One bad gig, several good ones, and the passing of a musical magician

A couple of months back I went to a really rubbish gig. I’m not blaming the band entirely – it was a Monday night, I’d had one of those days at work, and I was standing at the Borderline on my own on an unseasonably hot day. I don’t suppose I was up for it. But nonetheless, the music wasn’t that good either.

Sirens of the Ditch, the first solo album by Jason Isbell since he left the Drive By Truckers, is a very good piece of work. He has that southern rock feel off-pat, but he combines it with some top quality singing and a songwriting style which demonstrates how leaving a multi-talented band to branch out on your own, to find a more individual sense of your art, can be a worthwhile risk. And at the Borderline, some of those elements were there – he sang well and his songs were for the most part good (although his tribute to the Band’s deceased legends, Danko/Manuel, seemed hideously inappropriate; delivering personal tributes is all very well, but there has to be some link to the object, otherwise the gesture is an empty one – like opening a copy of the Dandy and reading that it’s a tribute to Franz Kafka). But he really needs to get a new band – or at least a new guitar player. While Isbell himself played some very good solos, including some brave slide work, the other guitarist played the most hackneyed, un-nuanced, screamy guitar parts…it was as if he had just left home and was making the most of finally being allowed to turn his amp up and rock out, man. He was out of place.

The other problem was that it was far too much like being in a poor pastiche of a Southern-style hoe-down. I don’t mean to stereotype the Deep South in any way. But Isbell and his entourage seemed intent on doing just that, as he swigged from a bottle of Jack Daniels before passing it round to band members, some of whom visibly didn’t want it but felt obliged to take a manly swig. Guys, it costs a tenner in Asda, it’s not that cool. Worse, every time Isbell took a swig, various members of the audience indulged in really fake woops and hollers – I don’t know if these were genuine Southerners, impressed by Isbell showing the foreigners what life in Alabama is really like, or if they were Londoners engaging in a bit of escapism and make-belief after a day stuck in an office. Either way, it pissed me off.

Maybe I had just become a grumpy old man, and the fact that I didn’t enjoy myself was absolutely nothing to do with this gig? Not to be put off, I embarked upon a series of shows which I had higher hopes for – and they didn’t let me down. This spring I have witnessed some of the best live performances I have ever seen.

A couple of weeks after the Borderline pantomime, a friend and I entered a very strange venue, the Soho Revue Bar, to witness what was a lot like a coming out party for Lizz Wright. With poles running from floor to ceiling giving a hint as to the venue’s less savoury former use, and a dark red and blue burlesque feeling running around the cushioned seats and eerily lit bar, there was an odd anticipatory atmosphere before Wright hit the stage, earlier than scheduled. I have referred in passing to her latest album, The Orchard, elsewhere on this website, and for the most part the gig was a run-through of that album – though with the shuffle option selected.

Wright is a humble and unassuming performer – what first seemed to be her clasping herself in a classic pose of self-pity and internal angst was actually her indicating to her back-stage guy that she was cold and wanted more clothes. Perhaps inevitably, what he gave her was a loose, flowing wrap which your mum wouldn’t deem adequate to warm up a mouse, but it was in keeping with her musical style. Standing still in the middle of the stage, Wright used her deep, soulful vocals from her toes upwards, swaying only a bit as her music brought song after song to a culmination, a sense of life few performers can match based only on sheer tone.

She did dip back into her previous records, most notably with her cover of Neil Young’s Old Man. Singing it as if she had written it, indeed as if the old man in question was someone she had known her whole life (and in the subjective world of interpreting a song to suit your own needs and predilections, who is to say she hadn’t?), she brought the talented band and the eager audience up a level, closer to where she had been since the start, and after that things really got going. Elegant, stately, passionate – I would have gone to see her night after night if I could have done.

Another singer-songwriter I have been obsessively listening to this year, and another who adds jazzy inflections to a style of music that is otherwise quite different, is Jill Barber. In an underground cellar of a place, I witnessed a simple but striking performance: just Barber and her guitar, combining new songs and a few from For All Time, interspersed with endearing stories which put the songs in a nice context. My thoughts on Jill Barber have been recorded elsewhere, but the main point from a persona perspective is that I had just got off a long, delayed train journey, I was very hot and bothered, but Jill Barber did what Jason Isbell couldn’t – her songs blew my troubles away. That evening I was also reminded how well your friends tend to know you. When Barber asked for requests and I immediately shouted out a song name (I thought other people would too, but they didn’t…), she not only played the song, but asked my name and thanked me after playing it. When afterwards I commented on how embarrassing it had been, the friend I was with just said “You loved it”.

