Category Archives: Gig Reviews

Penelope Scott & Lincoln live at the Deaf Institute review – agonisingly unprepared
27
Oct

A dejected, overwhelmed Lincoln set the scene for a thoroughly unprofessional showing from Penelope Scott, whose pitchy vocals and underwhelming songs made the hour feel like two.

Somewhere between Leeds and Manchester, the knot of anxiety in my stomach tightened. As the light outside the train window weakened, my apprehension of what was to come – namely a solo traversal of Manchester city centre by bus – strengthened. I am lucky to have travelled to far more exotic places than this, but something about the task of negotiating a ticket on the number 1 towards Wythenshaw from a no-nonsense Mancunian bus driver sent shivers down my spine. An egg sandwich bolted at a shady bus stop felt like battle fuel. Of course, as is almost always the case, there was absolutely nothing to worry about, although I had cut things finer than I anticipated, joining good friends Ewan and Isaac in the Deaf Institute’s bar queue with just enough time for hugs and Coke orders before the crowd cheered the night’s first performer onto the stage.

I wasn’t the only one feeling anxious that Wednesday night. Lincoln, a singer-songwriter from Ohio dealing in neatly packaged emo rock and painfully poetic lyrics, is the man responsible for what remains the finest EP I’ve ever heard, 2017’s A Constant State of Ohio. At five songs and 16 minutes long, there isn’t a single minute on Ohio where Lincoln loses his burning sense of creativity, with consistently thrilling songwriting and staggeringly stylish rock arrangements that belied the fact that it was his first – and for many years, only – official release, produced when he was still a teenager. It was this set of five tracks that caught the imaginations of 14-year-old Ewan and I, and we took to playing it in our high school’s only practice room, me bashing out the chords and bass lines on piano, Ewan playing guitar and singing along with all the heartfelt devotion that lyrics like these demand.

The fact that, somewhat out of the blue, Lincoln had booked a brief debut UK tour in support of Penelope Scott seemed too good to be true, and for those initial few minutes settling down in the beautifully restored Deaf Institute it still seemed ridiculous that this random American artist, adored by us and (more or less) us only, was just a matter of metres away from us. But there he was, plodding onto stage alone, head hung low and letting his now chest-length scraggly brown hair fall away in front of him, covering a wiry moustache that almost made Lincoln unrecognisable from the few, aged photos Ewan and I had seen of him online. Immediately, alarm bells were ringing. “There’s a lot of you here and… I’m not ready for this,” were his first tentative words, the crowd’s reaction gradually switching from laughter to intermittent cheers of encouragement as it became clear Lincoln wasn’t joking.

Right from those first words, it was obvious that Lincoln wouldn’t have the conviction to produce a satisfying support set, although circumstances didn’t help. Sat down and hunched over a guitar, he looked crushingly lonely on stage and needed other musicians not just for more visual interest but to beef out his songs – opener Smokey Eyes was a different song altogether without the spectacular drum fill intro that lights the touchpaper of the studio recording. Instead, Lincoln battled on alone, admirably pushing through what seemed like a genuine personal crisis but leaving little musical substance for the few fans like Ewan and I to cling to, even if Ewan proudly belted out every lyric in support anyway.

Lincoln had to battle through his set at the Deaf Institute.

Instrumentation aside, the lyrics remained extraordinary even if Lincoln often didn’t seem to enjoy delivering them. Lines like “quiet lies that you’re telling to those black and screaming skies” were appropriately spat out with disgust from the singer, as was Lincoln’s poetic assertion that “the sky is what we leave behind” on Downhill, which wrapped up this set powerfully as it did on the original EP. Not that Lincoln seemed at all aware of the effortless flow of his rhymes, instead rolling his eyes to the ceiling when they weren’t glued to his feet. He didn’t realise it, but they were songs that he had every right to be proud of.

It soon became clear exactly what he meant by “not ready”, too. Part of Lincoln’s apparent terror was the fact he had walked onto the stage without a plan, improvising a set list and often forgetting his lyrics. Every song seemed like a challenge to be overcome, and with awkward gap came the genuine risk that Lincoln might no longer be able summon the courage to continue at all. He needed the direct help of Ewan – easy to hear over a meek guitar intro – to find the opening line of Banks, a song that shouldn’t have been so difficult to remember; the stunning final four lines about the power and limitations of music and art in general remain etched in my memory since I first heard them years ago. As I would have the chance to insist on Lincoln later, if I was into tattoos, the lyric sheet of Banks would be my first point of call.

It wasn’t just Ewan unwaveringly powering Lincoln through this set, although they made up a big proportion of the most vocal supporters. Every song was cheered, every mumbled apology batted away with whoops and laughter and shouts of “we love you!” dotted around the room. When Lincoln cut his finger whilst strumming, one audience member even offered a plaster, symbolic of the band-of-friends atmosphere that had emerged in the Deaf Institute as we watched what felt like a mutual friend crumble in front of us. Of course, Lincoln declined the offer.

He finished the set with a subversion of the usual showman’s routine of lines like “I’m so sorry we’ve ran out of time” or “I can’t wait to see you all again soon!” Instead we got “I’m gonna get down off the stage. Can I do that?” It was a measure of the crowd’s sympathy that instead of the usual pantomime groans, the audience gave a loving, appreciative yes. With that Lincoln wiped his brow a final time, unplugged his guitar and slunk backstage.

Then something remarkable unfolded. Improbably, Ewan had acquired Lincoln’s personal email address in a thorough online trawl of the deepest corners of his elusive online presence in the weeks leading up to the gig, and had managed to persuade Lincoln into an exclusive interview for Ewan’s YouTube channel. After such a forlorn performance, the three of us wondered if he would appear after all, but sure enough Lincoln snuck out from a side door five minutes after leaving the stage, trailed by a lowkey stage manager. Venue security prohibited us from going outside, so the Deaf Institute’s atmospheric, gloomy stairwell would have to do for an interview venue. Lincoln Lutz from Cincinnati, Ohio is hardly Ed Sheeran, but meeting the creator of one of my most treasured works of art felt special. Ewan asked the questions (just as disbelieving as me), Isaac filmed and I positioned myself in a corner, trying to take it all in. Conversation veered chaotically from allusions to years of drug addiction and a sharp decline in mental health (about which Lincoln described himself as becoming “not a person”) to his newfound appreciation of the Manchester fruit juice delicacy Vimto. He was so addicted to nicotine that the transatlantic flight to the UK was a huge struggle, he would later tell me. When asked for wise words from Ewan, “don’t do crack!” was the half-jokey response, a sadness detectable in his muted laughter.

Ewan managed to grab a signature on their vinyl sleeve of Ohio before returning to the concert hall just in time for the appearance of the night’s main act, Penelope Scott. She is one of a new breed of TikTok star, unusual for having gained millions of monthly listeners with little to no mainstream coverage. Perhaps her wild success is down to just how much the Internet age dominates her music, which sounds like a corrupted, freakish video game soundtrack, restlessly lurching from punk rock to cutesy acoustic guitar to plodding 8-bit synths with a joyous disregard for the traditional rules of hit making.

There’s a limit to the mind-boggling numbers, though. The Deaf Institute, for one thing, is a humbling venue, housing just 250 fans at its capacity. Artists with her volume of streams – albeit largely coming from American shores – can at least aim for Gorilla’s 550 capacity, or perhaps even the 1,500 capacity O2 Ritz across the road (incidentally a venue which hosts the abysmally named Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs at the end of the month, a traditionally established metal band with a poxy 60,000 monthly listeners on Spotify). Alas, it seems streaming numbers aren’t everything in today’s gigging circuit. In fact, often they can be completely misleading.

Penelope Scott was in desperate need of a band to support her songs.

Scott’s lack of a backing band was perhaps even more underwhelming than Lincoln’s, largely neutering the tumultuous edge of much of Scott’s louder tracks. Feel Better, for instance, is home to Scott’s most impolite punk riff and was duly screamed in Manchester, but ended up sounding impotent with minimal support behind Scott’s vocals. More often the songs resembled a campfire singalong on a school residential trip, complete with awkward chat between songs and a proudly singing crowd that often drowned out Scott’s weedy amplification. The whiny vocals, invariably pitchy and occasionally nauseating, would have been acceptable from an overconfident middle schooler, but at a show like this were simply below the bare minimum required from a headline act. It was a shame there was no supervising schoolteacher to tell Scott that maybe it was time to give it a rest.

It didn’t help that the songs Scott was singing lacked much of Lincoln’s depth, often reading like stream of consciousness posts from a 15-year-old American girl’s Tumblr page. American Healthcare was typical of Scott’s general rage at the establishment without being able to pin down any specifics beyond scorn towards all those “corporate fucking pricks”. “I bet my shit all sounds the same to you,” she railed at an unappreciative ex on genuinely promising new piano number Cabaret, unaware that, at least when she restricts herself to plonky piano songs and flimsy mid-range vocals, the guy might actually have a point.

The real nail in the coffin, though, was the dearth of professionalism on show. Like Lincoln, although with a less obvious excuse, Scott seemed to have no plan when it came to a set list, nor even when it came to what key to play her songs in; at one point she completely restarted a song after deciding the starting note ought to be a bit lower. Instrumental sections were needlessly injected with lines like “just bear with me here” and “ooh I like this bit” as her tempos veered faster and slower like a bucking bronco.

The evening’s nadir came when Someone Like You began playing through the speakers after Scott left her laptop playing on shuffle after one backing track had finished. I say nadir – it might have been the musical highlight of the night had Scott just sat back and let the Adele classic ring out. Instead, she fumbled her way to the back of the stage and instructed us to talk amongst ourselves as she wrangled with her audio files for two excruciating minutes. As Isaac and Ewan pointed out, it was hardly Mitski-level artistry. With a bored-looking Soap, Scott’s set was over, an hour long reminder that sometimes TikTok success just doesn’t make sense.

