Live Review - John Mayall

JOHN MAYALL
Leicester Square Theatre, London

December 17 2012

This was a hard choice to make - to see Thin Lizzy's "farewell" gig, or to see a man who's partially responsible for the existence of half the rock music in the world as we know it, who I'd never previously witnessed in the flesh. As you'll no doubt be aware by now, I plumped for the latter. Which is probably just as well, really, as I predict the Irish rockers' (or at least two of them's) soon-come rebirth as Black Star Riders or whatever they're called will last approximately five minutes before the agents realise they can't sell it and start baying for a return to the old brandname. It's also a wise choice because you wonder, at 79, how many more chances you'll get to see him. But also because at 79 he's still incredible. Quite extraordinarily so.

In some respects, there are few surprises to be gleaned from tonight's performance: the man plays the blues, or at least a galvanised, powerful brand of blues-rock, and that's exactly what you get. However, other things are definitely different: for one, despite their undoubted ability, not one of the bandmembers onstage with JM tonight are what one would consider 'virtuosi'. Nor are they, with the possible exception of bassist Greg Rzab (who wears his high slung axe with a certain insouciant cool) in any way particularly fascinating to look at, and secondly, (probably for that very reason) the focus is now very much on the leader himself rather than his sidemen.

Some would venture "about time too", and they may be right: perhaps it's been this way for a while, and, having not witnessed the live spectacle before, I just didn't realise. But, being honest, isn't Mayall the one artist in the history of rock music always destined to be better known for the people he nurtured, tutored and set on the road to stardom (in particular, Eric Clapton, Peter Green and the other founding members of Fleetwood Mac, and Mick Taylor) than his own, often incredible, achievements? Therefore, even if nobody of note has played with him for decades, you expect him to be surrounded by stars in the making. The fact that he clearly isn't, even if little more than a minor culture shock, is still enough to make you pause and reflect. That their pedigree is impeccable is without question - guitarist Rocky Athas is the former jamming partner of Stevie Ray Vaughan and an acknowledged influence on both Scott Gorham and Brian May, Rzab's resume includes stints with the Black Crowes, Gov't Mule and the Allmans as well as time spent in the band of practically every US blues legend still alive and performing between 1980 and the present day, and drummer Jay Davenport is a veteran of the Chicago scene of some 30 years standing. But for all that, they could be literally anyone up there. Their solos, while accomplished and technically flawless, ring with the smooth professionalism of the very circuits they belong to, but are decidedly lacking in personality or individuality. At least that's how they appeared to me tonight: maybe a few more days on the road in their sonic company might present a different picture, but for now, I have to call it as I see it. Sorry, chaps, and don't take it personally - I said the same about Johnny Winter's band three years ago. And at least none of you wore a baseball cap backwards...

What holds it all together, therefore, is the man whose name is printed on the ticket, a man who, as the promoter is keen to point out afterwards, is probably the only rock musician of almost 80 still doing this. You know what though - age be buggered. Mayall is stunning in any context: as either blues or rock singer, he's easily the equal of a Plant, Rodgers or Rod in their heyday, and deserves to be better known for it. Then again, maybe he was always too busy drumming inspiration into the minds of musicians to promote himself as the great entertainer he clearly is. Several vocalists of better renown now display half the range they once had, but Mayall's seems to have actually grown: on 'Help Me Baby' and that ironic paean to the teetotal lifestyle 'Give Me One More Day', his voice is amazing, while on the little-aired 'Heartache' from his debut album it simply demolishes, wringing the notes into submission. His reputation as raconteur and storyteller par excellence is also well deserved, with almost every number prefaced by one fascinating anecdote or another, told in the same laconic Mancunian drawl that could win over any audience of non-converts.

If all that weren't enough, his own guitar playing has now almost improved to soloist level, while his keyboard playing remains exemplary: not only in a technical sense, but also in his choice of textures. 'California', from my second favourite Mayall platter The Turning Point is given a subtle, jazz-inflected treatment that more than respects the album version while refusing to regurgitate, sporting velvety vibraphone tones worthy of Milt Jackson, while 'Nature's Disappearing' (from my very favourite, USA Union) now re-emerges with a heavy-rocking, organ-drenched approach. True, the violin of Sugarcane Harris can never be replaced, but I wasn't expecting it to be: trust me, I've seen many a 'legend' ruin their back catalogue with unnecessary instrumentation, and at no point tonight does Mayall do this. Until the climax of the show anyway, when, after allowing us the deep breath of faultless, traditional blues that is 'They Call It Stormy Monday', we are dragged kicking and screaming into the fray with a frenetic rendition of another Turning Point highspot, 'Room To Move'. For three minutes, Athas' guitar twangs like it was still 1969, the rhythm section (nonexistent on the original) provides a suitable flurry of scattercushion funk, and Mayall's own harmonica playing - frenetic, earthy and warm - is a wonder to behold. As is his loose-limbed, very Northern, laconic onstage persona, egging his charges on with enthusiastic cries of participation. Truly inspirational. Then, just when they've got us in the palm of their hand, they ruin it. Well, almost. All it takes is one meander down the wrong path of indulgent show-off drum soloing, one slap bass line too many (actually, unless you're Stanley Clarke or Colin Hodgkinson, one is ALWAYS too many) or the tiniest inkling toward the more 'chartered accountant' end of widdly for a blues band to blow it - and JM and his crew somehow manage to do all in the space of five minutes, losing the entire song somewhere in the resulting melange.

Don't misunderstand me, I love self-aggrandising, pompous, widdly prog soloing, and I've been listening to it for years, but you don't expect to see John Mayall do it, especially when the rest of the show has existed quite happily without it up to this point. Then again, he did say it was the 'grand finale' piece, and once the melody returns it does end on a suitable high note, but a little more restraint wouldn't have gone amiss. Thankfully, it's a minor blip and by the time the band return - first to swop instruments, then to threaten each other jokingly with them whilst fighting over who's going to get to introduce their leader and mentor, and finally to bow out gracefully with, what else but a swinging run through Freddie King's 'Hideaway'. All is forgiven, if not necessarily forgotten. Especially when you consider how, after BB King, who similarly seems to show no interest in stopping anytime soon, Mayall is almost definitely (let me know if you know otherwise) the next oldest man alive still playing in the genre, which is why you MUST see him if possible. White and British he may be, but, naysayers, that shouldn't rob him of his place in the pantheon - and for that very reason, I feel inclined to correct a line in my second paragraph. The man doesn't play the blues, nor has he got the blues: he IS the blues.

DARIUS DREWE SHIMON

Live Review - The Fall

THE FALL
Islington Assembly Hall
London, December 6 2012

In a way, it's surprising to see The Fall play in the Assembly Hall's grandiose environs: not because they can't fill it (this is the second of two sold out nights, and for once, there isn't even a new album to plug) but because in its architecture, location and appearance, it's probably everything Mark E Smith is diametrically opposed to. Posh, plush, surrounded by yuppie bars and simply dripping with Southernness, it's Olde London through and through (much like most of the adjoining streets) and would never be found in Salford or Manchester. But IS it? On second glance, its red carpeted halls and wooden floor bear all the hallmarks of an ancient Lancastrian gin palace or pier theatre beloved of the variety business- so, in many ways, for Smith- the gurning, grimacing Frank Randle of rock'n'roll- it's his ideal home.

It also has an incredible PA, which, from the top row of the balcony, sounds as dense, brain-smashingly heavy and yet crystal clear as such complex, multi-layered music requires. Smith, with increasing support from keyboard-playing, occasional lead vocal-taking wife Elena, has a reputation (one of many!) for drilling his young musicians to near-crack precision, something which has earned him the nickname more than once of the 'indie Zappa', and the current line-up are no exception. Faceless they may be to look at (although, when they start the show with a 5-minute instrumental prefacing their leader's faux-disinterested entry, you have to) but they are enthralling to listen to. According to Wikipedia their names are Dave Spurr, Peter Greenway (no, not the filmmaker) and Keiron Melling, but this, or the matter of which is which, is largely unimportant as he'll have sacked the lot of them by the time there's an new album out anyway. The guitarist's bloody good though.