Well, love it I may have done, but not half as much as I loved Alison Krauss, Robert Plant and what they created between them at Wembley Arena a few weeks later. Taking their under-stated masterpiece, Raising Sand, on tour, their live set offers so much more – menacing but acoustic-based Led Zeppelin covers, soft country/bluegrass laments, spicy Cajun blues-rock, and simply gorgeous harmonies.

Robert Plant really showed his subtle side at Wembley, blending well with Alison Krauss and not dominating proceedings. In fact, for all of Plants world-weary and experienced touches, it was Krauss who really shone. She is a revelation - such a beautiful voice. The best moment for me was her version of Down to the River and Pray, famous now for its appearance on the Oh Brother, Where Art thou? Soundtrack. The song was performed a cappella, with Krauss in the spotlight singing the first section on her own, with Plant, Buddy Miller and the Stuart Duncan giving it three part harmony backing vocals, around a second mic. Incredible stuff. And who could fail to be entranced by Alison Krauss? There was an odd incongruousness, seeing this ‘country chick’ with green dress (billowing in the air conditioning like a warped version of Mary in Thunder Road) and cowboy boots in the middle of a massive dingy London garage, otherwise known as Wembley Arena. But when she sang, it all made sense.

There were solid versions of most of the songs from the album, with Killing the Blues being a personal highlight for me (actually it wasn’t one of the better songs on the night, and my main feeling when they started it was less elation and more a strange sense of relief that I wasn’t going to miss out). As for the Zeppelin covers – such as When the Levee Breaks, and the Battle of Evermore, the blend between reinvention and respect for rock classics was just right. Evermore featured faithful mandolin playing and lively, edge-of-seat harmonies. The long intro to When the Levee Breaks was an aggressive duet between the violins of Krauss and Duncan, followed by long, drawn-out vocals from Plant and Krauss.

It is also worth mentioning the strange cult of T-Bone Burnett. The man is clearly a great producer – the sound he created on Raising Sand is captivatingly unique (actually, until this album, my favourite example of his work was the Wallflowers’ second album, Bringing Down the Horse, rather than the Rolling Thunder guitar and the Oh Brother soundtrack for which he is more famous). The man obviously has a lot of style, and knows his music history. But the camera operators, for the big screens, kept focusing on him as he strummed his rhythm guitar, while ignoring Buddy Miller's endless stream of licks, solos and fills. Also Burnett’s’ two-song set was in your face, kind of cool, but a bit out of place. Buddy Miller and Stuart Duncan were definitely the unsung heroes of this show.

Musically speaking, Plant/Krauss show hasn’t been topped this year, for me anyway. But when you bring together the music, the performance, the atmosphere and the sheer exhilaration that only live music can provide, Bruce Springsteen is the best live performer by, oh I would say about a hundred thousand miles.

My ninth Springsteen show was definitely more of a party than a concert. People I know who sat in the stands (for this took place at a football ground, the strange huge squat stadium that Arsenal’s Emirates) tell me that it was a very good show. Certainly the setlist was pretty interesting, for a Springsteen show, with rarities like Point Blank getting an airing. For my old friend, my new friend and me, it was more an excuse to sing, shout, dance, drink some beer, and relish the general wonder of a Bruce Springsteen show. Right from the outset, he was off the stage and into the crowd, and we lapped it up – one of Springsteen’s talents is that however indifferent you are to one of his songs, in a concert he will make you love it and appreciate it in new ways; for those few minutes at least. So it was with 10th Avenue Freeze-out for me, which normally I dismiss as being a nice slice of horn and pop, but forgettable amidst the rockers, lefty ballads and epic tales of life turned every which way.

Amidst the reveling, it wasn’t until the very end of the show that the tragic and poignant background to this tour hit home. As organist Charles Giordano took his applause, we were reminded that he was only present because of the illness and recent death of Danny Federici, an original member of the E Street Band. Since the early 1970s, Danny had been adding his shimmering and swirling organ to Springsteen’s songs – lending them the notes between the notes, the solos which reminded us exactly which boardwalk Springsteen and his band had come from, and the fills which made sure that the music sounded organic and fresh, never hackneyed and plonky (especially as rhythm piano and straight-beat drums became ever more prominent on Springsteen’s records).

Back in 2003, I had a great time attending Springsteen shows in London, Dublin and New Jersey, but for the most part the enjoyment was in the occasion – getting to the second row in Dublin, seeing him in his home state in the US. Musically, the better shows I have seen have been the indoor ones – Wembley Arena with the E Street Band, solo at the Albert Hall, and the Seeger Sessions Band hootenannies in 2006. But Danny Federici’s solos always shone through the most musically mundane of shows – while Springsteen, van Zandt and co focused on entertainment. Federici sat back and let his fingers do the talking. I remember his solo lifting You’re Missing to another level, highlighting the actual subject of the song. I remember his playing on My City of Ruins making me think of everything I have ever known to have gone bad, and instilling me with a sense of hope at the same time.