The three of us lingered in the venue until security told us to leave. I was surprised by how much passionate Scott fans Ewan and Isaac agreed with my general disappointment. The gig had left a bitter aftertaste for us all given the toils involved in getting to Manchester on a Wednesday night in the first place. Ewan slipped backstage and bumped into both performers whilst Isaac and I waited outside, Ewan eventually emerging with a pizza-hungry Lincoln following behind. We stood in line with Lincoln at Domino’s – a genuinely surreal experience – before relocating to a shady bench where we chatted happily despite the growing chill and the unsettling number of beggars approaching us. We said our goodbyes to Lincoln at midnight and walked to Piccadilly still in disbelief. Ewan seemed dazed after a meaningful conversation with a deeply influential musical hero, leaving Isaac and I to be giddy on their behalf. The journey home would be gruelling, but discussing the most impossible events of the night – Lincoln referring to Ewan as a friend, the fact the embattled Lincoln had even agreed to chat in the first place – it was clear to all of us that this venture had been worth it, albeit for everything besides the music.

Theo Katzman live at Òran Mór review – Vulfpeck’s showman gets spiritual
16
Oct

On a damp and dreary night in Glasgow, Theo Katzman showcased his exemplary songwriting and impressive technique despite a set bloated with solos in one of those gigs overshadowed by my own circumstances.

Another gig, another nervous train journey. This time I was gazing out the window somewhere on Scotland’s central belt, the outside world so uniformly dark it was genuinely difficult to tell whether or not the train was passing through one very long tunnel on the way to Glasgow. I’d already had plenty of excitement for a Tuesday night – I sprinted in a failed attempt to catch an earlier train in Edinburgh, my overnight bag bouncing uncomfortably on my back – but the biggest challenge was to come: making it to the renovated church of Òran Mór in Glasgow’s West End before American singer-songwriter Theo Katzman took to the stage bright and early at 8.15 p.m.. Glasgow was damp and gloomy but jogging through the dimly glowing backstreets in search of the flat where my friend Fionn was waiting for me felt enjoyably like a movie, at least until I soaked my trainers in a puddle. I buzzed in to find a nervous Fionn, and understandably so. He’d had to buy a dodgy ticket online in the days leading up to the gig and was, crushingly, denied entry on the door. Neither of us had the guts to do a runner – this was, in truth, hardly a high-security venue – so we just stood there stunned for a few minutes, waiting for a solution to reveal itself which never came. Only when we heard the cheers heralding Katzman’s punctual appearance were we triggered to say a sad goodbye and part ways. Fionn made the 10 minute walk home alone whilst I shuffled into the already stuffy Òran Mór to find almost nowhere to get a good view. I settled on a spot just in front of the bar, my view of the main man largely obscured by pillars, and tried to focus on the music.

It was in these circumstances that I first saw Theo Katzman in person. His was the third name on my bucket list of Vulfpeck members to see live after prolific guitarist Cory Wong and fabled bassist Joe Dart, who happened to be stood right next to Katzman in Glasgow, the glints from his customary sunglasses dazzling even in the short glimpses I got from the back of the room. A guitarist, vocalist and drummer for Vulfpeck, Katzman’s showmanship instincts have sometimes felt squashed in that band by the zany presence of frontman Jack Stratton, but whilst Vulfpeck have taken an extended hiatus Katzman has grasped the opportunity to show the world exactly what he’s made of. Showing up tonight sporting a skew-whiff oversized baseball cap and loose, exposing denim jacket, Katzman has always felt a little different from the rest of the Vulfpeck gang, even if he can funk just as hard as the rest of ‘em. His distinctive take on country rock has only the barest resemblance to Vulfpeck, the link most clear in those moments he opts for a particularly perky funk bass line or indulges in a gleeful, improvised falsetto run. Lyrically, Katzman’s solo discography is so smartly written and heartfelt it makes you wonder what heights that Michigan band might have scaled if they chose to sing about something more stimulating than self aware ducks and whales with feet.

Katzman arrived in this damp Scottish city after, like many of contemporaries, having undertaken something of a creative (and, perhaps, personal) reinvention during the pandemic. He spent much of his chat during this gig discussing a formative year or two alone in the wild woods of the American midwest, doing little else than simply “thinking”. He cut himself off from the Internet for long periods, becoming self-sufficient and discovering the counterintuitive yet ever trendy hobby of extreme cold water swimming. It all amounted to a spiritual awakening that seemed destined to result in either powerfully profound or powerfully pretentious new material. A monologue played through the speakers as the band took to the stage in which a disembodied Katzman espoused the “universal law” that “everything in nature has a cost” and insisted that “we ourselves are nature,” dangerously teetered towards the latter, although in the remaining brief speeches that would pepper the rest of the gig Katzman came across as far more a humbly passionate advocate of spirituality than a self-absorbed ‘enlightened one’.

That said, Katzman’s latest album, Be The Wheel, is hardly a George Harrison-level musical departure from his earlier work, the change instead making itself clear in a notable decrease in the specificity of his lyrics. The title track and Hit The Target got things moving in Òran Mór, and although Katzman’s calls to “be the wheel” and “put down the pistol” seem indecipherable to anyone other himself, there was plenty to love in the consistently interesting composition, particularly than it came to the writhing retro synth in the latter track. 5-Watt Rock was an outlier in its directness – an endearing, self-aware tale about wooing a lover despite an underpowered guitar amp – but was tellingly one of the most enjoyable tracks of the night, the harmonised group vocals in that unforgettable chorus sounding even more glorious in the flesh.

Katzman performed to a sold out Òran Mór.

Katzman was blessed with a stellar live band, not least when it came to Mr. Dart, who is as far as I’m concerned one of the finest bassists active today. They were kept busy with a daunting quantity of solos – almost every song found eight bars to lend to one of the musicians who, whilst clearly very capable performers, occasionally struggled to justify every departure from the standard rock formula. At their best these improvisations were transformative – Dave Mackay’s blues blast on piano on Trump-bashing You Could Be President was a thing to behold – but other times, like on 5-Watt Rock, the solos added little to the original. At least Dart’s superfluous diversion on She’s In My Shoe added a degree of interest to an otherwise uninspiring plodder. Still, we were left wanting more – the cutting of a few solos would have been a small price to pay had Dart or one of his bandmates been given enough airtime to fully explore his instrument within a single song.

The new material may have its fair share of duds, but there’s no disputing what an exceptional songwriter Katzman is – unmatched by any of his Vulfpeck peers. The remarkable What Did You Mean (When You Said Love) is his best song and he knows it, drawing it out in Glasgow with a pretty yet convoluted piano intro followed by a stripped-back, overly theatrical first verse that showcased both Katzman’s expressive vocals and the song’s undulating harmonic foundations. Virtually every phrase was followed by an increasingly dramatic pause, culminating in a lengthy silence that verged on mick-taking before the band’s entry. “Do it, ya bastard!” one unmistakably Glaswegian man couldn’t help but blurt out from the back, somewhat puncturing all the romantic tension Katzman had worked so hard to construct, even if he had been playful about it. He did, eventually, “do it”, throwing in a jazz piano solo and rampaging electric guitar solo for good measure. The song came out perhaps a little overcooked, stretching out into a six minute epic, but if any Katzman song can withstand this sort of abuse, it’s this one. The Death of Us came as a welcome contrast, the sticky funk groove light on its feet yet still offering an electrifying extended jam that had these five musicians operating at the peak of their powers.

Katzman’s unwaveringly earnest inter-song talks about the new worldview he acquired during that forest retreat were hit and miss. A speech about bravery before You Gotta Go Through Me was genuinely compelling, Katzman urging us to take that crucial first step outside our comfort zones, starting tomorrow morning; cue a muted applause. “Yeah, that one never goes down that well,” he admitted. It was a pity that all the oration came as a prelude to one of Katzman’s sleepier numbers, but at least the song gave me a chance to make the most of my back row spot and get hold of a queue-free delayed Coke. There were also a lot of ‘prayers’ at play: The Only Chance We Have was “a prayer for listening”, followed by Corn Does Grow, which was both a “prayer for nature” and “a prayer for us”. Really, Corn Does Grow was just a rollicking country rock song, delivered in Glasgow without the excessive vocal distortion of the studio recording. Instead, there was the most head-banging guitar solo of the night and plenty of intense riffing – by the end, the temperature in an already stifling Òran Mór seemed to have gone up a degree or two.

Rip-roaring new tune Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day was the best surprise of the night, Katzman asking desperately “but how long did it take to fall down?” as chugging drums and guitars gathered pace around him. The other uptempo Rome-themed song in Katzman’s canon, As the Romans Do, would have made for a worthy finale but instead we got That’s The Life, a disappointingly middle-of-the-road choice of closing number but a neat encapsulation of the Katzman appeal, with lyrics about searching for life’s purpose set to the sound of a light-hearted hoe down. Heads bobbed politely in the crowd in front of me, but there was a sense that we weren’t quite seeing Katzman at his uninhibited best.

It was still drizzling when I found Fionn waiting outside for me, needlessly apologetic. I joked that it had been a rubbish gig anyway, but it was true that Fionn’s absence hadn’t been the only disappointment of the night. Katzman remains a consummate entertainer – his free-wheeling falsetto feats were so consistently remarkable it became easy to take them for granted – but it seems when he found himself in the woods he partly lost sight of what made his music so much fun – namely uncomplicated, joyous rock hooks. Unlike a good deal of his contemporaries, Katzman has plenty of worthwhile things to say, but on this sad night in Glasgow I was left wishing he’d let the music do more of the talking.

Emma Rawicz live at Brudenell Social Club review – youthful boundary-pushing veers towards indulgence
19
Sep

Challenging and ambitious, Emma Rawicz’s polymorphous jazz sought to tread new ground on a yearly return to the Brudenell. Epic solos and an extraordinary closing number had the audience baying for more, not least because her 90-minute set contained just six songs.

“Proper” jazz music – that is, music that isn’t strictly rehearsed, with the length of each section negotiated on the fly via nods and gestures between bandmates – brings with it two big risks when it comes to live performances. The first, and most obvious, is that it all unravels in miscommunication, perhaps with a disagreement about who should solo first or which chord they should be playing. In practice, however, a good ear and a knack for fast thinking in resolving any musical disagreements in an instant is a minimum requirement for any professional jazz musician. Less talked about, but far more common, are the perils of an open solo. Picture the scene: you’re a few minutes into a tune in front of a few hundred patrons of Brudenell Social Club. Emma Rawicz – a much talked-about bright spark in UK jazz – wraps up a final saxophone lick and turns to give you a knowing nod, and suddenly all eyes are on you to come up with something to play. For once you have the spotlight; you step to the front of the stage and revel in the complete creative freedom of being able to play more or less anything, for as long as you like. After a while you consider relinquishing to the patient pianist looking your way in the corner, but there’s still a particularly clever tangle of notes left in your fingers that you’re desperate to get out with one more repeat of the chords. A two minute solo becomes a five minute solo (a very different prospect), and before you know it there are audience members heading for a loo break and Emma seems to glare at you as she shoulders her way back into the song. Of course, it’s hard to play a harmonically interesting, technically impressive solo for five minutes straight, but it’s even harder to play for just one.