It also makes no difference whatsoever that half the material tonight is either extremely recent or, more than likely, brand new (MES spends half the night sat behind the bassist's monitor in a leather armchair, reading what are obviously freshly written lyrics from reams of foolscap). It still comes on like Beefheart being fellated by members of the Amon Duul collective while Link Wray plays along in the background (like all their best material does) and bodes well for their next release. So that's alright then. Whether this looks as good, though, from downstairs is a moot point: they probably can't see him, but then again it's so rammed down there that many of them still couldn't if he was standing up. Is he pissed? Probably, but in fine shape, bellowing incomprehensible lyrics (not because of any drunken slurring, but because they hint at an intellect and mindset most people can't even begin to grasp), strutting and lurching all at once, and belligerently leering his snook at an entire audience which he appreciates the devotion of whilst simultaneously holding their every floppy haired or shaven headed, studenty post-punk cliche in utter contempt, before heading off home to sit in an armchair listening to Peter Hammill and Joe Meek and watching Nigel Kneale plays. That's fine, it's exactly what I do. Mind you, he'll probably kick my head in for writing this as well - if not for attempting to understand him, then at the very least because I have long 70s hair, come from Essex and live in Buckinghamshire.

An early appearance of the Sonics 'Strychnine' roars and rages like a lion with its nads caught in a large metal thingy, soon followed by Elena taking strident lead vox on 'I've Been Duped'. While the missus takes centre stage, hubby meanders 'twixt amps and cabs, twisting a little here, turning a little there, fiddling with knob after dial after lead after knob in the manner only he and Gibby Haynes fully understand. But, never one to settle into comfortable routine, he's recently taken to doing it with his own amp too, often whilst singing. Perhaps the arch-sadist of garage punk has a masochistic side after all. It certainly isn't because he's run out of ideas: while there may be a definite lull in the centre of the set, leading some to head towards either bar or bog, it's only in terms of pace, with the fuzz-laden doom of one (again seemingly brand new) track soon followed by another steeped in Lamonte Young-esque concrete drone and non-percussive yet rhythmic looping. He's back on the chair for these, then he's up again for what seems the closest you'll get from such a cantankerous and deliberately obtuse musician to a 'hits section', with 'Weather Report', 'Container Drivers', 'Reformation" (only six years old and already an old favourite), 'Mr Pharmacist' and 'Blindness' thrudded out in rapidfire succession, during which 25-minute time period Smith manages to not only destroy his own mikestand but entangle the rest of the group's leads in it. The old devil. This doesn't prevent Elena from squatting haunch-down on the floor and bellowing into it to commence the encore: yes, the most awkward band in the world even do them sometimes as well. Her shrill cry of "IS ANYBODY THERE?" can only mean 'Psycick Dancehall', a trip into the murky 79-80 vintage even I didn't expect, followed by a blunt, heads down 'What About Us' before, 80 minutes after it all started, it's all ended.

What did you expect, a ballad and an acoustic number? If you did, you were clearly at the wrong gig, although I find it very hard to believe that anyone here harbours such ideas. A friend of mine once told me he chooses to tell 'the story' at the dinner table during Passover each year in the hope that one day he'll remember it properly and get it right: in much the same way, we come to see The Fall year in year out in the hope that eventually, we'll work out why we like them. I'm still fathoming it myself- in one respect, they're the most predictable band ever, who still sound, 35 years on, like the combined ouput of the pre-punk era's most aggressive psych or prog bands all played at once on several rusty car stereos with occasional interference from low-frequency C&W, rockabilly and oldies stations. Their jarring, scraping backbeats suggesting a dozen possible directions yet always returning to point of departure, overlaid with the barked vocals of a meths drinker from a nearby bus station who looks a bit like Bill Maynard if he hadn't eaten for a fortnight. That much we know, and that much we come to see on a yearly basis. That much we wouldn't have any other way. Where the mystery lies is in how they'll do it, how long they'll do it for, whether you'll recognise it when they do, exactly what it's all about, and in what strange new key, beknownst only unto Mark E Smith himself, they'll do it in. And in that respect they will remain perpetually rock's most fascinating puzzle, in which the pieces will never fit and were deliberately not designed to.

Rarely in the last ten years have they sounded mightier.

DARIUS DREWE SHIMON

Live Review - Matthews Southern Comfort

MATTHEWS SOUTHERN COMFORT
The Borderline, London, December 1 2012


Grim, cold, miserable evenings such as this, that involve dragging one's carcass from your Home counties retreat into central Londinium, deserve to be rewarded with warm, soothing yet eerie and haunting music that puts a fireside glow into your heart. Thank God, then, for Iain Matthews and the new lineup of Southern Comfort.


I just wish more people agreed with me: sadly, despite being the only former member of Fairport Convention to have ever achieved anything in his solo career resembling a hit single (actually, let's not be coy, it was a UK No 1!!) Ian's concerts in the capital have often been poorly attended, and tonight's turnout is still decidedly thin. The lack of members from the original line-up may not have helped matters either.


Either as a singer-songwriter or a skilful selector of covers, Matthews has always seemed like the man who missed out. When he was on the brink of becoming one of Britain's premier introspective singer-songwriters, Al Stewart trounced him - twice. As a harmony vocalist and rhythm guitarist extraordinaire, he dwelt forever in the shadow of Graham Nash. In selling himself as Britain's very own Robbie Robertson, he was pipped to the post by early Elton John. For skilful interpretations of other, lesser-known writers' material, we already had pre-'Sailing' era Rod Stewart, and that song itself had been penned by the Sutherland Brothers, the Scots outfit who, whether subconsciously or not, seemed more adept at turning the template laid down by Matthews' own band Plainsong into hard cash than they did themselves. I can't think of many more musicians, particularly of such calibre, that have suffered such abysmal luck, yet refused to let it bother them. From the moment he strides casually onstage, picks up his guitar and approaches the microphone, the first impression you get is of a man, nearing 70 but not looking a day over 50, who clearly lives for the enjoyment engendered by being up there. 


Around him he has also assembled a crack team of fine (predominantly Dutch) musicians: they don't resemble the old Southern Comfort in any way, particularly as they don't include a pedal steel (an instrument Iain himself explains his disdain for later on, although it has to be said I completely disagree with him) but their skill and virtuosity is flawless. Acoustic guitarist/vocalist Terri Binion, a red-haired vision not unlike a young Sandy with lungs to match  provides the perfect foil for Matthews' gravellier, earthier tones, effective as much on newer, more unfamiliar songs like 'Perfect Love' (which she also composed) and 'O Donnell Street' as the much older 'Darcy Farrow', which the enthusiastic audience bayed fervently for and were eventually rewarded with. Yet, as much as I know both this track and the sublime, wistful 'And Me', I have to admit that I am also unfamiliar with most other Southern Comfort material, being more a collector of Matthews' material from If You Saw Thru My Eyes onwards. What I thus admire is that even now, with the name technically functioning as a collective term for whatever loose aggregation of musicians he assembles around himself, the Lincolnshire wordsmith chooses not the easy route of providing us with a selection of cross-career 'faves', but sticks to those three albums and newly-written works, which it has to be said could have easily come from any of that triumvirate. In fact, the moody, defiant 'Letting The Mad Dogs Lie' is so pointedly good it could have come from any of his best works up as far as my personal favourite, 1974's Some Days You Eat The Bear. 

Some of the recent tunes are reworkings, of course, but doen in such a fresh way that they sound brand new whilst simultaneously retaining the majesty of old. When other songwriters do this it normally indicates that they've run out of ideas, but not Iain Matthews: if anything, he's on a mission, as he has been for most of his career, to do it right while he still can. Producers and arrangements may have occasionally softened his edges but nothing, it seems, can blunt his razorsharp instinct, as the lyrics seem to portend. Talking of which, I now have a new favourite: "Was she thinking of you or of me, when she said 'the old man and the sea' ?" I have no idea what it means or who it refers to, but I shall probably spend the next few weeks pondering it.