Danny, maybe others will see your like again; I don’t know. For me, you were a true magician, one of those one-off musicians whose inventiveness and soul made me think and made me dream. Perhaps most of all, I know that as long as I remember that music like yours is possible, I will never abandon going to gigs, however hot and dingy and unpleasant it might sometimes seem, because I know that unexpected pleasures and emotional highs may always be in store. Given this spring’s experiences, for this I can only offer you thanks. Rest in peace.

Ryan Adams – Victoria Apollo, 24 February 2006

Last Friday I was at the best gig I've been to in a while - a mostly solo show from Ryan Adams. Here's what I thought of it.

The last time I went to this venue, I saw the hit musical Bombay Dreams (I still get ‘Shakalaka Baby’ in my head every once in a while – it won’t go away). It is a grand setting for a solo performer, with only occasional help from his friends, but Ryan Adams rose magnificently to the challenge provided by his surroundings. Even though he took the piss out of the place in a suitable manner – “should I be wearing the same clothes every night?” – he clearly enjoyed it, and provided a performance full of theatricality and a quiet drama.

But if the drama was quiet, the man himself was anything but. From the opening strains of Don’t Get Sentimental At Me, a gorgeous new song, Adams’ voice soared above everything else in my mind, piercing and yet totally natural. His voice was beautiful, containing equal parts soul, surf falsetto and songwriter’s passion. Time and again, as Adams picked out a sensible number of songs from most of his albums, I was impressed by how little accompaniment his vocals needed. His most recent album, 29, is not one that I have warmed to, but it struck me that the new numbers he performed tonight seemed quite similar in style to those on 29. If only that record had been more unadorned, allowing the listener to concentrate on the expression of the voice, rather than filling up every song with clutter, it could have been quite remarkable.

But perhaps it is unfair to blame 29 and its producer, Ethan Johns. Adams is developing a Dylanesque ability to re-invent songs when he plays them live; the difference is, you can still hear what the younger man is singing. The soft, delicate acoustic guitar-driven Please Do Not Let Me Go was a world away from the tinny band version found on Love Is Hell, and it was all the better for that. Sweet Lil Gal, slowed down almost to a stop by Adams’ piano chords, never fails to captivate audiences which might skip the song on record. And so went the show, with every song bringing some sense of surprise, relief or pleasure.

Adams had a special guest in tow – Neal Casal. Entering towards the end of the first half, Casal added his acoustic guitar to Adams’, and the result was stunning – Ryan Adams is a competent guitarist, but Casal brought real originality with his finger-picking and interplay. The duo had clearly rehearsed three songs from the Cold Roses album, as Casal added good quality high harmonies to Let it Ride and Magnolia Mountain – again, producing versions of songs which surpassed those on record. Later on, the show seemed less scripted, and when Adams briefly departed from the song Cold Roses to recall New York, New York, Casal didn’t seem to know which way to turn; he got the chords out, but no harmonies here.

I must confess to shouting loud for my favourite Adams song – the transcendentally depressing Call Me On Your Way Back Home. And following the old-fashioned interlude, and quite a bit of procrastination as Adams strummed his guitar here and there, my wish came true, as he delivered a faithful rendition of the song, with aching bluesy harmonica to cap it off. Throughout the show, Adams switched between his acoustic guitars and the piano, which he played from a menacing sitting position, hunched forward, all crooked back and ghostly fingers.

Next up was Sylvia Plath, played as Sweet Lil Gal was – slow, verging on the cumbersome but never quite falling into that trap. For the patient listener, a real treat. After this, the show became more anarchic – Adams began to ramble happily, telling one (real or imagined?) story about his great-grandmother’s death, freeing himself from the professional shackles he seemed to have imposed on himself in the first half. As singer and audience increased their collective intoxication – his via the booze, ours via the music – the show became less focused, actually not as good musically, but strangely just as entertaining. New songs (such as Two), recent country ones with more soaring vocals (The Hardest Part) and rumbling, rolling classics (The Rescue Blues) mingled naturally and good-naturedly, Adams chatted a bit about the Grateful Dead, and finally, with the help of the harmonies and peculiar hand movements of Carina Round, Adams’ tones softened the blow of the harsh lyrics of Come Pick Me Up, as guitars, harmonica and harmonies combined one more time. Brilliant.

Letter from London

One more look back at 2005 - here's a gig review from January, written in the 'Letter from...' style.

Maybe it’s the places I hang out in, but I just don’t get this idea of a ‘London sound’. The phrase gets bandied about but I have lived nearly all my life in London, I work in London, and I just can’t stretch this myth into any sort of reality. The acts that I’ve heard in London over the last few months have given me folk, country, blues, Americana, classic songwriting, rock and roll…but nothing that is specifically London.