It was consequently a pleasant surprise to have seats for Emma Rawicz, owing Brudenell’s secondary venue a far more relaxed atmosphere compared to the last time I was there, not knowing my luck to see Parcels as my first ever gig back in 2018. It was a shrewd move from the organisers too – with currently only one album to her name, last year’s strong but underappreciated Incantation – 21-year-old Rawicz has only just joined her first record label, and the Brudenell would have felt underwhelmingly half-empty if it weren’t for all the tables and chairs. She did at least have the gravitas to warrant a dedicated introduction over the PA system from the sound guy at the back, in an endearing first for an Undertone gig.

Emma Rawicz backed by Conor Chaplin and Ant Law

A first half of entirely unreleased music started slowly. Patience-testing opening number Rangwali was carefully assembled like a sort of free jazz jigsaw, and a tedious one at that. A lopsided shuffle seemed to be implied by the drummer, but the grooves were too fickle, the chordless interlocking melodies too nebulous to give the unfamiliar listener any chance of finding solid ground in all the shifting textures. An assured piano intro into the second track promised more, but still the melodies remained frustratingly slippery and the solos overly tangential, eventually wheeling back to an apologetically short head thrown in at the end seemingly because Rawicz felt obliged to repeat the ‘hook’ at least once.

Nonetheless, it was engagingly daring opening 45 minutes, the highlights being Rawicz’s dazzling solos. Launching up and down the octaves – embracing every nook and cranny of the tenor saxophone’s magnificent range – Rawicz sounded more than capable of carving out her own niche in the contemporary saxophone world, her preferred style nimbler than Nubya Garcia and more delicate than Shabaka Hutchings. Seasoned touring guitarist Ant Law’s solos meanwhile contained the grandest narrative arcs. At one point he apparently tried to pull a string right off his instrument, the resulting clang prompting audible shock from the crowd. Asaf Sirkis’s brainy drum solos, on the other hand, were neither restrained enough to sound succinct and sharp nor wild enough to impress on technique alone.

At one point a sudden cloud of stage smoke appeared to quite feasibly rise from Rawicz’s restless fingers.

After just three songs of intensive jazz exposure, an interval came with all the relief of finding shelter from the gusts on a windy day. I caught my companions Thomas and Rob checking the time a little nervously: it was 10 p.m., and all signs pointed to at least an 11 p.m. finish before a somewhat gruelling three-leg journey home. At least Rawicz seemed full of beans, spending the entire break personally selling CDs and chatting with fans, only hopping backstage to grab her sax in time for the second act.

The second half was much the better of the two. Voodoo, at last a familiar song at least to me (and sadly the only inclusion from Incantation for this gig) got things underway with punchy guitar chords, a nippy bass-and-piano riff and a taut melody delivered with impressive synchronicity by Rawicz and Law. Rawicz’s solo was even fiercer than usual and at one point a sudden cloud of stage smoke appeared to quite plausibly rise from her restless fingers. Nerdy rhythmic trickery behind the guitar solo triggered knowing smiles between those in attendance swatted up on the concept of metric modulation, but was an otherwise unnecessary distraction. By contrast, Sirkis’ explosive closing drum solo was less thinking and more thrashing, and the result was thrilling. He almost fell off his stool by the end of it.

Ant Law’s solos provided some of the evening’s highlights.

Middle Ground happened to be released on the very same night of Rawicz’s performance at the Brudenell and provided a much needed element of calm and meditation to the night’s proceedings. The chord progression was stunning, and Rawicz’s contemplative, beautifully drawn out melodies were as breathtaking to hear as they must have been to play. The accompaniment was unflashy – Law provided a smattering of fade-in guitar chords, bassist Conor Chaplin produced a woody rumble at the back – but the result was a gorgeous concoction of sound. Ivo Neame, this evening’s pianist and still a professor at Rawicz’s not-so-old haunt of Chetham’s School in Manchester, also gave one of the performances of the night. His sophisticated, kaleidoscopic solo had Rawicz shaking her head in blissful disbelief, before a rousing and unusually catchy closing refrain.

I felt a tingle of excitement as Conor Chaplin played the opening bars of Phlox, the sixth and final song of the night and Rawicz’s recent single which I had been eager to hear live. It features the meatiest, most rhythmically engrossing riff I’ve heard all year, served up with the unassailable momentum of a heavy metal showstopper. Rawicz’s furious, high-octane solo was a whirlwind of honks and screeches before Neame’s intricate and eventually clamorous bluesy riffs and immense chordal runs. The finale found Sirkis at last in his element, causing utter havoc on the skins as that angular riff continued to gain momentum. At the Brudenell it felt like the first track of the night with a palpable sense of purpose and urgency and, at least until her sophomore album is released, Phlox is the clear standout song of Rawicz’s career thus far.

Phlox featured the meatiest riff I’ve heard all year, served up with the unassailable momentum of a heavy metal showstopper.

Groans of “more!” came seconds after Sirkis’ last triumphant strike of the cymbals and were so persistent that the MC at the back had to grab his microphone and mumble something about the 11 p.m. live music curfew to get everyone to calm down. Part of the appeals for more must have surely stemmed from the fact Rawicz had played just six songs, leaving plenty of solid material from the first album unaired. “We prepped twelve, we’ve got more!” she was eager to tell us at the end, mentioning that they’d all had “too much fun,” but perhaps wishing there had been at least some songs that weighed in at less than 15 minutes a piece.

It wasn’t just the length that made this a gig suited to the hardcore jazzheads only. This rendition was far wilder, stranger and more polymorphous than the manageable, if occasionally unoriginal fusion cuts from Rawicz’s debut. Rarely did grooves settle into a recognisable form, and determining a time signature invariably required a diploma in jazz musicianship; in other words, attempting to dance along or even bob your head to this music is an exercise in confusion. It’s tempting to scold Rawicz for leaving behind the familiar, accessible world of funk-informed fusion music, but these bold steps forward into the unknown are exactly what jazz thrives on, even if not all of the experiments are going to land. Indeed, the fusion side of Rawicz’s sound could become something very lucrative – Snarky Puppy have filled the Royal Albert Hall on songs with the same DNA as Rawicz’s Wishbone or Incantation – but it takes genuine guts to unleash a set as challenging as this one. The mainstream, even in jazz terms, remains some way away from Rawicz, but her ample creativity and individualism looks set to thrive as a result. All she and her colleagues have left to do is play a bit less.

The Beths live at New Century Hall review – the sound of a band realising their potential
5
Sep

After releasing the best album of their careers last year, the Beths are reaping their rewards with bigger venues and an ever more affectionate fanbase. Improved on all fronts since their visit to Leeds last year, all that this gig needed was a bit of extra bite.

The ceiling lights in Manchester’s swish New Century Hall are so remarkable it wasn’t long before they were a topic of extensive onstage conversation from four-piece Kiwi rock outfit the Beths. Each of the perfectly uniform bulbs were framed by thousands of geometric slabs of smooth matte metal, creating an impressive array of shapes and shadows that could pass as one of the less noteworthy works in a spacious gallery of Tate Modern. “Does anybody know how many there are?” bassist Benjamin Sinclair wondered, to which an overly lubricated man beside me shouted “at least 12!”. But authoritative guitarist Jonathan Pearce – who radiates the musical expertise of a man who knows his vintage Fender Stratocasters from his Gibson Firebirds – had done the maths. 1,250 according to his assessment, having divided the ceiling into smaller, countable subsections. When he cued a “special message” written in the lights for one night only I’m convinced I wasn’t the only one that looked up with complete faith in his abilities.

Liz Stokes and Benjamin Sinclair of the Beths, with Tristan Deck behind on drums

The Beths can be forgiven for getting a little carried away with a venue as glitzy and capacious as New Century Hall. It’s been little over a year since frontwoman Liz Stokes was getting self-conscious over a poorly angled mirror above the bar at Leeds’ Brudenell Social Club, a decidedly more intimate venue that seemed to underplay the quality of her songwriting. Tonight they’ve graduated Leeds and are now filling out one of the trendiest venues in the city’s big brother to the west, an expensively refurbished hall that once played host to the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd and the Bee Gees in its heyday. 2022’s exemplary third album Expert In A Dying Field is surely driving the surge in support; an album that more than makes up for a lack of the cutting-edge with a glut of indelible chorus hooks and some of the most brilliantly crafted guitar solos of the year. As the crowds gathered ahead of the Beths’ entrance in Manchester, it was reassuring to see that good music can simply propel good bands onwards; for all the complaints about modern music’s “industry plants” and stadium-filling megastars pumping out one lazy album after another, a feeble musical meritocracy still stands firm.

A Passing Rain followed the hard rock formula to a tee: four good chords, played loud and fast, over and over.

Filling out the heart of the band’s set this evening, it was that batch of fresh material that provided many of the gig’s highlights. Head In the Clouds‘ wonderfully choppy bridge gave way to an anthemic chorus that had the crowds pointing to the ceiling bulbs in euphoria; lilting delight When You Know You Know had Stokes dusting off her acoustic guitar for the most exquisite chorus melody she’s ever penned. Given deserved late billing in the set list, all-rounder Expert In A Dying Field was greeted by the audience like an old friend.

Of course, this performance necessarily extended beyond all the great new songs, and the old essence of what first made the Beths worth listening to remained. It was telling that Future Me Hates Me – the title track from their debut album – was chosen to open the show ahead of recent, more obvious options. It worked well as the band’s introductory theme song, those four words in the title nicely encapsulating Stokes’ relatable lyrical style of half-serious self-deprecation. An endearing routine with the band members introducing one another in turn also remained, giving a sense of their individual personalities and providing a golden opportunity for Sinclair to plug his travel blog, which he sheepishly took.