Yet, even if every harmony sounds like a chorus of West Coast monks on their slow procession to some dimly-lit freethinking church atop Big Sur, it isn't just about the vocals, or the words - or even just about Iain himself. Co-writer/guitarist Richard Kennedy, guitarist/mandolinist Bart-Jan Baartmans and keyboardist Mike Roelofs are the sort of tasteful, free-improvising yet tight virtuosi that would be just at home in an ECM jazz trio, or a jam-band ensemble ala Little Feat or SCI, as they obviously seem in a folk-rock combo. Furthermore, it's their flourishes and flurries of piano, Rhodes and instruments of both 6 and 12 strings that elevate the band above the usual strictures of said genre (and indeed, the painfully polite way in which it's now played even by its pioneers). Close your eyes and find yourself transported to a variety of decades. Sometimes it's 1969 - at other times, the whole ensemble sound uncannily like the Cowboy Junkies or Union Station. But that's hardly surprising in itself considering how both those bands grew up on old Fairport and Southern Comfort records: if anything, it shows that the circle truly does remain unbroken.


Bassist Leon Bartels, while not present for the entire show for some reason, still makes an invaluable contribution upon his arrival, providing the missing piece of the rhythmic jigsaw formerly laid bare by the absence of a drummer: like many of his contemporaries, Matthews is often found playing without a full complement of musicians for budgetary reasons, but rather than let that hold him back, this is treated as yet another opportunity for interpretation and interpolation. If only everyone in such situations had such creative fervour. For this reason, the evergreen 'Woodstock', again reworked so that it bears scant relation to MSC's own vintage, let alone Joni's original or CSNY's rockier take, differs also from the version recorded by this lineup: it now has a propulsive, percussive base that leads the audience as much as the band to the swell-deserved climax. Providing, yet again, more evidence of Matthews' steadfast refusal to be bracketed, tagged with one song or made to stand still. As if to further underline this strategy, rather than end here, a short encore follows, but even if it hadn't, Matthews Southern Comfort had by now already made their point, and the long, cold, windy journey back to Zone Ridiculous felt a lot warmer than it had done on the way in. I'll see him the same time next year, and do you know what, I wager that even though his aged-in oak voice may remain constant, musically he'll sound almost completely different. Not that I'd want everyone to do that, but THAT's an artist for you. 


DARIUS DREWE SHIMON

Live Review - Greg Lake

GREG LAKE
London Shepherds Bush Empire

November 25 2012


Allegedly, "the three worst things that can happen to you on the road are earache, backache and Greg Lake". So quoth one of his erstwhile bandmembers after his short tenure as frontman for Asia in the early 80s. No, the worst thing that can happen to you is getting stuck in a rain-drenched bus station in Hemel Hempstead on a Sunday night with a knackered mobile phone and a braindead Chavette yelling in your ear en route to a gig, resulting in your arrival some 35 minutes later than planned. Still, at least that means that, although I've sadly missed 'From The Beginning' and '21st Century Schizoid Man', I've also been spared a rendition of 'Heartbreak Hotel'. Our Greg, you see, is revisiting his entire life in words and music, and this not only includes songs wot 'e wrote or recorded, but ones he loved in his formative years. His decision to perform the first Crimson album in almost its entirety therefore makes sense (although none of the songs are technically his) but his hesitant semi-medleying of 'In The Court Of The Crimson King', 'Epitaph' and 'I Talk To The Wind' into each other makes less, especially when the beatific quietude of the last-named is unsuited to the booming tone of his now considerably deepened vocal. Ironically, Lake seems to have inherited the baritone range once possessed by Scott Walker, whereas Scott's voice has stretched further with age into the utter stratospheres. Did they ever meet and do a swap, perchance?

Covering the Beatles' 'You've Got To Hide Your Love Away' seems to be everyone's choice these days, but there is an incredibly self-effacing and humble element to seeing it covered by someone who also once filled Shea Stadium and whose ego was once rumoured to be roughly the same size in area and diameter. There's none of that onstage tonight: just a likeable, warm and immensely talented man (albeit still stood atop a magic carpet, but nowadays, the show wouldn't seem complete without it), supported only by backing tapes, playing the songs he loves on guitar, bass and piano with heartfelt passion and sharing candidly honest stories in a West Country burr undimmed by years resident on the other side of the Atlantic. He even turns the mike on us for awhile, asking for questions: as would be expected, they range from the perceptive to the utterly braindead (like the bloke who asks how Crimson came up with the title 'Larks Tongues In Aspic', a song written three years after he quit the band) but his replies are never less than perceptive, informative and full of revelation - particularly when I ask him about the pre-ELP band that never was with Hendrix and Mitch Mitchell. The "gun on the table" anecdote is priceless in itself, but I'll let him tell it, should he ever come round your way again.

Hopefully he will, as this was an immensely enjoyable experience, for once assisted (rather than hindered) by the intimacy of turning the Empire into a seated venue for the evening. By contrast, 'Touch And Go' is as big, butch and bellicose as it ever was in the 80s, but a bucolic, acoustic guitar treatment of the first half of 'Trilogy', seguing neatly into 'Still You Turn Me On', is sublime indeed. A cursory glance down the setlist might provide cynics with ample grist to their claim that "he does too many ballads", but to me, that's only a problem if you're expecting a hard rock show, and this was never meant to be that. Sadly that means there's nothing from Manoeuvres on offer, but hearing 'C'Est La Vie', originally released on the underrated second side of the otherwise self-indulgent Works Vol 1 and later a No.1 French hit for Johnny Hallyday, in this setting, stripped of the padding added by Lake and Palmer, reminds the informed listener that Lake's own songs, at their best, have less to do with prog itself, or indeed any kind of rock, and more to do with the genreless standards of Bacharach, Barry and Brel. Something which his association with arena pomp has unfortunately done its best obscure for many years.

If, alternatively, you want reassurance that the Bournemouth boy is still a rock'n'roller at heart, then his bone-snapping treatment of Johnny Kidd's 'Shakin All Over'. Again, an obvious choice to some, but you have to remember how exciting this must have sounded to the teenage Gregory on the radio in 1960, and indeed to everyone of that age, at a time when there was no psych, garage, freakbeat or even beat, just a hitherto sonambulent England finally waking up to the power of the electric guitar. Likewise 'Lucky Man', the best known ELP ballad (and allegedly the very first song Emerson ever used a Moog on) was actually written that long ago, before he even joined a band: a solemnly thankful take on Curtis Mayfield's 'People Get Ready' also reminds us of those days when it was possible to dig rock and soul in equal measures without having to worry about the hems of your suit or the length of one's haircut.

It does, end, of course, on full-out prog thrust, with 'Karn Evil 9 2nd Movement'. A strange choice considering it's actually a song celebrating the start of a show, but there's a wry glint of humour in this that he's as much aware of as we are, as we all know, at this late stage in the life of rock music, that the show will continue as long as those who wish to play it remain. Given the choice, I'd prefer it not to be on a Sunday night when several tube lines are out of service, and to start a little later than 8pm, so I might have some chance of seeing the show "from the beginning", as it were. But ultimately I was thankful to have been there at all, as, while it would be unfair to assume Lake is seeking some closure to his career, it did seem very much like a unique performance from someone who won't offer us such rare pleasures again anytime soon. Those (and there were many) who turned down my offer of a plus one have much to regret.

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Sad Cafe

SAD CAFE
London Islington Academy

November 22 2012

There's no easy way to say this: this is a terrible turnout for such a great band. Even if you've been away for nearly 30 years, and it's well-known that your original vocalist sadly passed away some time ago, you surely could still expect more than 150 people to come out to see you. In fact, if anything, there should be more people eagerly awaiting your return. But sadly, the Islington Academy, which their agent freely admits to me is aesthetically the wrong venue anyway, is only a quarter full, and it shows.

Not that it's any way going to deter them, though. From the carefree, cheerful and, dare I say it, "rawk n rawl" manner in which long-term members Ian Wilson, Ashley Mulford and Des Tong amble onstage, be-suited, be-hatted (as is new guitarist/vocalist Steve Whalley, who resembles a cross between Sylvain Sylvain and a stray Ozric Tentacle, and at least partially fills late Paul Young's role with confidence) and oozing bonhomie. And once under way, you remember why you're here - because nobody else quite pulls off the heady brew of powerpop chops, pub-rock brawn and polished yacht-rock/harmony soft-rock dexterity that the Cafe do. Not in the UK at least. Sure, in the US, that kind of stuff ruled the airwaves for most of the late 70s, which is presumably why they (and Supertramp, and Sniff And The Tears, and City Boy, and Gerry Rafferty, and....) spent so many years there. But over here it's been sadly airbrushed from history, except in the 'ironic' playlists of Will Ferrell-loving Shoreditch DJs and cheesefest gatherings of clubs like Guilty Pleasures and Prom Night. Needless to say, none of those people have bothered to show their genuine appreciation of the genre tonight by turning up. In the words of Rowan Atkinson's disgruntled vicar, "WHERE WERE ALL YOU BASTARDS THEN?"

