In front of a room full of attentive followers in the Sage, McCreadie’s trio indulged in expansive tangents away from the source material that only occasionally struck gold, although the technical ability and telepathic musicianship displayed throughout were undeniably immense.
There’s something distinctly soothing about the way Fergus McCreadie takes to a stage. Stepping out in front of a few hundred seated attendees at the Sage’s pleasant but somewhat underwhelming secondary auditorium, McCreadie almost creeped onto stage, offering a stifled smile and wave of his can of Stella during a polite applause free of any of the usual whoops and screams. The audience was silent for several seconds before McCreadie nonchalantly got things started with a few bare, quiet opening chords, still getting comfortable in his seat as he played them. As someone that’s made a routine out of big, blockbuster pop and rock gigs of late, I found it a jarringly civilised display from all parties.
McCreadie spent several minutes languishing in the early stages of that opening song, The Stones of Brodgar, letting the theme develop organically from embryonic whisperings of piano, eventually hitting the accelerator as bassist David Bowden and drummer Stephen Henderson got involved. The zenith of the first epic build was a storm of rapid improv and angular chords that often decoupled themselves entirely from Bowden and Henderson’s underlying groove. It’s partly this virtuosity that has garnered so much attention for this understated 25-year-old now at the forefront of the modest but buzzing Scottish jazz scene. Hailing from a rural village 20 miles north of Inverness, McCreadie’s brand of jazz is indelibly tied to the beautiful wilderness of his homeland. His two studio albums thus far have been squarely about stone and earth respectively, and a cosy, timeless piano trio set up is central to his sound – seekers of the electronic cutting edge of UK jazz should look elsewhere. His colourful, enchanting second album Forest Floor earned him a Mercury Prize nod that could be seen as his big break; he didn’t take home the £25,000 cash prize, but scoring a performance alongside the likes of British radio mainstays Wet Leg, Sam Fender and eventual winner Little Simz may have been a prize enough for the up-and-comer.
McCreadie’s breakneck scalic runs flowed from his fingers like a ferocious Highland mountain stream.
His performance for the Mercury of course had to be an abridged version of his songs which feature a healthy number of adventurous solos and, with a willing audience and headline billing in Gateshead, McCreadie was given ample room to explore his songs to his heart’s content. Such depth had mixed results. The Stones of Brodgar was drawn out to an intriguing, patient 15-minute rise and fall of experimentation. The sense of direction was inevitably lost at times as McCreadie navigated his way through the song apparently without a plan, but it never took long for him to refind his footing in such a sprawling jazz behemoth. A blaring new middle section, for example, was a thrill to witness, with Henderson’s clattering free jazz drumming a perfect match for McCreadie’s breakneck scalic runs that flowed from his fingers like a ferocious Highland mountain stream. Other times, McCreadie served up a wall of sound with monstrous cluster chords, bashing out a few before leaning back, furrowing his brows in contemplation then blasting out another heady knot of chords. A menacing final section, with Bowden plucking out a guttural descending bass line, was a more palatable finale and evoked some sort of sinister supernatural happenings at the stones of the song’s title, which McCreadie described as “Orkney’s answer to Stonehenge.” Wrapping up the song at the Sage, a feeling of terror around something so ancient and mysterious was well conveyed.
Such was the diversity of musical moods generated by the trio, it was a surprise when McCreadie revealed that there had only been three songs in the first act. Even the most dedicated fans of the trio may have struggled to keep track of all the extended improvised sections that diverted wildly from the recorded material, and songs often flowed freely into one another. After much brainy free jazz roaring, the hall seemed to take a collective relaxed sigh at the opening of serene Morning Moon following an earnest description of the nighttime walk in the Cairngorms that inspired the tune. The atmosphere of the song was gorgeous and Bowden offered a graceful second melodic voice, leaning close into his beautiful instrument to reach the fragile high notes on the far reaches of the fingerboard. It was a shame that McCreadie’s fine opening refrain got lost in an excessively meandering middle section, only returning at the end as a reluctant whisper. I reached the interval hoping for McCreadie’s songs to refocus for the second half. The couple sitting next to me were evidently less optimistic, and left a glaring gap of empty chairs in the front row before the three men returned to the stage.
Unfortunately the earwormy folk melodies that made Forest Floor such a hit never quite materialised in the second half, either. The terrific, tireless left hand riff of Landslide and the rousing anthem of The Ridge never received an airing in Gateshead. Bafflingly, The Unfurrowed Field, with its charmingly delicate refrain, was excluded too, despite being deemed good enough for London’s musical elite at the Mercury Prize last year. We did at least get a stonking rendition of album highlight Law Hill, which was introduced by a gripping drum solo, Henderson’s hi-hat hissing with venom and snare crackling like a bonfire. The crashing arrival of the opening chords at the end of the solo was delivered with satisfying aplomb. Henderson was busy once more for the song’s finale, with McCreadie’s overzealous urge for improvisation this time tied down by a fiendish ostinato. Succinct and incisive, it was easily the most engrossing passage of music all evening.
Henderson’s drum solo was gripping, his hi-hat hissing with venom and snare crackling like a bonfire.
A lengthy lull in the set followed. Glade was sleepy but pleasant, although when drawn out to ten minutes of indistinct tangential musings it ground proceedings to a halt. A subsequent diversion into the more introspective corners of McCreadie’s debut album also contributed towards a somewhat tiresome second half which ended in a distinctly unsatisfying murmur of achingly slow piano. There was at least the encore of Cairn which woke the audience up with its joyful, sprightly refrain, but there remained much potential in McCreadie’s two strong studio albums that fell by the wayside.
It should go without saying that McCreadie’s command over the piano is formidable. Plenty of pianists can have a crack at the unbridled, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flashes of notes he produces in his most ambitious solos, but few can play with such sustained accuracy and clarity. McCreadie’s dexterity was matched by Bowden and Henderson, who each shined in their all too brief moments in the sun. Most impressive was the fact that the trio even had the ability to explore the DNA of McCreadie’s tunes with the thorough creativity they did. “We do every gig without a plan,” McCreadie says, a remarkable but utterly believable feat. How so much musical information can be conveyed in real time between players via a nod of the head or flicker of eye contact remains a particularly mystifying form of magic to me. Never did the trio seem anything but relentlessly in sync with one another.
In the end, however, the strength of the musicianship on display also turned out to be the performance’s biggest flaw. Just because one can produce 15 minutes of one-time-only jazz explorations loosely based on a theme doesn’t mean one should. McCreadie’s free flowing approach is admirable but set a high bar which his largely directionless ramblings often failed to reach. As McCreadie’s mind wandered through the infinite possibilities of harmony offered by each tune, so did mine, but instead I pondered what I’ll have for tea tomorrow, how I’m getting home and, most frequently, how glad I am to be sitting in a comfy seat.