At other times the Beths were perhaps a little too sheepish. More a musician than a performer, Stokes was not the sort of frontwoman to dictate any crowd participation beyond a knowing smile at any organic audience-clapping and moshing was out of the question. Sure, jumping around like a maniac has a time and a place, but there were a few songs that were heavy enough to deserve the full monty, not least A Passing Rain, which follows the hard rock formula for success to a tee: four good chords, played loud and fast, over and over. It didn’t help that Sinclair’s bass – used judiciously in this song to make its eventual impact in the second chorus all the more earth-shattering – felt weedy and undercooked, and the crowd seemed indifferent to the track as a result. It was this mixing issue that held back the Beths when delving into the punkier corners of their discography, with killer single Not Getting Excited also lacking crucial bite.

Each of Pearce’s guitar solos was a phenomenon, the crowd hooked on every twang and twiddle.

Even Pearce’s countless guitar solos felt a little restrained as a result of their conciseness, but wisely so. A majority of tracks were graced with his solos, each one its own phenomenon teased out one by one to a crowd hooked on every twang and twiddle. A lesser guitarist might be tempted towards directionless improvised shredding over such a juicy bounty of solid rock tracks, but Pearce’s guitar solos were meticulous and intelligently crafted, each one neatly wrapped up the moment before Stokes’ vocals rejoined. A refreshingly ingenious yet humble lead guitarist, it was Pearce that shone as this band’s outstanding talent.

Backed by a giant inflatable fish head, Jonathan Pearce’s guitar solos were consistently remarkable.

By far the evening’s most memorable moment came late on with Dying to Believe, which saw audience member Abi supplant Sinclair after the band spotted her banner requesting to play bass for a song. She performed it with complete conviction, and the audience erupted. There was something joyful about witnessing a person seize the moment with such aplomb, and a confidently delivered bass solo towards the end had the crowd rightly giving one of the biggest roars of the night. Sinclair somewhat amusingly became a spare part, microphone still in hand as he watched on. “I discovered quickly that I don’t know any cool ways to hold a microphone,” he would later write on that blog.

By the end of the night, it seemed confirmed that the Beths will never be the sort of rock band gunning for stadium-sized gigs as a result of their relatively lowkey and conservative approach to indie rock. And nor should they be: Stokes’ introspective lyricism doesn’t deserve to be lost to a melee of chucked beers and wayward limbs. The utterly heartbreaking acoustic encore track You Are a Beam of Light provoked a dumbfounded silence and stillness from the audience that was as emotionally potent an experience as any mosh pit. There is evidently still a space for subtler displays of emotion in today’s indie music, and the Beth’s trajectory remains upward; it was a symptom of their success that their latest album necessitated a cutting of some fine material from their live set (Whatever, Uptown Girl and River Run: Lvl 1, all highlights of last year’s gig in Leeds, have since been culled). Still, there’s work to be done. “They’re Australian, right?” I overheard one concertgoer ask a friend as we left the venue and almost tutted. These New Zealanders have come so improbably far already, but you get the sense there’s still a little more room to grow.

boygenius live at the Piece Hall review – has Halifax ever seen anything like this?
3
Sep

On a first night in a glistening Piece Hall, the three individually lauded American songwriters brought almost unprecedented star power to humble old Halifax. Euphoric rock anthems and heartbreakingly fragile ballads had the superfans in raptures during a gig almost derailed by mass faintings.

For the most part, there was little remarkable about the list of boygenius’ tour dates this summer. For an act so widely popular – the trio may have only one album under the moniker boygenius but Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers and Lucy Dacus each have well-established solo catalogues, particularly serial Grammy nominee Bridgers – the magnitude of the supergroup’s bookings is hardly surprising. There’s a few arena stops in Denmark and Germany, a healthy contingent of A-league festivals (Paris’ Rock en Seine, Belgium’s vast Pukkelpop) and a night each at expansive open air park venues in London and Dublin. And, in the midst of it all, there’s a two night residency in… Halifax? It looks like a copy-paste typo. The fact that these bona fide global superstars have any time at all for this West Yorkshire town of 80,000 is remarkable enough, but the fact that they are staying for two nights (the only repeat billing of the entire tour) seems utterly bizarre.

The only explanation is the Piece Hall. The historic Georgian cloth hall and enduring architectural marvel was only adapted into an eye-catching summer music venue last year and its wide courtyard, nestled amongst the looming Calderdale hills, has already attracted plenty of big names including Sting, Madness, George Ezra, Noel Gallagher and Jessie Ware, who said it was like playing in Venice. It seems she may have over-egged that one for the crowd – there are no Titian masterworks to see here – but still the sense of grandeur that comes with the Piece Hall has increasingly drawn the world’s biggest artists away from the traditional arena venues in adjacent Leeds and Manchester. Now with two sold out nights from boygenius wrapping up a summer of 21 headliners on the giant, Glasto-style canopy stage, Halifax is cementing its position on the global touring map and a tempting contender for any artist’s obligatory north of England date.

Fans lined the hilly streets of Halifax long before the band took to the stage.

It wasn’t just in the diaries of boygenius trio that this Halifax concert stood out. For me too, this was clearly one of my premier gigging fixtures of the year. Besides the remarkable venue and excellent company of my friend Isaac (who, like all the best concert companions, came to Halifax just as paralytically excited as I was) there was the small matter of the band themselves who, two releases into their joint careers, simply have yet to release a bad song. I have already waxed lyrical about Phoebe Bridgers’ intimate songcraft on this blog, but in boygenius she is only one third of the appeal. Bridgers’ silky soft vocals are complemented by Lucy Dacus’ sonorous baritone that purrs like a cello. Then there’s the punky flavour of Julien Baker’s contribution, whose vocals inveriably teeter between a vulnerable whimper and an embattled roar, best served on top of a thorny mess of electric guitars. If boygenius fans come for one thing, however, it’s not the music but the words. All three band members could double as poets and deal in lyrics that are both poignant and thoughtful but strikingly specific and direct. It scarcely takes a second listen for the full emotional weight of a boygenius song to hit home, perhaps surprisingly considering how bookish the three of them are; a trip to London a day before tonight’s gig wasn’t complete without a visit to Brick Lane Bookshop, where they emerged with tote bags bulging with Tolstoy and Camus.

As Ethel Cain’s rather one-note supporting set came and went, I clearly wasn’t the only one in the venue feeling overwhelmingly excited for what was about to unfold. The first fainting happened a short distance from us in a dense area of the crowd, forcing Cain to pause and wait for the medical crew to shoulder their way into the crowd just as she was going up through the gears of showpiece epic Thoroughfare. Perhaps there was something in the air: I consider myself quite well accustomed to a touch of pre-gig hysteria, but 20 minutes before the trio finally took to the stage I was shaking so uncontrollably I genuinely wondered if I’d be the next embarrassed visitor to the medical tent. At one point during the several hours of waiting a few spots of rain threatened to become a shower. “I would be here even if it was snowing,” Isaac told me with complete conviction.

Without You Without Them worked as a sort of pre-match national anthem, every last word bellowed proudly by the thousands in attendance.

At long last, at 9:20, the “boys” took to the Piece Hall stage to the sound of deafening screams. The trio could have hardly made a better start with a capella stunner Without You Without Them, sang into a single mic and performed just behind the stage curtain with a live video of the group beamed onto a giant LED screen. It was instantly sublime, the song working perfectly as a sort of pre-match national anthem, every last word bellowed proudly by the thousands in attendance, hands on hearts. A moving hymn to ancestry, here it was repurposed as a statement of intent, with audience and performers promising each other to “give everything I’ve got”. In a brief moment of calm before the storm our eyes were glued to the screen as Baker closed her eyes in utter concentration and Bridgers rested her head on Dacus’ wide shoulders in apparent bliss. No sooner had the final notes been sung did the camera jerkily follow the three women briefly through some backstage rigging and, lo and behold, boygenius stood before us, in the flesh. They ripped straight into earthy rock banger $20, a transition that sounded electrifying enough on their recent album. In person, it made for one of the most exhilarating opening one-twos I’ve ever witnessed. A swift switch into a thunderous rendition of Satanist, another of the band’s riff-heavy rock numbers, rouned off a breathtaking opening ten minutes.

Whilst the stream of rock anthems weren’t to last, what did endure throughout the set was the undeniable and frankly adorable chemistry between the three performers. Here was a trio so close to one another that they had no qualms releasing a song squarely titled We’re In Love, and it only takes watching one hilariously aloof interview with the three of them to realise just how much they mean it. In Halifax they were wise to avoid the temptations of any sort of script between songs, instead joking casually about Halifax being the lesbian capital of Britain (“so that’s why there’s so many of you!”) and gamely allowing themselves to be mocked when the usual “YORKSHIRE!” chant didn’t quite get through (“is that like a college or a state or something?” Baker ventured).

The chat was a necessary tonic to the introspective and serious songs, which only became more emotionally draining as the night went on. Cool About It, a tasteful interpolation of Simon & Garfunkel’s The Boxer, was an early highlight, with the singers taking a verse each before finally joining in crisp harmony. Bridgers got the final and most tragic verse about taking a friend’s medication and realising just how bad things have got. “Now I have to act like I can’t read your mind,” Bridgers sang in near-whisper before being joined by a banjo and her two bandmates in a final crescendo as restrained and understated as all the secrets Bridgers seems to be struggling to hide. Emily I’m Sorry, another gentle heartbreaker with Bridgers’ songwriting fingerprints all over it, was similarly exquisite, her lilting melody ushered along by a comforting shimmer of electronic toms.

$20 made for a sensational curtain raiser

In fact, boygenius’ performances may have gotten a little too good for the obsessed fans near the front. It may have been the pristine harmonies and the countless tattoo-able lyrics that had audience members dropping like flies, or more likely the gruelling ten-plus hours of standing required for the best spots, but either way all the fainting stripped boygenius’ set of all its momentum on multiple occasions. Both Anti-Curse and breezy Souvenir had to be interrupted for several minutes, leaving awkward silences that even these three best friends struggled to smooth over with filler chat. Of course, stopping the songs at the first signs of distress is absolutely the right thing to do – post Astroworld disaster, artists can’t and mustn’t take any chances – but there was no getting away from the building disappointment for the average, adequately hydrated boygenius fan. There were unrelated sound issues too at one point when the band took a few minutes to realise their mics had suddenly cut off, and a promising up-tempo unreleased song came out muddy and thick, with vocals buried deep beneath an out of control kick drum.

