coordination was evident. They slipped effortlessly into a weightless groove, playing a light, ethereal tune with soft brushes on the ride cymbal and a mournful low bow across the cello. Lonnie Holley finally made his entrance, dressed in a gaudy robe with a Don King hairstyle. He sat down slowly at his keyboard. He bowed his head, as though praying. Then he looked up sharply at the crowd, banged his balled fist against the keyboard, and screamed.

At first it seemed possibly soulful. After approximately five minutes, however, it became painfully apparent that this was not a long, drawn-out, artistic introduction. This was simply what he would be doing for the next hour of our lives.

His keyboard prowess was limited to two notes at a time, never once striking a consonate chord. His lyricism could best be described as gibberish. He once spent approximately 120 seconds repeatedly screaming the phrase “cold titty mama,” at a crowd of octogenarians (it was his metaphor for technology), followed several minutes later by an interlude in which he named various animals off the top of his head, obviously struggling to continue after chickens, dogs, cats and cows.

I have to admit, I go into detail in part because I remain frustrated by the sheer misery of the concert itself. However, I also left with immense respect for Mr. Ben Sollee and his partner, the percussionist whose name was unfortunately left off the billing. Professionals to the end, they fought valiantly to keep this show viable, and it would have been a much more painful endeavor had it not been for their efforts.

The percussionist was adamant in his structure, intuitively providing a downbeat for Mr. Holley, despite the fact that the “improvisational” time signature shifted from 3/4 to 4/4 to 26/3 on a whim. He employed every tool available, creatively leaping from rock to jazz to classical styling in order to provide a framework for the soul-ish moans of the singer. On occasion, when Mr. Holley pulled too far away from structure to be compensated, the percussionist would very wisely play a subtle drum roll, or a swell on the cymbals, as though to indicate that this was merely a solo and not a thorough loss of control.

Mr. Sollee, the cellist, did a masterful job of trying to keep up. His job genuinely seemed to be the most difficult, as he had to play a middle ground between the structure of the percussionist and the wild-eyed improvisation of Mr. Holley. He did the best he could with what he was given, and he deserved something much better than what he got.

Despite the best efforts of the two talented members of the ensemble, the show was an amazing disaster. To this day, it remains one of the most surreal hours of my life — one man screaming nonsense and punching a keyboard, two men desperately trying to pretend it was part of the plan, and one hundred elderly patrons fleeing the scene. It was cacophony in concert form, and a truly unique musical experience.

I cannot recommend it highly enough.