"Let's ballad", says Richard Hawley in the first of what would turn out to be many between-song quips tonight. He's picked the right place for it (ballading, that is)in the Philharmonic Hall: pristine, art deco home to no less than the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra; all high ceilings, cushioned chairs and VIP boxes. It's very... nice: neither the modern urban flea-pit homogeny of the Carling Academies, nor the impersonal coldness of the arena circuit. Just, well, nice - the kind of place anybody would want to see an artist capable of fusing the past & present in an uncontrived, organic way. Local folklore holds that the venue's greatest claim to fame is that it played host to Buddy Holly's only ever UK show. Alright, that's a pretty useless bit of information in this context, admittedly. Unless, that is, you intend to use it as a device to segue from one Brylcreamed Balladeer to another: thus, we're back to Richard Hawley; onetime Longpig, sometime Pulp guitrist, fulltime rockabilly Northener, his is a career trajectory a million miles removed from the glut of singer songwriters we're currently being drip-fed by the media - the James Blunts & Morrisons of this world (people for whom the phrase 'career trajetory' is an everyday utterance). So he has at least that going for him!
Opening proceedings with Valentine, from the new album Lady's Bridge ("and that's not a fucking euphamism") Hawley's band quickly demonstrate an instinctive ability to draw out the tension inherent in much of his music. It is possibly this beguiling quality, unique to Hawley's songwriting, that has moved his old friend Jarvis Cocker to recently describe him as an "iron fist in a draylon glove". Indeed, it appears that for tonight at least, nothing is safe from the buzzing rockabilly of Hawley's taut, trebbly sounding Gretch, cutting swathes through the velvetty sound of his band. Actually, even when it's not there, the threat of it is, and it is this 'threat' that keeps proceedings from ever drifting too far into the waters of retro balladry - it's a neat trick. There are notable moments, such as Roll River Roll's sublime piano playing; encore number Tonight, with its metronomic dual guitar motif, stretched out to almost Shakespearean levels of dramatic tension; less we forget a blinding cover of Hank Williams' I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry, which involves some truly breathtaking 'gob iron' from a Mancunian friend of the singer. And then there was the between-song banter, equal parts Les Dawson and Paul Calf:
"I went to the Doctors' the other day. He said "You've got a problem - you need to stop masturbating". I asked him "Why?" and he goes "Because I'm trying to examine you!"
"Seventeen years I've been with my missus, and do you want to know the secret to our happiness? We go out for a nice candle-lit meal twice a week. I go Tuesdays, she goes Thursdays"
"I shat myself the other day. I was reading an article in the paper, all about the dangers of excessive drinking. I thought, 'that's it', as of Monday, no more reading newspapers"
One complaint that could be levelled would be that the pace of the gig did tend to level out a little, around three quarters of the way through (I found myself beginning to drift, debating themerits of Hawley's turn-ups, whilst my companion practically passed out), and you wonder whether this might be an inevitability for somebody like Hawley, i.e. sombody with a distinctly 'mellow' voice. This trough, though, is just a blip, and on the whole, it's a solid, entertaining and engaging set, conducted by a very amiable host (did I mention the quips?). Essentially, a bunch of well turned-out thirty somethings playing to, as it goes, a bunch of well turned-out thirty somethings. And if you think that sounds depressing, trust me, it wasn't: in Richard Hawley, I think we've found a reason to love comfy chairs and Brylcream.
No comments:
Post a Comment