Increasingly, it was a relief when a song was played in full, without incident. Mercifully, True Blue emerged unscathed, a shimmering slow burn love song led by Dacus that serenely flowed out and over the crowd like a warm summer’s breeze. The twisted indie rock of Bite the Hand also built with alluring patience. A song ostensibly about obsessive fans and the perils of parasocial relationships, it proved to be fitting for tonight’s audience and was smartly paired with live camera feeds of the front row fans passionately singing along. “I can’t love you how you want me to,” they chanted on the big screen, hanging on every word and yet not seeming aware that the song was about them.

Togetherness, connection, unbridled joy: Not Strong Enough is why I go to concerts.

A well-judged set list – although boygenius couldn’t go far wrong by playing every single song they’ve released, plus three more from their solo discographies – ramped things up as the darkness thickened over Calderdale with both the most intensely loud and quiet songs of the night. Fan favourite Me & My Dog was most definitely the former and saw Bridgers belt out some new high notes at the climax, thrillingly edging towards to the upper limit of her range in an exhilarating change from her trademark dreamlike whisper. Bridgers also led the way on that song’s far more delicate sister track Letter to an Old Poet, urging the crowd to put down their phone cameras just for one song and largely getting obeyed. It was a well timed request and helped crushing lines like “you make me feel like an equal / But I’m better than you” cut deep into the soul. With none of the glitz of flashing stage lights or a sea of paparazzi, Bridgers suddenly looked completely exposed, badly hurt but resolute in search of hope. “I can’t feel it yet, but I’m waiting,” she concluded, pausing for several seconds on that final word and leaving this delirious crowd of fainting fans in a precious stunned silence, if only for a moment.

Letter might have been the highlight of the whole show had it not been followed by Not Strong Enough, a belting, sunkissed country rock number and strong contender for song of the year. As that ecstatic chorus arrived, Isaac and I were lucky to find ourselves in a pocket of equally thrilled fans to jump up and down alongside. Suddenly it was as if we were staying still and it was the world that was bouncing along to the beat. The words had the sort of lines that we didn’t scream along with just because we knew them but because we believed in them too. The chorus’ subtly profound declaration of “I don’t know why I am the way I am” seemed to be echoed by thousands of fans all coming to the freeing realisation that not all of their flaws and idiosyncrasies have to make sense. Togetherness, understanding, unbridled joy: this is why I go to concerts.

A live audience cam was a clever addition to Bite the Hand

Perhaps at this point the three should have quit whilst they were ahead, taken a big bow and headed backstage to start planning tomorrow’s day trip to the Brontë Parsonage. There was still Salt In The Wound left to be played however, both the slowest and loudest track the three have up their immaculate matching blazer sleeves. It provided an over-the-top finish (stage smoke billowed, guitars wailed, two of the trio tried an uncomfortable looking crowdsurf) but beneath the showmanship the band seemed tired, especially Bridgers whose vocals frayed at the peak of the crescendo and who never quite gave all the gusto that a track like this demands. Still, it did the trick of unequivocally wrapping things up with smooches all round from the three performers, much to the delight of the disproportionately LGBTQ crowd.

You can imagine the designers of Halifax station didn’t have a boygenius concert in mind when they devised the narrow platform that Isaac and I soon found ourselves on along with hoardes of fans bound for Leeds and Bradford. As it happened, a slice of luck earned us two seats at the end of the next eastbound train, complete with good live entertainment of the sardine action whilst the driver lamented over the telecom that the platform was so choked with people he didn’t feel it was safe to pull away from the station. It seemed clear that – at least before the Piece Hall launched as a large venue last year – Halifax station has never seen crowds like this at quarter to 11 on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday night. boygenius’ set had been occasionally extraordinary, but there was a sense that even better nights await for the newest musical destination in the north. Let’s hope next time these fans remember to bring plenty of water.

RNS/Włoszczowska live at Sage Gateshead review – propulsive Bartók steals the show
20
Aug

Maria Włoszczowska’s laidback approach to the combined roles of soloist and conductor gave mixed results, but the splendour of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto remained largely intact. It was Bartók’s lively Divertimento that saw the RNS at their most dynamic and engaging.

No venue makes me feel special quite the way Sage Gateshead does. An enormous, glistening bubble of curved glass on the south bank of the Tyne, my approach in the early evening sunlight on this Friday night took me over the equally impressive Tyne Bridge, which provides fantastic views not only downriver but down to the busy, historic streets below. The view from directly above the rooftops was so remarkable I almost lost control of my bike as I attempted to peer over the edge whilst riding by. Inside, the Sage feels just as special. I was greeted by a plush cafe well stocked with fluffy muffins and a range of non-alcoholic drinks that far outdoes the usual gig venue offering Coke and possibly J20. Inside the main concert hall the walls are lined with glossy wood and the balconies accented with a tasteful dash of blue lights to give the room a strikingly futuristic, sleek feel. Just like the last time I attended a classical concert, I felt unusually out of place when it came to demography – there were only a handful of faces that looked under 50. I took a second glance of my ticket to confirm the astounding prices; my bargain £5 rate was not just for students, but anyone under 30. It’s a fantastic idea – and necessary when considering the alarming long term prospects of a place like the Sage – but tonight it seemed disappointingly few youngsters had taken the opportunity.

The twenty-somethings with something better to do missed out on witnessing a violinist on the up in Warsaw native Maria Włoszczowska, who is indeed young enough to qualify for the concession tickets herself. She led an engaging and concise evening that may have convinced the handful of the classical-curious in the crowd (Undertone included) that the genre need not be slow, boring or mystifying. That said, the pared-back and solemn quartet opener Cavatina made for a strangely slow-paced start, although perhaps its early inclusion shrewdly avoided a snore-inducing rendition later in the evening. The tempo may have felt glacial, but once the four musicians had settled into the piece, Beethoven’s deep melancholy materialised beautifully. Amongst the final compositions of his life, Włoszczowska introduced the piece as “one of Beethoven’s most personal and emotional works,” and the quartet lived up to the challenge of recreating that strong feeling with sweeping dynamic movement and gently weeping vibrato. Every note rang out with such synchronised expression from the four players that at times they sounded like a single accordion, contracting and expanding with every stroke of the bow, the music breathing in synchrony. Beethoven’s Cavatina is an unflashy piece – even Włoszczowska’s score would do little to stretch the abilities an intermediate violinist – but this quartet revealed a depth and mastery of sound that requires much more creative expression than the dots and lines on a piece of paper could provide.

At times, the quartet sounded like a single accordion, contracting and expanding with every stroke of the bow.

At seven minutes, though, the Cavatina was only the night’s starter. The show began in earnest with an assured rendition of Bartók’s Divertimento, a muscular suite for string orchestra that felt every bit a main course. Perhaps tired of waiting through the Cavatina, the lower strings launched into the chugging opening notes with so much gusto that their strings slapped loudly against their fingerboards for several bars, producing an inadvertent element of percussion that was as distracting and ugly as it was genuinely exciting. Here, Włoszczowska took a relatively low profile role as principal violinist, with the emphasis instead placed on the spectacle of seeing two dozen musicians respond to one another in real time, impossibly producing one coherent work of art in the process. The tightly intertwining call and response sections were a highlight, with lead second violinist Eva Aronian proving every bit Włoszczowska’s match in playfully answering all her musical questions. The Divertimento was also an excellent choice to show off the RNS’s electrifying dynamism: one particularly discordant crescendo tumbled like a waterfall before landing on a single, decisive chord. At other moments, the razor-sharp edges of Bartók’s crunchy staccato chords landed like a bolt from the blue. It was a shame that the visceral feeling of togetherness couldn’t quite last the course, and a fiddly violin pizzicato passage towards the end was so poorly coordinated that Włoszczowska let out a rueful smile.

Tackling Divertimento, a piece written for string orchestra, without a conductor is one thing, but undertaking a full blown concerto with woodwind and percussion would be Włoszczowska’s primary self-imposed challenge for the night. She began the evening with a mission statement, arguing that it was not only possible to convert any piece into conductor-less chamber music, but that there was something to be gained from a more free-flowing, collective performance. In the end, rather than backing up her claims, this showing of Beethoven’s renowned Violin Concerto left a sense that Włoszczowska had merely got away with the gamble. Returning after the interval in a shimmering silver kimono so dazzling it wouldn’t have looked out of place at the following night’s Eurovision final, Włoszczowska was clearly there to lead the troops, although her style of leadership turned out to be surprisingly laissez-faire. Instrument sections embarking on a new phrase were largely left to cue themselves, often including Włoszczowska’s own violin section. Even in the long periods of rest from her solo violin part, Włoszczowska somewhat awkwardly just turned around and watched her colleagues do their thing, letting the group dictate the entire direction of the piece.

The third movement’s jaunty little refrain sounded catchier than most pop songs.

To some extent, the added element of live musicianship did indeed give this Beethoven an exciting new edge. Rather than looking up to a commanding conductor, the musicians’ eyes were instead on each other, coordinating the specifics of rhythm and phrasing with a focussed glance or twitch of the bow the same way jazz musicians might communicate semi-telepathically. This borderline miraculous synchronicity was most obvious in the concerto’s smooth, layered passages, but the juxtaposing loud blocky chords of the first movement impressively kept their fierce tautness without the flick of a baton.

Where a conductor may have come in handy was in the more reserved second movement, which sagged without a driving force to propel the orchestra forward. This movement’s tiredness at least provided a good foil to the bubbly third movement, with its jaunty little refrain sounding catchier than most pop songs (indeed, I overheard numerous audience members cheerily humming it to themselves as we left the auditorium). After a programme somewhat heavy with intense emotions, this finale was a chance for the RNS to show their lighter side, and the refrain felt sweeter and more delightful with every repeat – and there were many repeats; I left convinced that Beethoven’s Violin Concerto would make a good classical starter for pop fans like me who can feel a bit lost in a piece of music without the guiding compass of a really solid hook.