But I digress. The true believers that have bothered to show (some of whom have even made their own t shirts) are enraptured and enthralled, and so am I. By the time the opening chords to 'Strange Little Girl' appear suddenly three songs in, I can't stop bouncing. The four-man vocal frontline is also amply aided by keyboardist Sue Quin's feathery tones, and on the likes of 'Fanx Ta-Ra', a nod to the band's proggy origins that I am ever grateful for, she proves herself no slouch on the lead vocal front either. Ashley Mulford, who apparently has flown in from Denmark to rejoin his former bandmates is also a revelation as a guitarist. I mean, I know he sounded this good on record, but to actually witness him is quite incredible. Never before has a man who looks so outwardly humble projected such flawless fretboard fingering, like Salford's very own personal Santana. Though this is not an issue of Classic Rock Presents Prog, so I shall refrain from further indepth technical delineation of his abilities, especially when the whole point of a band like Sad Cafe - or indeed the many unsung contemporaries that existed in that nebulous netherspace 'twixt prog, glam, AOR, pub rock, soul and the onslaught of punk - was that the song was always more important than its constituent parts.

And, verily, that it is: 'Restless', 'Emptiness' and 'My Oh My' all bear the stamp of superior construction, just as you would expect from any band who sprung from 10cc's infamous Strawberry Studios stable, with the bubblegum tinge one would expect from such a background still evident on the uptempo, spiky 'Rat Race' and even that hit single. Yes, 'Everyday Hurts' may be ubiquitous, heard on every FM oldies radio station from Dorking to Dubai, but seeing it in the flesh makes it all the more evident why. Its overlapping harmonies, chord changes and blue notes evocative of the Walker Brothers or the Foundations at their best. It's just a shame that it's still, after 30 odd years, the only song people remember this fine outfit for, when there are so many others equally worthy of attention. Although sadly, two of the greatest, 'Keeping It From The Troops' and 'Run Home Girl' are omitted tonight. And don't get me started on 'Cottage Love'...

There is definitely mileage to be had in Sad Cafe's return to the road, which was always their natural environment, as captured on their seminal live double album from 1980 which I hear they are planning to record a follow-up to. What needs to be addressed is the matter of the correct surroundings, and some kind of angle to interest more than just a smattering of diehards in rediscovering their greatness.

DARIUS DREWE SHIMON

Live Review - Shuggie Otis

SHUGGIE OTIS
London Jazz Cafe

November 20 2012

So, another day, another one of "those" gigs then. Where would we be without the occasional reclusive legend to appear out of nowhere and jolt us to our senses by the very dint of their continued existence? Well, at home in the warm, for one thing. But I digress...

Shuggie Otis, for those not in the know, is the definition of a cult (stop sniggering, I said CULT!). Son of R'n'B peer Johnny Otis, he apprenticed with his dad's band, then made (between 1969 and 1974) three of the finest albums of funk-rock/psych soul ever released, wrote hits for a few other people, played with Zappa and the Mothers for a bit, and then promptly disappeared off the very face of the earth. 

When I worked at Flashback Records in the early 00s, and the tintraweb was still in its relative infancy, we were all convinced he was dead. How wrong we were. Not only that, but he's only 59. In today's terms, considering that the band I saw the previous night featured two septagenarians on lead vocals, that makes him a positive youngster. And, despite some greying strands and a slightly more sallow, drawn physiog, doesn't he look it too? Actually, more than that- with his jodphurs, frock coat, white blouse and frilled trousers, he's an utter dandy, resembling more than anything else a mixed-race Peter Wyngarde. Except with exemplary guitar playing talent and slightly less moustache.

That is, when he eventually appears. From my vantage point, I'd actually spotted him up in the balcony some time back, but I was beginning to think he'd never get onstage. Then again, a man who hasn't been out front live in almost 40 years is bound to require a little warming up before getting up there to do his 'thang', and, true to form, the first thing he does after striding down the stairs to rapt applause and plugging in his axe (itself suffering some amplification issues) is bump his head on the microphone and become entangled in his own backline. Todd Rundgren was right two years ago - this stage is too bloody small. As the Shugster (as he was never known by anyone until now) finally gets under way with 'Comin' Home Baby' and, cue another tumultuous roar of awe, 'Inspiration Information', there's a touch of hesitation not only from the audience (will he? won't he? Is that really him?) but the man himself - as is only to be expected given how much he's shied away for many years from public performance, and he does seem genuinely uncomfortable to be onstage and so close to so many adoring people.

Slowly but surely, and backed by the perfect polyrhythms of jazzmeister Marvin 'Smitty' Smith, he begins to find himself. The high notes beginning to rise with more confidence on 'Island Letter' and new number 'Trying To Get Close To You', a preview from the forthcoming album (third roar!) which, I can happily report, doesn't suck, does sound like proper vintage Shuggie, and hasn't 'gone all Mark Ronson' on us. Thank fuck for small mercies. Why, then, he chooses to follow this with a slow, plodding blues that causes the audience's attention to wander (except during the instrumental breaks) is beyond me, but by now I'm beginning to realise that part of the Otis enigma is this very deliberate awakwardness, and an unwillingness to pander to expectations. Which explains the lack of a followup to such a well-regarded album as Inspiration Information for almost 40 years. The misdemeanour is quickly forgotten - 'Sparkle City' brings us back up to speed, and 'Aht Uh Mi Hed', still possibly his most scintillating composition, shimmers in the way it should, eliciting several aaahs and oohs from those assembled. Timing is everything, and placing these two together is a masterstroke - theoretically speaking of course.

In truth, however, the latter lacks the motorised electronic beat or the chilling strings of the original, and he's still singing slightly flat. Yet, by the time we get to an almost Leonard Cohen-like acoustic section (which literally makes us feel we're atop some lofty peak in far off Texas watching the tumbleweed blow past the coyotes) and 'Wings Of Love', another track from the upcoming album, I've decided to overlook this and just remember that I like him very much. Not only is his guitar playing matchless in this sub-genre, but the woodwind and horn solos (from Albert Wing and Michael Turre in particular) are also outstanding, deploying the sort of wooded textures heard and loved everywhere from Neil Ardley's Kaleidoscope Of Rainbows to the incidental music from The Good Life. And now, at last, the Shug looks happy to be onstage.

Just as well too, showtime's nearly over. 'Doin It Right', followed by the inevitable 'Strawberry Letter 23' (still a classic, but again, maybe galling to a man who has to take stock of the fact that after all these years, his best known tune is by somebody else) and 'Ice Cold Daydream' bring a troubled but eventually triumphant set to a close, with everybody who was once afraid of moving now firmly grooving: if Otis can keep up this particular impetus (I hear UK dates are already being pencilled in, for 2013, in larger venues) and marshall his strengths, this comeback could effectively, like that of Bill Fay, run, run and run. Plus, we need a new name in the soul frame now Terry Callier has bitten the dust, so why not one that just happens to be a god among guitarists? Shuggie Otis, despite his inevitable feet of clay as a cult idol, and with his earlier indulgences behind him, is still an inspiration and a source of information to many.

Surveying his victory (or should that be triumph over adversity?) he nods, shakes hands (including mine) and dashes back upstairs, leaving us to ponder what, where or when next: but at the end of the day, only he can make that decision. Oh, and what is it with McEnery brothers lookalikes this week? First a Peter at Gong, and now, in this audience, a John- bellowing away to his heart's content. Stop following me already!!!

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Gong

GONG
London Shepherds Bush Empire
November 19 2012

Sometimes, after a while in this job, you realise how much emphasis on "industry" and "business" the music industry really places - as opposed to the creation of something beautiful and altruistic for the sake of beautiful altruism itself. There I go, sounding like a hippie. But then again, I am at a Gong concert. And if you can't be a hippie here, where can you? Other progressive and psychedelic rock giants may attract increasingly "Clive"-like audiences these days, computer programmers to a man, but the Gong gang is much more esoteric in nature, with dreadlocks, strange tribal outfits and what would have once been called "bizarre garb" aplenty, right down to the bloke in the dishevelled white dinner-jacket who looked the spitting image of Peter McEnery and asked me if I'd got any mushrooms. Like, maaan.

