On a night of covers that could have easily flopped, Postmodern Jukebox rightly leaned into the inevitable cheese with ample vintage glamour. In the end it was impossible not to be won over by the sheer joy of the performances, all held together by a top-notch batch of touring musicians.
For me, some gigs feel like once-in-a-lifetime events to be anticipated feverishly. Take Dua Lipa (a popstar in her world-beating prime) or dodie (a debut tour performance, and incidentally a masterpiece) or even North Americans like Jeff Rosenstock or cleopatrick rarely seen on this side of the Atlantic. Other times, I buy a ticket just because I can. It took about five minutes between my friend Thomas mentioning retro jazz tribute band Postmodern Jukebox in conversation and snapping up our own tickets for the Leeds show a few days later. A golden rule I’ve learnt from my endless stream of recent gigs is that seeing professional musicians in the flesh always brings the potential for something special, even when I’m slightly reluctant to make the effort.
It was fitting, then, that there was little of the usual excruciating wait in the venue for the musicians to arrive; Thomas and I had only just snuck our way into the second row by the time the evening’s compère Casey Abrams bounded onto stage just before 19:30. With the band’s mastermind Scott Bradlee mysteriously absent (an unaddressed elephant in the room for the entire night), it was Casey who was assigned as a zany Master of Ceremonies for the evening, billing it enthusiastically as a “journey through time” and “classic jazz spectacle”. Since 2014, Postmodern Jukebox – a broad and largely undefined collective of New York-based musicians – have established themselves as reliable producers of high-quality pop covers invariably repurposed with a retro flair that often favours swing and early vocal jazz music. The musical arrangements are crucially only one part of the PMJ appeal: the band puts almost as much effort into costuming and visual aethetics for their countless YouTube videos, landing themselves a fair few viral sensations in the process. Whilst I’d never quite been sold by the entire concept – is it all just one, eight-year long gimmick? – I came to the O2 Academy with expections of a glamorous feast for the eyes, complete with Charleston choreo, ridiculous hairdos and surplus peacock feathers.
I wasn’t to be disappointed. In fact, the feathers were out in full force the opening number, Panic! At The Disco’s relatively unknown Roaring 20s. As mildly annoying as the source material may be, it gave a good opportunity to dig into Brendon Urie’s nods to early dancehall jazz, this time with a real clarinet and trombone parping along. A top-hatted Therese Curatolo was undoubtedly the right woman for the job, fully embracing the role of unhinged pantomime villain over the choppy drums and rattling double bass.
The following first act was packed full of impressive performances, with each of the cast of vocalists keen to make an impactful first impression. Towering Robyn Adele Anderson gave an engrossing performance of Oops!… I Did It Again, before Maris had a joyful uptempo blast through Are You Gonna Be My Girl, more than capable of holding her own when the band dropped out for the big a capella moments. On that song it was Tom Abbott who stole the show, however, stepping out from behind his music stand and blasting out a phenomenal, Parker-referencing tenor sax solo just as the backing band reached full pelt. Even his fellow touring musicians looked surprised by how flawless it was.
Casey Abrams – one of several American Idol finalists in the collective – made his vocal debut of the night for Sam Smith’s I’m Not The Only One, an excellent singalong choice that seemed strangely suited to PMJ’s plonking walking bass and shuffling snare drum. A breakdown section, with drums swapped for a washboard and piano swapped for a melodica, was one of the show’s many silly highlights. Abrams’ boundless, screechy enthusiasm was mostly contained by the soaring melody, although in later performances he was to cross the line into tipsy-uncle-at-wedding-afterparty territory (an overcooked rendition of Africa to close act one was about as wobbly as you’d expect).
Demi Remick was a pocket-sized powerhouse, ever-smiling as she gracefully leaped around each performer, occasionally taking to the wooden board to the right of stage to deliver one barely believeable tap dance solo after another. A fabulous solo medley in the middle of the first act – with music spanning from Glenn Miller to Stevie Wonder to Darude – was her crowning moment. Less successful was Act Two’s Super Mario medley. With Remick dressed in a slightly half-hearted attempt at Mario’s blue and red boiler suit, the joke wore off quickly and, on a night not short on superficial musical gags, this one stood out like a sore thumb.
For the most part, though, I couldn’t help but get swept up in the self-aware silliness of it all. A pepped-up Bad Romance was slick, with Remick skipping away at her most eye-wateringly fast tempo yet, and Maris embraced the opportunity to perfom Paramore’s Still Into You, taking breaks to flirt flamboyantly with the pianist, bassist or a handful of front-row audience members. Wannabe arrived laden with “doo-wops” as the trio of female vocalists delivered their finger-clicks with choreographed sheen. It was Rogelio Douglas Jr. who was the most convincing vocalist of all, however, belting through a showstopping performance of Radioactive and an exhilarating 60s R&B take on U2’s I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, a cover that wouldn’t sound out of place amongst the grand showpieces of the Hairspray soundtrack. Legendary joke song Stacy’s Mom (a match made in heaven for increasingly giddy Abrams) and Meghan Trainor’s All About That Bass wrapped up the set in proper singalong fashion, with each of the outstanding cast members bouncing about on stage together wearing various ridiculous outfits. It was a suitably chaotic end for a band that seemed perfectly happy simply to perform music for the sake of music. PMJ’s covers were well made but hardly innovative and thought provoking lyrics were out of the question, but something about the sight of Abrams skipping around onstage in a feather-clad suit and ludicrous Lennon-esque sunglasses whilst singing about his affections for Stacy’s mother made my usual music critic scrutiny seem comically irrelevant. These were just good musicians having good old fashioned fun, and the crowd around me – peppered with vintage hairdos and ancient-looking three-piece suits – lapped it up.
Only once, towards the end of the night, were we hit with what felt like a surprise sucker punch of sincerity. Wedged between two glitzy all-singing-and-dancing showstoppers, Douglas Jr.’s take on Use Somebody opened with a refreshingly simple, soulful piano accompaniment. There was instant chills when the band entered for the second verse, Douglas Jr. closing his eyes and leaning back into the warm accompaniment as the song gained momentum. For the first time, I could feel the intensely vulnerable weight of the lyrics as uplifting group backing vocals punctuated Douglas Jr.’s mellifluous baritone. “I’m ready now / For someone like you” he begged over and over again, a seemingly desperate admission of loneliness or devastatingly weak attempt at hope that cut deeper with every repeat. It was almost a disappointment when a teary-eyed Douglas Jr. left the stage to give way to a hollow Spice Girls cover. Even so, for those four minutes alone, I knew the night had been well worth the effort.