It should go without saying that Włoszczowska – young but already with appearances at the BBC Proms and London’s prestigious Wigmore Hall under her belt – made for a consummate soloist. She was at her most astounding when recreating the entire orchestra on her four strings during the first movement’s breathless, devilishly difficult solos, even if she was occasionally tempted by a little too much destabilising rubato. An unlikely to-and-fro solo battle with the timpani (in which the violin narrowly came out as victor) was also one of the evening’s highlights, and earned timpanist Jude Carlton a deserved dedicated round of applause at the end.

For £5 – my cheapest gig out of the scores on this blog – the evening had been such good value that any criticism of the performance seems null and void. It had been a definite bargain, but whether Włoszczowska’s decision to go it alone had paid dividends – especially when it came to the bill-topping Beethoven concerto – was less easy to determine. Indeed, I left feeling that the potential in Beethoven’s score had not quite been milked for all its worth, and that this rendition was ultimately excellent in spite of, rather than because of, Włoszczowska’s input. Sometimes, though, the imperfect concerts are the best ones. This time, on crossing the Tyne Bridge I stopped and hopped off my bike to look down onto the streets still busy with double deckers busses and ant-sized students bound for the nightclub, the cast iron ceiling of the High Level Bridge hanging not far beyond the rooftops above them. I was quite happy to stand there for five minutes, watching the world go by. Musical imperfections aside, I had nothing to complain about.

Black Country, New Road live at NUSU review – indie darlings hit a stumbling block
10
Aug

Poorly served by a dodgy soundsystem and impatient crowd, Black Country, New Road never quite found their stride on a drab night in Newcastle. Lethargic and lackadaisical, the vibrance of their first three albums seemed a world away.

They say that sometimes history repeats itself. Last May I found myself picking through crowds of jubilant Leeds United fans to the back of a winding queue outside a sunny Brudenell Social Club, bursting with anticipation of a performance from Black Country, New Road, a prospect made all the more intriguing by the fact that the band’s frontman Isaac Wood had abruptly left just three months prior. Almost exactly a year later it’s the black and white striped shirts of Newcastle United that are flowing past me towards their stadium. This time just as before, I had more important matters to attend to than football; BC,NR were back in the north. The now six-piece band continue to be the talk of the British indie rock scene, largely off the back of their massively successful 2022 masterpiece Ants From Up There, which contains some of my most treasured pieces of music. Last time I attended the Newcastle University’s unappealing gigging venue for Cassia last October I arrived at peak times but nonetheless had to resort to the help of the Co-op security guard to locate the entrance. There were no such issues this time: the long line of young, mostly male students snaking around campus was testament to BC,NR’s ever-growing cult following. Me and friends Ewan and Ben weren’t particularly late, but the crowd inside NUSU was already dense as we queued up for Coke. We considered ourselves lucky with a spot to the extreme front left of the audience, even if it meant half of the band would be entirely hidden from view by a set of speakers.

To some extent, I knew exactly what I was in for as the concert started up. The band’s promising set of completely unreleased material last year in Leeds has since been tweaked and released as an enjoyable live album, and this performance promised repeat renditions of those nine songs. However, releasing an album changes it. This was immediately obvious in raucous, feel-good opening number Up Song. Where in Leeds the joy had been in the element of surprise and the spontaneous audience reactions (indeed, the screams of elation audible when the wall of sound first hit at the start of the song remains one of my most memorably exhilarating gigging experiences), in Newcastle we had an opportunity to sing along to the now familiar lyrics. In particular, the earnest, adorable line “Look at what we did together / BC,NR friends forever!” was aptly belted out by everyone in the room in a wonderful moment of togetherness. The sense of collective support for the band continued through cheers over Lewis Evans’ squeaky sax part, but I’ll admit I found myself missing Leeds’ element of surprise. The listening experience certainly wasn’t helped by worryingly lacklustre execution. Singing bassist Tyler Hyde looked particularly weary and unenthused, which was perhaps understandable after, crushingly, her microphone failed to work during the crucial first few lines of the song. Even as the song hit its heaviest patches of danceable rock, most band members kept their eyes steadily locked to the floor in front of them, seemingly wishing this whole affair to be over already. The ongoing tour to promote their live album does indeed seem rigorous (the drive to Newcastle from Leeds came via Dublin, and this week they head to Manchester via Glasgow), and in NUSU there was plenty of evidence that all the hard work is getting to them. Releasing an album changes the band, too.

Most band members kept their eyes steadily locked to the floor in front of them, seemingly wishing this whole affair to be over already.

A limp Up Song set the tone for a distinctly disappointing evening, albeit largely for reasons out of BC,NR’s control. The greatest flaw was the sound design. I already knew NUSU was a poxy venue, but it was shocking just how completely an off night from the sound guy eliminated any hopes of getting lost in the music. The band must have experienced this before – the complex mix of violin, saxophone, flute and multiple lead vocal mics must be a headache for even the most capable audio engineer, and indeed their set in Leeds last year was not without its niggles – but this performance seemed exceptional. Some supporting instruments were rendered inaudible at some point in almost every song and crucial moments were blotted by ear-bleeding microphone feedback.

Half of Black Country, New Road at NUSU, with Hyde playing bowed bass and Evans having switched from saxophone to flute.

I Won’t Always Love You was one of the songs that suffered most. It had a promising start, with Hyde wisely swapping out a slightly tedious stop-start rubato intro for a searching tapestry of guitar plucking, but one expansive crescendo later and the mix had become muddier than a soggy afternoon at Glastonbury. Evans’ screaming sax lines, searing on the official live album, were amongst the several components lost to the din. It was a similar story for 10-minute epic and prior fan favourite Turbines/Pigs. May Kershaw’s graceful piano melodies remained spellbinding, but as the ambitious climax arrived, the NUSU speakers proved utterly incapable of handling Hyde’s sinister bowed bass guitar. For a song all about the patient build towards a gut-wrenching finale, this failing was one of the night’s most tragic.

Perhaps the poor sound quality was also to blame for a notably rowdy and disinterested crowd, even if the venue was undoubtedly sold out. Invariably, BC,NR’s quiet instrumental moments were rudely talked over. Evans was measured in his response, repeatedly offering gentle requests of “hush now, people of Newcastle,” before, a few songs later, giving a more exasperated “you’re too loud, Newcastle.” Tellingly, some of the more witless audience members only whooped back at him, assuming it was a compliment. Evans and his bandmates looked more defeated than vexed, and the passages of music not lost to soundsystem screeches were lost to a hubbub of chatter instead. Feeling ignored, it’s no wonder their performance sagged as a result.

Was that a dissonant note choice or simply a mistake? As a tepid applause rolled in, I decided it was probably the latter.

A few new songs thrown into the set list were essential to beef out the live album’s fleeting 47 minute runtime, but the fresh material turned out to be far more inconsistent than what BC,NR fans have become accustomed to. Early on, Evans led an unreleased song that felt clumpy and unsettled, and both the iffy tuning of Hyde’s guitar and questionable note choices from violinist Georgia Ellery warranted brows furrowed in suspicion. Was that a consciously dissonant note choice or simply a mistake borne out of mid-tour fatigue and unease? As the song reached a wimpering fade out and a tepid applause rolled in, I decided it was probably the latter. By far the best of the new songs came towards the end of the set and saw drummer Charlie Wayne thrillingly take hold of a banjo (and, even better, play it quite competently). The intricate, light-footed experimental folk tune that followed sounded uniquely vibrant, and gave a hint of the group’s outstanding musicianship that had been so apparent on the turbulent jazz cuts of their debut album. Ellery – the transfixing voice behind radical electronic duo Jockstrap – also provided strong lead vocals at one point, in a well-overdue first for BC,NR.

It was an indication of the band’s general tiredness that it was only as the gig’s finish line came into view that they finally found their stride. Up Song‘s new reprise was the biggest innovation on the band’s live material since their trip to the Brudenell, and attempted to wrap the neat bow of a cyclical narrative on the show’s disparate collection of jaded performances. Somehow, it worked. Hyde’s vocals sounded even more piercing and achingly vulnerable than usual, and Kershaw’s twinkling, pensive piano playing felt strangely moving after witnessing six people drag themselves through what must have been an unpleasant 80 minutes on stage. For a tantalising, undulating few minutes, we were gifted a glimpse of just how beautiful BC,NR’s music can be, given the right circumstances. The speaker feedback had stopped and the impolite crowd had been silenced, apparently in repect of this breathtaking flash of artistry. Minutes before they were to disappear unceremoniously backstage (an encore was out of the question), Black Country, New Road had rediscovered what makes them such special, singular talents. On a better night, this would be the time to let the tears roll and succumb to the urge to giddily bash out a five-star review the next morning. Tonight, it was a case of too little too late.

Couch live at Band On The Wall review – eight-strong funk group go all in
20
Jul

Every song was a showstopper for a celebratory final night of Couch’s debut international tour in an ambitious show packed with unrelenting funk-pop grooves, countless glorious solos and the best Harry Styles cover money can buy.

Tema Siegel stands centre stage, clad in a leather jacket with her microphone aloft in one hand, mug of coffee in the other. She’s reached the crux of Saturday, and slowly tilts her head back and shuts her eyes as she lets out an authoritative long note above a whirl of funky synths and guitars. A moment later and the entire song disintegrates when the band simply stop playing and Siegel switches from that momentary bliss to the neutral stance of everyday life in a moment. The song’s ending is met by an almost comic ripple of applause from the half dozen audience members, all of whom are loitering in a dark corner of Band On The Wall. For a song like Saturday clearly designed to whip up audiences into a frenzied party, it all feels shockingly flat.

The good news is the party hasn’t started yet. In fact, the six audience members are myself and the group of friends I’d travelled to Manchester with plus a sound guy. Through something like the dark arts (or, more specifically, some smooth direct messaging with Couch’s Instagram account), my friend Thomas had scored us ‘VIP’ access to the soundcheck, as well as a chance to personally meet some of the eight band members. We stood there at the back like sheepish starstruck superfans doting on the musicians’ every word as they ironed out fiddly issues with in-ear monitors and song transitions before hopping off stage and closely listening back to a recording just in case any mixing decisions needed tweaking.