I have read my music history. I know all about Swinging London, the King’s Road, Joanna Lumley, whatever. And around that time there were undoubtedly a lot of very British sounding bands – the Small Faces and the Who spring to mind. But of the tales from that period, the one that stands out for me was when Paul McCartney went into a fashionable London club, greeted a bunch of rock glitterati (I forget exactly who – Townshend, Marriott, Richards) and played them the Beatles’ new single, Hey Jude. His peers, so the story goes, were speechless – the Beatles had done it again. True or not, this anecdote sums up all that stuff about a London sound for me – even if there ever was one, it wasn’t that important. London is too big, it has too much to offer, for one type of music to dominate in any significant sense. It’s the same today – only more so. London is massive, cosmopolitan and culturally diverse, and that is reflected in the music on offer. London has history from every age, people from every country, and music from every instrument.

But if we simplify our geographical categorisations and comparisons, we can make things somewhat easier. Is there a British sound – distinct, if nothing else, from an American sound? There is. We have always had a particular way of taking those old blues and folk traditions and making them our own. But rather than wallowing any longer in such spatial definition, let’s get on and look at one band which quite naturally takes the American roots of rock and roll and adds that British flavour.

Amsterdam’s two (internet-only) releases to date feature a lovely blend of vocal and instrumental styles. They embrace the right punk influences – following the lead less of Oasis, who name check the Sex Pistols but sound nothing like them, and more of the newer British guitar bands, like Franz Ferdinand, which have the Clash and Elvis Costello as influences. Amsterdam’s frontman, Ian Prowse, writes the most beautiful melodies and heartfelt, personal lyrics – sometimes so personal that it is painful to listen to – Hatred is Wasted makes me want to cry and shout “Yes! That’s right!” at the same time. Add to this some decent experimental keyboards, and the basis of a good – and original – band is in place. But what really sets Amsterdam apart on the first two albums is Genevieve Mort, then the band’s other singer. Mort takes lead vocals on some songs and adding her gorgeous high tones to Prowse’s on others. For many bands, throw the combination of male and female singers, trippy keyboards, and lots of “Love one another” lyrics into the cocktail mixer and the resulting drink would be late-sixties long-haired hippy music – I am thinking Jefferson Airplane here. But Amsterdam retain their punk sensibilities and the result is unique.

Genevieve Mort is no longer in the band, and their sound is undeniably different as a result. I saw them the other day at the Barfly, one of many bad venues in Camden, and Prowse, a lively and combative musician already, has put two fingers up at the subtleties of the band’s former approach. The songs were familiar but the two-guitar attack – on paper nothing new for the band – was more vigorous, and the harmonies from Johnny Barlow, the bassist turned guitarist, gave the band a real rock drive which previously came solely just from Prowse. But hats off to them – this was another great London gig by Amsterdam. They soared higher than I've seen them before; Prowse himself seemed to be flying, his music taking him far above the dank and dingy upstairs room.

Unusually, they came on in unassuming fashion - an introduction which was a world away from the first time I saw Amsterdam, two and a half years ago, when Prowse came on punching the air like a rock star lost at a football match. This time, the travelling scouse brigade made a lot of noise, but the singer held back the triumphalism for when his music started. It’s a cliché, but he let the music do the talking.

This was a gig to promote Amsterdam’s debut single, The Journey. Many of the songs sound familiar to Amsterdam’s followers, because as Prowse made clear, they have waited a long time for this recognition. But the performance was somehow more emotional than I remember some of the other Amsterdam gigs I've seen - or was it relief that finally they are (nearly) there? I don't know, but certainly naked emotion was what we got from Does This Train Stop on Merseyside? and You're a Phoney. But this is not surprising, since between them, those two songs sum up some important aspects of Prowse’s attitude to the world. Does This Train… is a tribute to his home city, Liverpool, and if anyone thinks emotion can’t be gritty, they should listen to this song. It is immediately obvious that this is a song full of warmth for its subject; but nonetheless its images range from the depressing (“EasyJet flying in the sky”) to the disgraceful (“The blood of Africa on everyone”). You’re a Phoney, meanwhile, is even blunter and has none of the romanticism – it’s a song sung to Tony Blair. He’s let us down. He’s a phoney. Simple as that. These two songs display the honesty that helps make Prowse a really talented songwriter.

Amsterdam are not a one-man band – this is a tight unit, and each member plays a role in creating the band’s distinctive sound. It is heavy enough to be rock, but the tunes are melodic enough (and reach high enough) to sound like classic British pop as well. But what's in a definition? The Journey has that bluesy feel that marks out all authentic rock and roll – whether it is from Britain, the States or wherever. If you haven’t had the chance to catch these guys live, give The Journey a try – I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.