The other immediately noticeable difference is that the audience is now sadly smaller than it was, even a couple of years ago. And this is what I'm on about. Three years ago, at the time of the superb 2032 album, Daevid Allen and Gilli Smyth were rejoined ably by Steve Hillage, Miquette Giraudy and Mike Howlett, with Soft Machine man Theo Travis on reeds, thus revitalising a six-strong frontline which drew audiences en masse to some of their most high profile shows in over a decade. Sadly, as with all such concepts, the need for financial remonstration seems to have outweighed the desire to work together, possibly due to promoters refusing to pay the large fees required, and one by one, all the above named have drifted off, leaving founders Allen (aged 74) and Smyth (aged 79) once more as the solitary keepers of the flame, backed by a 'new generation' lineup (including Allen's son Orlando on drums) who, whilst they bring fresh enthusiasm and power to the table, don't pull in the punters. For this reason, several fans have voted with their feet by staying away in droves, which means that the venues again lose money, and next year, the tour will be on an even smaller scale, meaning...oh, you get the picture. The volatile nature of business...

None of the above, though, will EVER stop me from loving Gong's music on a very fundamental level indeed. Quite the opposite; the smaller, more intimate gathering actually makes us feel like a band of renegade brothers, inspiring much camaraderie in the process. But that's irrelevant anyway, as the sound made by the new line-up is nothing short of stupendous. Or at least it would be, if the sound wasn't, as per usual for the Empire, woefully toppy and muffled at the same time. However do they manage it? Various knock on effects of this oversight include Smyth's delicate space whisper (already at half power due to a recent cold, I'm told, and nothing to do with her age whatsoever) being drowned out on practically everything, bar 'I Am Your Pussy' (nice impromptu meowing from the audience though) and 'Dynamite/I Am Your Animal', and totally inaudible during the mid-section of 'Tropical Fish/Selene', while far too much bass drum during 'Escape Control Delete' robs the song of its inherent Kraut-mongous thrust. But any such letdowns are more than made up for by the heightened commitment of the band members themselves.

Guitarist Fabio Golfetti and bassist Dave Sturt are a tight yet freeform, locked-in yet always on-the-out rhythm section, as metal-inflected as they are jazz-tinged, and they handle the thrust and parry of 'Master Builder', 'Can't Kill Me' and the mesmeric, 11-minute thrash of 'Opium For The People' as easily as the more intricate, multi-layered, time-signature-challenging mode of 'Zero The Hero And The Witch's Spell'. Ian East, introduced as "the East Wind", is easily the most charismatic of the new bloods, even if he does look like a Trustafarian stereotype in that hat and robe combo, and makes suitable mincemeat of 'Flute Salad', which, rather than just being an intro, is now a show-stopping number in its own right. It still segues, undeniably, into 'Oily Way', with complete audience participation vocal, but the identities are no longer completely merged: ditto the following mantric tantric double-shot of 'Inner Temple' and 'Outer Temple', now just as much of a highlight as its chronological predecessor. If Richard Attenborough in 10 Rillington Place imbued the idea of being offered a cup of dried leaves in boiling water with a terrible, sinister, sickly overtone, then Gong achieved the opposite, the repeated chant of "have a cuppa tea, luvverly cuppa tea" (improvised lyrics this time include ruminations on whether certain mushroom brands are better than Twinings) almost an anthem for the turned on, tuned in, dropped-out free-festival generation. And in case you're wondering just how turned on and genuinely psychotropic Gong 2012 are, can I just point out that I hadn't imbibed anything stronger than 3 pints of bitter that night, and I was still tripping, amply aided and abetted by the cascade of swirling, twisting visuals.

Yet, unquestionably and indefatigably, the star of the show remains Daevid Allen, the Divided Alien, aka Bert Camembert, Zero The Hero, or whatever name he chooses to be known by this week. Slim, dapper (OK, maybe not when dressed as a wizard or a giant pixie, and NO, I'm not making this up- he really still does both those things), recently chopped of several inches of barnet, eloquent, theatrical, and full of boundless energy at 74 which puts me and my generation to shame, he is never so joyful as when onstage, championing the band he truly loves, and the "planet", which has been his home on and off since 1969. To this seminal, important, yet humble Aussie man - a pioneer whose contribution to the very existence of psychedelia stretches far beyond music and is as essential as that of Leary, Gysin, Owsley or Burroughs - Gong is not just a band anyway, it's a crusade, a never-ending quest to bring beauty into sharper focus and destroy the drab greyness which infects everyday existence.

Some of it is, unfortunately, misguided- while a longstanding Ozrics lover, I've never espoused travelling or communal lifestyles myself, seeing both as problematic as the very urban existence they negate- and obviously, even in the artists' utopia which they envisage, there will always be quibbles and squabbles about money, but as long as "Radio Gnome" continues to transmit, invisibly or otherwise, across the astral airwaves, the essential message will beam into the eyes and ears of all who are there to hear it. And, if all that wasn't enough to convince you in itself, how many other bands can you name who actually bibble themselves onstage? (Er, Caravan - Ed). Surely, that says everything you'll ever need to know about why Gong are still essential in your life.

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Sonny Rollins

SONNY ROLLINS
Barbican, London, November 16 2012


Screw genres, a legend is a legend. My own personal campaign for more jazz on here notwithstanding, there are very few recording artists who command the same respect as Sonny Rollins. And at 82, I should bloody well think so too. With the exception of Wayne Shorter and Yusef Lateef (the latter of whom is 92 and largely retired from public performance) he remains possibly the ONLY great tenorman left from the pre-freeform era (please get in touch if you can think of any others). With only Phil Woods and Lee Konitz remaining on alto, and Charlie Davis on baritone: whispers have also been going round about this being his last ever London or UK show, so the incentive was upon me to get down there. I had to view the first 40 minutes or so in the hall on the screen until I was gifted a ticket, mind you- during which time I witnessed possibly the most sublime 20 minute take on Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn's "It's You Or No One" I've heard since Monroe sang it in Some Like It Hot- but it sure was blummin' 'ell worth it, guvnor. 

At least I think that's what he was playing - you never really can tell with a bebopper, especially one who's lived through the freedom revolution and come out the other side, and, as the bloke from the Fast Show said, (come on, it had to be crowbarred in somewhere) "Tune? This is jaaaaazzzz!". But that would actually be a little unfair, as Sonny is still very bit the lyrical, songbird-like architect of sound he was as far back as Saxophone Colossus and Way Out West, with sly little smears referencing tunes from both creeping in and out as the night goes on. Backed by guitar, double bass (a flawless Bob Cranshaw), trombone, drums and congas, with fascinating exploratory interplay woven in and around him by the players of each, and with his lurching, twisting stage-walking manner providing the necessary theatrics (to say nothing of his red silk blouse and his billowing, rug-like flame of white hair- can this really be the same man that once inspired me to sport a mohican?) he defines the word 'charisma'.

In musical terms, his journey now appears in his latter years to have arrived at a place where all his previous incarnations, as hard-bopper, avant-gardist, R'n'B man, fusioneer and that 'uncredited' sabbatical with the Rolling Stones at the behest of Charlie Watts have all come to rest and enjoy each other's company. He takes you on that journey again several times throughout the evening, from the booming tone of his early Coleman Hawkins-inflected work to his latter-day appreciation of Coltrane, Shepp and Sanders, forays into funk hawking, and back- with the ever-present spirit of calypso, his very own Proustian Madeleine cake, at both ends. Starting with 'St Thomas' and ending with 'Don't Stop The Carnival' was more than just a case of a well-structured set list: from the Caribbean folksongs sung to him by his mother at an early age, all the way to Birdland, Newport and the Williamsburg Bridge via Riker's Island and back again, Mr Theodore Walter Rollins has sure been around, and he wants to show you the map. Perhaps that's why his sax still coils and unwinds in a serpentine fashion. He's also still as passionate about jazz as he was in the mid 40s when a Sinatra concert changed his life, and he still wants to change yours. I think he managed it several times over tonight alone...