Constant movement injected Couch’s set with fun.

Cut to three hours later and that careful, diligent preparation was invisible to the crowd as the eight excited musicians promptly kicked into their opening number. Since the low-key soundcheck, Band On The Wall – an impressively decked out and fresh-feeling venue in Manchester’s fashionable Northern Quarter – had transformed from a dark, empty void to the place to be in the city, with the most intense buzz of pre-gig anticipation I’ve felt since Sam Fender. The big draw of Thomas’ arrangements turned out not to be the soundcheck or even chats with the band but the early access itself, which meant we could snag an ideal spot at the front of the crowd, close enough to examine Siegel’s choice of trainers and directly hear the harsh parp of Jeffrey Pinsker-Smith’s trumpet before it was routed through the venue’s sound system. The thrill of such close contact with the stars, with the possibility of catching brief eye contact with a restless Siegel as she delivered her unwavering lead vocals, never wore off.

Almost every song featured a face-scrunching solo worthy of spontaneous yelps of support from the crowd and bandmates alike.

The proximity no doubt intensified the experience for me and my friends, but everyone in the room seemed blown away by the breathless opening set piece from the Bostonian band, who are riding high on the wake left behind by Vulfpeck, a funk band so spectacularly successful they’ve inspired renewed interesting in retro, jazz-informed pop amongst the young generation the world over. A brief rendition of the Wii Sports theme song set the tone for a light-hearted evening (and took a leaf out of Cory Wong’s playbook) before a sublime transition into the tumbling first chords of Fall Into Place, a song that instantly had the band – and therefore, the crowd – bobbing along to the groove enthusiastically. It was sounding surprisingly tight despite all the passionate moving and shaking onstage, ending with the first of many spine-tingling belted vocal moments of the night, aided by more than one flashy organ glissando. Immediate follow-up I’m Leavin’ (The Na-Na Song) continued the momentum with a masterclass in how to transform a lazy, grating chorus into an instant crowd pleaser on the night by way of punchier crescendos, noisier solos and a healthy helping of light choreography.

The best aspect of Couch’s performance, and also arguably the only weakness, was the fact that the high energy pop bangers started with Fall Into Place and virtually didn’t stop for the next 100 exhilarating (and exhausting) minutes. Almost every song featured a face-scrunching solo worthy of spontaneous yelps of support from the crowd and bandmates alike, and even the seemingly quiet tracks invariably wound up with a gobsmacking finale led by the indefatigable Siegel, her long notes often bridging dramatic stops in the accompaniment. The best songs were often simply the ones with the most ambitious climaxes. Earwormy Poems tailed off into the stratosphere even more than most, propelled onwards by a key change at an opportune moment. Still Feeling You, a perfectly crafted pop song and head and shoulders Couch’s best recorded track, was always destined to be a highlight, even if the knotty horns-led instrumental bridge inevitably frayed at the edges now played outside the comfortable surroundings of a recording studio.

Every band member got their moment in the spotlight.

An interesting selection of covers filled out a marathon 21-song set, all of which were Couch-ified with immaculately rehearsed details of group synchronicity, plus the trademark barnstorming final chorus. A zestful rendition of With A Little Help From My Friends was well received, and a smooth transition into Something milked the Beatles patriotism in the room for all it was worth. Billy Joel’s Vienna provided the sort of robust blues melody that Siegel eats for breakfast, and Pinsker-Smith was not one to pass off on an opportunity for a squawking muted trumpet solo. A less purposeful rendition of Sex On Fire, by contrast, felt surplus to requirement. It may seem like a cruel backhanded compliment for me to list the cover of Harry Styles’ somewhat bland, radio-primed filler Late Night Talking as the evening’s biggest highlight, but Couch’s reimagination of the track is so brilliant it’s already earning its own reputation in the States as one of the group’s niftiest showstoppers. Every corner of the song was masterfully slick and self-assured, from the chorus’ finely tuned vocal harmonies to the delightful yet well-restrained fresh flashes of trumpet and saxophone. It culminated in Danny Silverston’s breathtakingly funky Stevie Wonder-style clavinet breakdown (a surefire way to Undertone‘s heart), before Siegel reintroduced each instrument with a joyful campness (“Willy, where’s that bass at!?”). This was the sort of cover that will forever render the original a disappointment.

Chants of “we want more!” were instant after Couch left the stage; Siegel could only manage a few seconds hidden backstage before bursting back out to her adoring fans with a smile.

Couch proved themselves to be great musicians, but they were even better performers. From song one, movement onstage was constant and engaging, and rarely did all band members start and end a song in the same spot. Leading the pack, Siegel was particularly bubbly, often crouching down a few feet in front of us and looking into the phone cameras of the rapt front row fans, my friends amongst them. Wireless microphones and transmitters were an essential piece of tech for Couch, allowing almost every band member to wander the stage freely, resulting in the sort of dynamic and authentically spontaneous performance you’re unlikely to see in your traditional four-man rock band. Eric Tarlin on saxophone was the band member that seemed to most relish this freedom, initiating games of rock-paper-scissors or handshakes with bandmates before particularly magnificent solos. He travelled so much that his hijinks found him playing keyboard at one point, as well as an entertaining stint as lead vocalist. His solos were equally playful and cheeky, his face tight with a smile behind the mouthpiece.

In fact, every band member had plenty of time alone in the limelight – Still Feeling You was followed by several minutes of solos on the same chord progression. It could have been tiresome had each solo not been somehow more spectacular than the last. Jared Gozinsky’s long drum break into standout Saturday was thunderous and bassist Will Griffin was Dart-like in his enthralling few minutes at the front of stage, but it was keyboardist Danny Silverston who produced the finest solo of the night with his otherworldly synth adventures on Let Me Hold You, the more promising of two unreleased songs.

Tema Siegel was an engaging frontwoman.

Countless more solos came and went by the time Siegel started saying her goodbyes. It had been a set admittedly lacking in versatility. The band’s formula of throwing the kitchen sink at the end of every song became a little too apparent after a dozen iterations and Siegel’s vocal performances, whilst commanding, lacked nuance. Fortunately, all the kitchen sink throwing was so passionately delivered there were few signs of tiredness amongst the celebratory crowd. Chants of “we want more!” were instant after Couch left the stage, and Siegel could only manage a few seconds hidden backstage before bursting back out to her adoring fans with a smile. Encore song Conjunction Junction gave the fans exactly what they wanted: unadulterated funk, complete with squelchy rhythm guitar, a sticky horns hook and lyrics that made good use of the word “funk”. To say the ensuing sax vs trumpet solo battle at the song’s climax tore the roof off would be inaccurate; Couch had metaphorically deroofed Band On The Wall several times already that evening.

The five of us left promptly and strode briskly back to Victoria station to catch the last train home, already eagerly throwing around “best gig ever” suggestions after our successful VIP experience. It was perhaps telling that whilst my friends exchanged video clips of the night’s highlights on the train, my first action was to find a row to myself, lie down and throw a coat over my head to block out the overhead lights. Couch’s show had been inconcise but potent, an adrenaline shot of high-octane pop destined to leave sore heads in the morning. Several band members had fittingly finished collapsed on the floor in the immediate aftermath of Conjunction Junction, and in many ways Couch were right not to hold back on their final night in the UK before flying back to the States. They had given it all, and it wasn’t just my friends’ special treatment that had made it a night to remember. That said, if Couch can be accused of bribery – giving away freebies in the hopes of praise from the esteemed tastemaker at Undertone blog – this time it worked magnificently.

Self Esteem live at Sage Gateshead review – left-field pop firebrand is the full package
16
Jul

Arriving at one of the grandest venues of her career to date, Self Esteem threw the kitchen sink at this performance at the Sage with snappy choreography and slick costume changes. Rarely was the show anything but utterly spectacular.

Something extraordinary happened about halfway through Self Esteem’s enthralling recent performance at Sage Gateshead. Amidst a chaotic screech of rising synths, Rebecca Lucy Taylor had snuck off stage, leaving us to gawp wide-eyed at the rest of the band, who were in the process of morphing out of their monochrome tuxedos and into blazing red head-to-toe body suits before our very eyes. Once her alien-like minions had fully materialised, Taylor returned in a blood red playsuit, an uneasy mix of playful and dominant with her huge, feather-brimmed cowboy hat. “I am not your mother,” she chanted with venom amongst the swirling clouds of smoke, storming around the stage during a particularly strenuous stretch of choreo. For several gripping minutes the room was awash with a chest-rattling kick drum and siren-like synths, before Taylor eventually climbed up the centre-stage plinth to have a bash of – or more accurately, abuse – a drum of her own. Cue a magnificent transition into the no less venomous How Can I Help You?, and the chaos continued unabated. As an artistic sequence, this was Taylor operating at the peak of her powers, providing a visceral, compellingly ugly spectacle. It set the tone for an evening of bold, inventive and ultimately uplifting pop.

It’s songs like How Can I Help You? – a no nonsense alt-pop monster – that had critics’ ears pricking up in the wake of Self Esteem’s latest studio album Prioritise Pleasure, which got a deserved Mercury Prize nomination and recognition as the Guardian’s Album of the Year in 2021. Since then, her live shows have only been getting bigger and bolder, and the imposing arena of Sage Gateshead’s main auditorium was a new high water mark that seemed to shock even the popstar herself. “A lot of Taskmaster fans in Newcastle,” she tried to jokingly justify to herself at one point, although it was obvious no one was here simply because they had spotted her on the New Year’s special episode of the TV show.

You Forever had the rowdiest fans below me almost jumping on their seats in ecstasy

It’s not just the sheer size of the Sage that makes it a difficult place to perform (it’s big but, admittedly, UK concert venues can get much bigger). With its many rows of seats and elegant wooden sound boards, the Sage is less of a venue, more a temple of listening, and performers have little hope of painting over unsatisfactory music with crowd pleasing visual flourishes in the same way they might do in less formal surroundings. Support act Tom Rasmussen battled admirably to make an impact with flashy dance music, but even their most dynamic tracks struggled when confronted with 1,600 people settling down in their padded seats with a freshly baked scone from the foyer cafe. Subsequent performer Mega got similarly swallowed up by the room, unwisely pitching up with just a guitar and cajon to support her.