You can't escape the truth of mortality though, and his hunched, arthritic posture (particularly evident for one who once stood so erect) is a consistent reminder of just how long ago this all started, and sadly how soon it could all be over. There are times when the horn slips out of his mouth, although he makes light of it ("wait!! stop now!! Woh, woh, where you goin? Come BACK here!!") his humour again reminding us why he is so respected, before quickly moving on to another burst of tenor magic. If there's one complaint, it has to be that often, just when things look set to explode fully into the realms of beautiful warm noise, he fights shy by returning time and again to the melody at the end of each phrase: maybe this again reflects that we are witnessing an older, mellower Sonny, maybe he just doesn't play like that anymore. Or maybe it's because he's Sonny Rollins, he can do whatever he wants, and although he thanks us all sincerely for coming, he's long past the point where he has to pander to ANY of our expectations.

As he descends those stairs to the backstage (there is no encore) by a respectable 9.45pm, a tinge of poignancy can't be avoided at the thought that he may never pass our way again, and this may be the last time he takes that walk: not because he's in any more immediate danger of passing than any other octaganerian, but because finally, after the upcoming European dates, the man they once called 'Newk' is finally taking the rest he deserves. Happy retirement.

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Joan Armatrading

JOAN ARMATRADING
New Theatre, Oxford

November 18 2012

Baby, it's cold outside....so what could be a more welcome relief than an evening spent in a beautiful theatre in one of Britain's quaintest, cosiest cities, in the company of one of its best-loved (if not accordingly respected) singer-songwriters?

"Very little" is the answer, yet, because of its inherent cosiness and quaintness (some would even dare say 'twee'), Oxford on a Saturday night isn't exactly known for its rocking, party atmosphere. Some might also say this is a factor which befits Joan's subtle, reflective and still unclassifiable music perfectly: nevertheless, there was an overwhelming air of politeness about tonight's proceedings that was undoubtedly not her doing, and seemed to emanate far more from the audience, which was actually slightly smaller than one would have expected. I guess playing several dates very geographically near to each other (Cambridge, Aylesbury, Stevenage, Reading and London all featuring on the itinerary in close succession) in this day and age is more of a risk than it would have been even ten years ago: on the flipside, the fact that Joan still wants to take it speaks several volumes. 

Is she Shindig! material? Well, of course. Rooted in folk and gospel, filtered through soul, funk and blues, occasionally leaning towards hard rock, and with a new album dripping with jazz overtones (which also inflected much of her early work), she's no less than the UK's very own Joni Mitchell - except still actively recording and touring. There will also always be inevitable comparisons to the doyenne of confrontational female lyricists Janis Ian, but those are rooted more in a shared sexuality and ethnicity than the music itself. Tracy Chapman? She was shit. Tasmin who? At least Joan's songs aren't played by every shit busker from Hove to Holmfirth - probably because, even at their most deceptively simple, they're still too complicated. 'Show Some Emotion' may soundlike a perfect slice of late 70s Yacht Rock with Southern Soul overtones, but there are already so many layers going on within the opening two minutes that it's hard to take it all in.

You have to admire any artist so devoted to their music that they care literally nothing for image, but maybe the woolly bunnyrabbit jumper, grey slacks and sandals (it's safe to say that really, only she could get away with it) might have resulted in the 'Single Life' she satirises so perfectly in the new song of the same name. What a song it is, though: with a time signature Zappa would have been proud of, a melody that recalls Kenny Dorham's 'Blue Bossa', and guitar playing as good as either Beck or Santana but without the overwrought flash of either, it highlights a continued creativity that many nowadays seem content to lose as early as their 40s. 'Close To Me', on the other hand, isn't quite as interesting, but, like David Gates' or Daryl Hall's lesser material, still retains an indefinable something which elevates it above MOR blandola. So far so good, leading back into soulful pianistic classics with 'All The Way From America'- and then she blows it. If I wanted to wave my arms in the air inanely, I'd have gone to see Barry Manilow- well, no, actually, I wouldn't, which is half the point. And you'd have thought she'd take the fact that nobody except the first 3 rows did it the first time as some kind of hint, but, no, here we go again: "if you all do it at once", quoth the lady in her best Brummie brogue, "it looks really cool". Er, no, Joan, it doesn't.

What the hell though, I can forgive her- I can forgive anybody responsible for writing tunes as undeniably perfect as 'Tall In The Saddle', 'Starlight' (the title track of the superb newie) and 'Kissin And A Huggin', the latter of which features some of the most ferocious thrashing of an acoustic guitar I've seen since the last time I came face to face with Lindsey Buckingham, with suitably robust vocals to match. In fact, Joan's vocal prowess overall is every bit as powerful as during her '74-'82 heyday: she remains one of only a handful of artists whose talent in that respect has been untouched by time and age. And accordingly, she's assembled a band to match, with John Giblin (the man whose talents have stretched across the spectrum from John Martyn's Grace And Danger to Scott Walker's Tilt), outstanding on both bowed and plucked bass, again without ever stooping to the superslick virtuoso flash so redolent of today's "backing" musicians, and a wonderfully loose, intuitive drummer.

The keyboard player, on the other hand, HAS to go: despite a dizzying display of tinklatory prowess, his choice of MIDI sounds is responsible for covering everything from 'Me Myself I' (one of the essential songs of the New Wave era) to the hard-rocking 'Call Me Names' and the still-essential 'Love And Affection' in an unwelcome coating of what we used to call 'Mantovarnish'. I understand that it's a budgetary issue, as it is with many acts still touring at this level (the cash simply isn't there to hump real Mellotrons, Fender Rhodes' and Hammonds around the UK), and on a song like "Drop The Pilot", which always erred a little on the cheesy side, it's less noticeable- but I could do without it being there at all. Also, If I had my druthers, as "they" used to say, I'd have given anything to hear 'My Family', 'Head Of The Table' or anything from that seminal debut rather than the shoutalong faux-AOR of 'Best Dress On'- but then again, I'm a courduroy-clad, folksy, proggy old git (allegedly), so I'm always going to say that, aren't I?

Exterior shortcomings aside, Joan is, and always will be, a superior talent- but as it stands now, she suffers, like Al Stewart and several other contemporaries, from being unable to satisfactorily replicate her recorded sound onstage. Hopefully one day, somebody will grease the industry bods' palms enough to make the congnoscenti "reappraise" her genius, which will in turn allow her to display it to greater effect.

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Hawklords

http://www.funkygibbins.me.uk

HAWKLORDS
Islington Assembly Hall, London
November 9 2012

"Never trust a hippy", sayeth the old adage: alternatively, "Hawklords onstage 9pm", quoth the stickers posted everywhere round the venue. Which means, lo and verily, that in the honoured traditions of people to whom time is merely an abstract concept to write about flying through upon an astral conveyor belt, the band actually take to the stage at 8.50, at which point I'm still ensconced downstairs. Ironically, the last time I saw them, at Chislehurst BeaverwoodClub, they finished ten minutes early: eventually, one day, they'll get it right.

Dashing back to the main auditorium I can see Ron Tree belting it out, mike-stand-a-shaking and vocals commanding in the best traditions of his mentor Bob Calvert. Adrian Shaw, surprisingly chipper for a man who in the last ten years spent some time at death's door, pummelling his bass with cheerful chutzpah: Harvey Bainbridge, ever the Grande Aulde Wizard of the keys, even with just one low-budget synth at his disposal: Jerry Richards, still looking for all the world like the LA sleaze metaller who got lost in a space rock band by mistake, and, in place of Martin Griffin (who seems to have been edged away from the band at the advice of you-know-who), "some bald bloke I don't recognise" on drums. Sadly no Steve Swindells this time (although he's very much present on new album We Are One, he's currently undergoing treatment for emphysema- but I'm assured by the friendly merch bloke that he'll be back soon) and no Nik Turner or Alan Davey either, having both re-decamped to Space Ritual and Gunslinger respectively. With this in mind, the link betwixt the band we're seeing and the classic 1978 lineup (essentially Hawkwind under another name at that point) is a lot more tentative than it was 2 years ago, but maybe on reflection, that's a good thing.

After all, right from the start, they've always made it clear that this isn't a nostalgia trip, more of a continuation of the groundwork laid down by the departed Calvert: dispensing with 'Master Of The Universe' early on in the set seems to lend this theory extra credence, and, lest we forget, they have a new album out. However, that doesn't mean they have to play practically all of it- which, tonight, is sadly what they do. Maybe if I was more familiar with the tunes contained therein, I'd be going apeshit for the likes of 'Digital Age' 'Sun Child' and even the trite eco-posturing of 'Global Warning' - melodically, they're all worthy of both the late 70s and mid 90s incarnations of the band from which this line up has been assembled. They swoop, twirl, pound and pummel beautifully in a live setting, and I can spot several fans rushing to the stall to buy the CD - but after a while, the continued onslaught starts to wear thin, so much so that when, finally, familiar faces poke their head out in the form of 'Uncle Sam's On Mars' and the definitive Lords anthem 'Psi Power', massive sighs of relief are breathed.

Or are they? Maybe I'm the only one who thinks like this. And make no mistake about it, the new material is strong, far more cohesive than anything released in recent years by the 'other lot'. Am I, then, merely displaying my encroaching middle age by longing for displays of greatest hits, or are albums like Quark Strangeness And Charm, PXR5 and 25 Years On simply so perfect that the desire to hear that material played live by at least two of the people involved is too hard to resist? Perhaps also, a little of it stems from the fact those records, under-appreciated for so long, are now finally being acknowledged. Yet inevitably this leads to the need for new material to continue the growing concern, the downside being its gradual encroachment on the old favourites.

Many bands who reform after a long absence find themselves in such a predicament: for Hawklords, the situation is even stranger as they are essentially a reformed version of one line-up of another band still in existence under a slightly different name, attempting to continue on from where one single album left off, but at the same time, they are also a separate entity. A new band with an ancient history? Maybe, but it's one to be respected, and one I hope they don't divorce themselves from entirely - the worst they could do would be to turn into just "a bunch of blokes playing songs nobody knows". If they did, I'm sure the attendances will drop off accordingly: conversely, by continuing to combine new material as strong as 'Spark In The Dark' (sadly, not an 80s Alice Cooper cover!!) and the title track with stone (r) gems like 'Brainstorm' and 'Robot' - the latter of which tonight is simply staggering in its immenseness- they'll always reflect the best of both worlds.

Welcome, then, indeed, to the future. One minor caveat, though, lads- if you're going to encore with a song as brilliant as '25 Years', could you maybe try to remember the lyrics and the chord changes, rather than just singing the first verse and then repeating the title endlessly over the riff while the rhythm section becomes increasingly confused? Trust me, it would elevate an average ending into a truly great one...

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Jefferson Starship

(this one slipped down the online cracks... apologies for tardiness!)

JEFFERSON STARSHIP
London Borderline, October 19 2012


Bugger me, it's cramped in here. Not surprising really, considering the venue only holds 275 people and JS, even at this late and unheralded stage in their career, are still something of a draw. Well, at this level anyway.

The departure in the early 00s of Marty Balin left head honcho Paul Kantner holding the baby, dragging a talented yet credibility-lacking troupe around the world to slowly diminishing audiences: since the return of David Freiberg in 2004, however, things have been once more on the up, and the arrival of Kathy Richardson in the 'Slick role' vacated by Diana Mangano has added extra boost to the 'Ship's once floundering cruise control. I've never, admittedly, seen a show of theirs I didn't enjoy, but there's a renewed zest and, above all, crunch to the proceedings these days that was starting to disappear seven or eight years ago, from the bouncing paws of opener 'Ride The Tiger' to the janglier, dreamier classic late Haight sound of 'Miracles' and 'Count On Me'.

For the first time in years, Kantner looks happy to actually be onstage, his back problems appear to have dissipated, he's almost as trim as he was in his 40s, and more than anything else, dapper in his neat black threads in a manner that belies his 71 years, with a renewed vocal power on 'Crown Of Creation' and a 17- minute full-on-freakout 'Ballad Of You Me And Pooneil' that, were it not for the overlong drum solo, could have transported the Borderline crowd telepathically back to the Fillmore. Freiberg, now 74, is even more of a revelation, although with his rotund frame and glasses he does bear a resemblance to a psychedelic Margaret Rutherford. His vocals on the little aired 'Harp Tree Lament', from 1971's much-underappreciated Baron Von Tollbooth And The Chrome Nun album, are astounding, but the greatest surprises come in the form of later, harder rock material such as 'Jane' and 'Find Your Way Back' - tunes which were outlawed from even the promotional material when I worked with them, so ashamed were they of their later AOR leanings until, presumably, the recent reappraisal of the genre forced them to take stock.

That said, I wouldn't in any way wish them to go down the post-ironic path blazed by the irksome, abhorrent likes of Glee, a road of ignominy which would inevitably result in them performing certain songs we have no desire to see again - yes, you know the ones- but it's nice to see other tunes most Shindiggers would have once run screaming in the opposite direction from suddenly fitting so snugly alongside their older counterparts. And it's on the vintage numbers- not just the predictable 'Somebody To Love' but a strident run through Quicksilver's 'Fresh Air', that Richardson comes into her own, becoming a great rock frontwoman rather than just a slick Slick imitator. By the time we get to 'White Rabbit', she's leaning into the first two rows (which, as anyone who's been to the Borderline will tell you, are pretty damn close to the stage) intimidating the poor hapless souls who dare to get too close. Personally, considering the remarkable resemblance she bears to Linda Hayden circa 1975, I wouldn't mind - especially with that voice. I could have done without the Sheryl Crow-esque solo material in the middle though- and with Kantner absent from the stage at the time presumably taking a quick widdle, it's the one moment where it bears too much uncomfortable resemblance to a tribute show. Although to whom I'm not sure...

It's been a long time since the Airplane crashed and the Starship took off, and its subsequent trajectory has veered into many strange universes: it may never again scale the stratospheric heights of exploration reached in the early to mid 70s, when several new worlds were discovered over the course of seven new albums, and it probably never set its sights on ending up on a grand tour of intimate UK clubs, but somewhere along the way, they discovered a distant satellite, colonised it and built a fortress- and, if you're lucky, they'll invite you in sporadically for a burn round the corridors. Decline at your peril, the offers won't keep coming forever.

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Sparks

SPARKS

Barbican, London
October 26 2012


I must confess to being somewhat remiss in my research. When I arrived at the Brab this evening, I was under the impression that I was about to witness a typical Sparks show, if there ever was such a thing in the career of the still-unclassifiable Californian duo. In other word full band, Tammy Glover on drums, various ex-Redd Kross/Faith No More alumni on guitars and basses, and a litany of sounds ranging from Wagnerian opera-rock to stomping '72 glitter. But, by the horns of all unholy, was I wrong!! The Sparks Brothers you see (comprising the ebullient, theatrical and ever-engaging Russell Mael and the shy, reserved, sinister and yet extremely personable Ron Mael, the latter the principal songwriter and conceptualist behind half their finest work) have always been, regardless of line-up or geographical location, intrinsically that - a duo, and that's precisely what we get tonight.

Like the title says, even if, again, I erroneously believed it to also be that of a new studio album to be played in full, "Two Hands, One Mouth" (although if I were to be pedantic, I could point out that Russell also owns a pair of hands with which to grip the microphone, and Ron indeed speaks to the audience with his own mouth, albeit when prompted, on at least two occasions) - and, lo and verily, that's very much the structure of tonight's show, featuring no other musicians but the Maels themselves, adapting and re-interpreting their songs in stripped-down fashion. Technically, this is the closest, if you will, that they'll ever get to "unplugged", given that their sound is reliant largely on electronic keyboards, with even the acoustic piano sounds emanating from Ron's by-now-legendary "Ronald" synthesiser. It's a beautiful idea, allowing for once the songs to speak for themselves uncluttered by either rock guitars or dance beats, and also works very well financially for the brothers, I should imagine, as their attempts to get their Broadway musical The Seduction Of Ingmar Bergman off the ground have so far met with difficulty.