Staging and lighting added potency to exhilarating How Can I Help You?

For Self Esteem, however, there was hope. Not over reliant on dance grooves or shock factor, her distinctive pop provides plenty for the attentive concertgoer to listen for. Her lyrics and not just frequently witty but fierce and unwaveringly earnest, and sonically her songs match abrasive pop trailblazing with a pained tenderness; on the night, How Can I Help You?‘s uncompromising stomp was balanced by achingly bare piano ballad John Elton. If the seating arrangements limited dancing, Taylor was at least sure to provide plenty of reasons to cry. In fact, in the end all the seats didn’t matter at all – the wealth of pop bangers on parade had the entire ground floor seating area on their feet for virtually the whole gig, not to mention the overenthusiastic group of tipsy women booked in the seats next to me.

With such an unusually interesting catalog at her disposal, Taylor could be forgiven for simply doling out the hits in Gateshead. Instead, this was a deeply intentional, meticulously detailed performance. Beyond the three costumes and their effortlessly slick transitions, razor sharp choreography from Taylor’s three hard-working backing singers offered a fresh visual dimension to the songs. In stormier sections the group often served shocking moments of synchronicity, their aggressive punches and kicks adding even more heft to Mike Park’s hulking drum beats. In other times, when Taylor’s mellow vibrato floated over subtler backings, the group produced heart-rending tableaux, linking arms or physically supporting not just Taylor but one another. Sonically, Self Esteem offered the full package, too. Bassist and purveyor of keyboards Sophie Galpin seemed at risk of being overworked, but she managed every room-filling synth hit and wild, sudden change of musical direction with miraculous ease. Taylor herself delivered with her powerful, hearty vocals, sounding just as comfortable belting out the apex of a beautiful ballad as she was snarling about misogynistic men in no uncertain terms.

Most musicians will spend an entire career reaching for artistry as exquisite as I Do This All The Time

It was a set packed with almost too many winning set pieces to mention. Punchy funk number Moody came repurposed as a glorious Y.M.C.A.-style dance-along, and sparkling You Forever was even more joyfully energetic, leaving the rowdiest fans below me almost jumping on their seats in ecstasy. Stirring slow burner The 345 was rightly billed as the big singalong tear-jerker at the business end of proceedings, but an earlier performance of Just Kids was even more emotionally penetrating. “Remember we had it all when we were just kids?” the gospel vocals soared as melting, bracingly artificial strings pierced through the track. It was The 345 that marked the start of the descent into hell by way of red mist and a cowboy hat, with the most fiery corners of Self Esteem’s released (and unreleased) material condensed into a blistering 15 minutes that hit like a shot of vodka. The conviction in which Taylor spluttered out her lyrics, utterly incandescent, was almost frightening. “I’m a truly hideous person but I’m very charming on telly,” she told us in her endearing Sheffield drawl after the dust had settled, briefly relishing in her own villainy before digging in once more with a propulsive performance of standout Girl Crush.

Rebecca Taylor performed closely with her hard-working backing singers

From the outset, we all knew this gig was only heading in one direction, namely I Do This All The Time, Taylor’s career-defining moment of genius, part determined hymn to healing, part poignant piece of heartbroken slam poetry. It may take some of its cues from Baz Luhrman’s Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen), but Taylor’s song is much more than just vague life advice in pretty packaging. Instead, everything in this song cuts straight through to the soul – the empowering group vocals, the devastating strings melody, Taylor’s endlessly quotable nuggets of wisdom, which are delivered with the crushing nonchalance of an artist on the verge of giving up. Most musicians will spend an entire career reaching for artistry as exquisite as I Do This All The Time. In Gateshead, Taylor forgetting the bulk of the first verse (“please don’t ask for a refund!”) was a fly in the ointment, but as that final gospel rush arrived, with Taylor earnestly linking arms with her backing singers in genuine camaraderie, the sheer amount of humanity on the stage made it difficult to hold back the tears.

It had been an evening of such variety for both eyes and ears it seemed unfair to ask for any more from Taylor, who no doubt will end this tour both physically and emotionally exhausted. That said, a live strings section was the one thing that could have elevated I Do This All The Time (and several other songs) even higher, and the two person backing band ended up feeling inevitably lacking for all Galpin’s multitasking heroics. Relatively unremarkable Still Reigning also marked a peculiar comedown after the aforementioned showstopper, and there was a sense that the audience was simply too exhausted by the previous emotional bulldozer to sing along with much volume. Make no mistake, though, Taylor’s live show is an artistic triumph, and by the sounds of the new material aired at the Sage, she may still be yet to hit her creative peak.

Like many others around me, I felt emotionally battered by the time the house lights came up. Shirley Bassey’s terrific disco hit This Is My Life was an inspired choice of exit music, her powerful refrain perfectly mirroring the intense joy left behind by Taylor’s art yet with a distinct undercurrent of melancholy. As I left the still dancing crowds below, I felt as I do after all the best gigs: deeply satisfied but heavy with sadness from the knowledge that experiences like these can never truly be re-lived. The one-time-only thrill is of course exactly what makes live music so special, exciting and often transcendent, but I have a habit of realising how precious the moment is just as it ends. Some of Taylor’s final words were still ringing in my ears as I made my way back over the Tyne Bridge and looked across to the beautiful light show on the rest of the city’s great bridges. “I will never forget this,” she had told us, voice wavering as the crowd’s standing ovation grew ever louder. Plenty of artists have said similar things at dozens of gigs I’ve seen across the country in the last few years, but this insistence of Gateshead’s specialness felt different. This time I could sense she really meant it.

Rianne Downey live at Oporto review – bigger stages await
10
Jul

Her songwriting ability may be still developing, but Rianne Downey already owned the stage at Oporto, a low-key venue that felt far too small for a vocal talent of this calibre.

It was to be a quiet night for the merch stand attendant at Oporto, a relatively low profile bar in central Leeds that is yet to find its feet amongst the famed venues of Leeds’ independent music scene (namely cosy Hyde Park Book Club, the lovably grungy Key Club and my beloved Brudenell Social Club). The presence of the up and coming Scottish singer had attracted a surprising number of blokes who I suspected were more here for the Guinness available than the popstar’s latest batch of t-shirts. Downey will no doubt face bigger crowds than the one that greeted her in Oporto, a venue small enough for drinks in glass to be permissible and for acts to unceremoniously hop off the front of the stage and into the crowd after their sets simply because there is no backstage area to go to. Still, the fact that Downey sold out Oporto – just like the rest of her headline UK tour – shouldn’t be knocked, and there was a feeling during a set filled out by unreleased material that we were witnessing the very first steps of a promising career.

Perhaps even more impressive than the dense crowd that Downey had summoned at Oporto was her remarkable stage presence. If Downey is a small fry in indie pop circles, clearly no one’s informed her; dressed in dazzling white amongst a greenery-strewn set, Downey was a magnetic performer, engaging the crowd with a flash of her giant sleeves during the songs and delivering relaxed banter between songs. “If you want to, you can meet me at the merch stand later… and if you don’t yous can fuck off!” she blurted out at one point in her Glaswegian twang, triggering a roar of laughter from the crowd.

If Downey is a small fry in indie pop circles, clearly no one’s informed her.

Downey was an engaging performer. Image credit: Rianne Downey via Twitter

Luckily Downey also has the voice to match her outstanding stage presence. Her vocals exuded the sort of confidence emerging artists aren’t supposed to have and her vibrato was unusually well controlled, occasionally delivered with a musical theatre sheen. There’s plenty of scope for songs with grander climaxes and more challenging melodies to exploit her vocal talents further, but even on the more straightforward tunes Downey’s vocals were the most impressive part of her act.

And so to the songs, which offered a mixed bag. Vibrant, chugging country rock opener Stand My Ground got the gig off to a strong start, with Downey’s three band members offering bulk to the acoustic twang that supported her memorable chorus. Later, Fuel to the Flame was also a poignant highlight, Downey’s endearingly simple chorus wisely given space to shine with a straightforward, unfussy accompaniment. At times, the only problem was that Downey’s voice was a little too good. Paper Wings, one of a large contingent of unreleased songs, had a lovely melody at its heart but an attempt at a showstopping vocal climax awkwardly received only a few half-hearted whoops from the audience. A weedy, undercooked piano backing didn’t help Downey’s cause, and made for a puzzling match to her glitzy vocal performance. It was the accompaniment that also let Downey down on recent standout single Hard, during which the pre-recorded backing track was played so quietly I wondered whether it had cut out completely mid-song. The result left one of Downey’s most assured tracks feeling rather hollow, dragged along by a few bare guitar chords.

Downey’s vocals alone deserve the nationwide attention she is just beginning to receive.

Where Downey can most improve is in her lyrics, which invariably operate in clichés and observations lacking in insight. “You’re a life jacket on a rainy day,” was one particularly clumsy moment in unreleased Dancing In the Rain, and Start Again boils down to gems like “there’s no point in grudges,” and “resentment’s never worth it.” Her magnetic personality – so evident in the inter-song chat – stopped short of the songs themselves, many of which could be about anyone, performed by anyone. It was telling that the line “it’ll be alright, just give it time,” was considered a lyrical highlight enough to be plastered onto the t-shirt merchandise beside me.

The scene at Oporto during Rianne Downey’s set

Home, an undemanding ode to, well, home, was particularly one-dimensional, but got a surprisingly heartfelt performance in Leeds. Whilst the song had an odd reluctance to build towards a proper, anthemic finale that the percussive guitar strumming begged for, the quietness did at least offer a chance to hear Downey’s fans audibly singing along to the charming little melody. At that moment I realised I had been soundly proved wrong – this wasn’t just a room of men looking for some light entertainment as they down their pints, and Downey’s core of fans very much exists and is no doubt growing. Oporto is undoubtedly humble beginnings but the roots of Downey’s fanbase (which is more varied than my stereotypes allowed) seem firmly set, and her vocals alone deserve the nationwide attention she is just beginning to receive. If she can equip herself with songs that offer a bit more musical bite and lyrics that emulate her exceptional stage presence, much bigger venues and keener crowds await. Takings may be modest for now, but it’s a matter of time before that merch stand becomes a two man job.