And, if truth be known, watching it tonight feels like being allowed entry to some elite club: OK, maybe not as elite as it would have been had I been able to see its premiere at Bush Hall earlier in the year, but the Barbie's palatial surroundings (and comfortable seating) more than make up for that. Even the somewhat questionable sonics, with the soundman sometimes seemingly doing his best to accentuate the already-high frequencies present in the brothers' music to the point where you find yourself rubbing your teeth and nose in slight discomfort, can't detract from the very special nature of the event. Part of the joy stems from hearing songs you never thought you'd hear live again, such as 'Under The Table With Her' and 'At Home At Work At Play', which really shouldn't work in this context but somehow does. Conversely 'Hospitality On Parade', 'Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth' and the evergreen 'This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both Of Us' (the latter one of the few 'overplayed' songs in rock history I never tire of) are all old favourites we're more than used to seeing and hearing, but in this context they seem to acquire an added dimension of freshness and power.

Indeed, someone once said the test of a great song is if it sounds good played over an acoustic guitar - substitute the word "guitar" for "one keyboard and an arsenal of sounds", and Sparks prove that even their deliberately obtuse, wilfully outre compositions also pass this test. Well, most of them anyway: despite its operatic grand designs, the aforementioned Seduction Of Ingmar Bergman, their most recent studio album to date, remains also their weakest and their only sign of an Achilles heel. And, in accord, the selection of three conjoined offerings from it aired tonight proved to be the least inspired segment of the performance. But hopefully they will soon move on once more to greater things without allowing it to hinder and cloud their progression. By comparison, it's fascinating to witness how the once-new, radically-challenging songs from Li'l Beethoven, an album still less than ten years old, and its sequel Hello Young Lovers, have now become regarded as old favourites, and are greeted with as much applause as the vintage material: 'Rhythm Thief', 'Dick Around' and 'Suburban Homeboys' prompt mass singalongs and handclaps from the entranced crowd, and even 'My Baby's Taking Me Home' - a brave choice considering its repetitive lyrical motif hitherto concealed onstage before by advanced microphone-based theatrics - manages to elicit nothing but enraptured applause, possibly because of the setting rather than in spite of it. Also, where else but in such a show could they get away with a ridiculous piece of fluff such as the extremely rare B-side 'The Marriage Of Russell Mael And Jacqueline Kennedy'?

Sparks music has never been, with the exception of maybe less than ten songs (none played tonight) openly emotional, preferring instead to make its point with wry lyrical asides, witty metaphors (which "chicks dig" apparently, if you believe the lyric of another of tonight's many fine selections) and comic allusion to the sometimes flagrantly absurd, but 'When Do I Get To Sing My Way', which sets its candid treatment of the subjects of marginalisation, exclusion and lack of recognition to one of he most bittersweet melodies in the Mael canon, comes pretty damn close, and causes a genuine lump in the throat. Proving, to anyone who still doubts after 40 years, that there is depth underneath all the spectacle. For this same reason, the sight of an animated Ron during 'No 1 Song In Heaven' and 'Beat The Clock', during which Russ takes over the keys with nary a flicker as his brother simultaneously bogles and stripteases, is not only amusing but touching: the years of polite reservation have recently given way to a new-found quest for release, and when the moustachioed 67-year old takes the mike and announces his thanks, not to mention slight mystification, that the British public should still take time to watch them after all these decades, it looks as if he may have finally found it.


Closing the set sadly not with the acoustic version of 'Change' that so perfectly ended the 2006 tour, but instead with the specially written (and just as beautiful) 'Two Hands One Mouth' itself, the brothers Mael leave the stage to yet again retreat into their intensely private, secret world of which very little is known, presumably to plot the next scheme of their masterplan for world domination by subtle insinuation. Leaving them part of a select group of artists, including also Scott Walker and the Residents, who continue to confound just by existing. Like most of us who've been attending this church regularly since we converted, we still don't quite know what its intent or purpose is - but we still want in.

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Michael Nesmith

MICHAEL NESMITH

Union Chapel, London
October 30 2012


OK, let's get the obvious out of the way: anyone expecting a show chock full of Monkees classics tonight was going to be extremely disappointed. Having recently rejoined Tork and Dolenz on that quest in the wake of the death of Davy Jones, Nesmith will be playing that material VERY regularly for the next few years, and as a result feels little need to do so here: plus, let's be honest, despite recent statements that he "never really left" and "always kept it in his heart", he hasn't felt that need since around 1970, his solo career always remaining a separate entity to those who actually care to listen. For this reason, I was not surprised in the slightest that opener 'Papa Gene's Blues' was one of only two numbers tonight associated with that band. In fact I was more surprised that stone gems from the First National Band's output, such as 'Harmony Constant' and 'I Fall To Pieces' were left out. Still, you can't have everything.

What we do have, on the other hand, is the real Mike Nesmith: not only singer, songwriter and guitarist, but visionary, poet, painter and pioneer. Unfortunately, also a pioneer, it would seem, whose sense of progression seems to have got stuck somewhere between Bruce Hornsby and Massive Attack (both of whom I admire, but, you know, like, out of context, anybody?) and thinks that early 90s downtempo beats and soft-rock synths are the best accompaniment for songs of such magnitude. Understandably, this is his first UK tour since the 70s, so coming to the UK backed only by bassist Joe Chemay and keyboardist Charlie Judge (aka 'the one who looks like Giles out of Buffy and the one who looks like Bob from Twin Peaks), both of whom trigger a variety of sounds and textures from pads and computers, probably makes more financial sense than hiring a whole band.. On the other hand, maybe his unwillingness to risk money on dangerous ventures explains just how Mr Tippex himself has remained a billionaire after all these years even in a digital age when his family's invention is nigh-on obsolete. 


Nevertheless, all practicalities aside, there are several times, particularly during more recent 80s and 90s-penned material, when such accompaniment reduces Nesmith's unquestionably fine songcraft to the level of pub cabaret. This also mars an otherwise so-sublime-it's-beyond-description version of 'Different Drum', which, believe me, is exactly what the song required. Yet elsewhere, on 'Rio' and 'Cruisin', the two hit singles which helped pave the way for MTV, it works- in the case of the former, maybe because its countrypolitan lounge strains lend itself naturally to such rhythms, and in the latter, because its steel-cold proto-New Wave sci-fi leanings (predating both Neil Young's Trans and Wall Of Voodoo's debut by almost five years), once anarchically futuristic and now quaintly retro, naturally lean toward the mechanical. Meanwhile, outside both these worlds somewhere dwells 'Cold Ennui', which is simply such a good song it cuts through anything.

What saves the show from any potential propensity towards saccharine, and elevates it instead into the pantheon of almost the avant-garde, is not only the spoken-word introductions (which, as he explains, set the songs up as small movies within not only the listener's heads but the protagonists'), but Nesmith's own voice: rich, deep, sonorous, steeped in prairies, lonesome forests and cacti (not to mention a little of the magical substance that may be imbibed from said plant) and full of time-worn ragged edges, particularly on high notes, that accentuate both his organic, contemplative humanity and preoccupation with the bizarre. These qualities are particularly evident on 'Joanne' and my personal favourite 'Silver Moon', and accentuated during 'Lamp Post', the brooding-minor key finale from his underrated concept masterpiece The Prison. While it would be fair to say that several sectors of the audience are by now nonplussed to the point of perplexity, those of us who yearned for many years to see these songs performed live have quite a different take on things. I guess even within niche markets, there are further niches to discover...

"Thanks For The Ride", quoth the sprightly, healthy (well, so would you be if you had that amount of money) septagenarian, looking for all the world like a man who's had the time of his life and wants to do it all over again soon. Not only is it the title of the final song, but it also seems to encompass perfectly the philosophy of a man who, while still principally remembered as a bubblegum popsike idol, is somehow content to allow that misconception to allow him to move freely in the background, undertaking his rigidly unconventional, individualistic path through film-making, novel writing and of course, being one of the few truly progressive voices in country music, which he remains. And if he didn't quite succeed in demonstrating those aims this time round (although personally, I thought the idea of replicating the late Red Rose's best solos on lapsteel via the ingenious use of a laptop was something of a masterstroke) then I have a funny feeling he'll be around again sometime soon, hopefully with a drummer, and then he'll convince all of us. In other words, don't go expecting him to turn up at your local Phoenix Nights-style social club just yet. Like all the best riders on the range, this lone cowboy has a few hundred more miles left in him yet.


Darius Drewe Shimon