This’ll
teach me to book gig tickets in advance of listening to new albums, I thought
as soon as I copped a listen to John Grant's new album "Love Is
Magic". I'd latterly properly picked up on this veteran US alt-rock
soloist following a track on a "Best Of 2015" magazine compilation,
subsequently investigating his 3-album solo oeuvre and particularly falling
hard for 2010 solo debut "Queen Of Denmark", a pristine collection of
dark, lyrically honest and confessional yet lush and sweeping ballads, sung
with the kind of rich, mahogany voice that could frankly stop birds in flight.
The subsequent 2 had similar high moments, whilst unfortunately also
increasingly indulging Grant's predilection for quirky dance-inflected
electronica which seemed quite jarring against the beautifully sung, Scott
Walker-esque soaring balladry. A 2016 gig (no. 973, ironically at tonight's
venue!), despite walking a precarious tightrope between these 2 radically
different styles, was nonetheless an enjoyable affair, hence my promptness at
getting a ticket for this one. However, I then heard the new album... with a
notable swing more towards the self-indulgent synthy stuff, and a considerable
downturn in the quality of the material, this for me was at best patchy, at
worst utterly pants. Oops.
So,
it was with no small amount of trepidation that I set off for a sodden drive
down the South Coast, looking forward to the old stuff and hoping that the new
material made more sense "live". Like, waaaaaaaay more sense... Parked
up in my usual spot and got in just after 8.15, just in time to see the roadies
packing up after the opening act, which, as it was apparently a soloist from
backwoodsmen Grandaddy wannabees turned hoary hippy bores Midlake, was no great
loss! (And yeah, I know Grant credits Midlake with dragging him out of his
post-Czars doldrums and prompting him to make music again – a point he
continually made tonight – but that still doesn’t mean I have to like them,
right?) Took an easy wander down the front – only about half full, this ornate
old hall, tonight; maybe a lot of old school Grant fans had heard the new
record before buying tix and had voted with their feet, I thought, cynically…
still, open mind, open mind…
The
lights dimmed at 8.45 and the band entered, (once again featuring punk legend
Budgie on drums, this time restored to Banshee-era straw-blond hair) followed
by Grant himself, bedecked in black trucker chic apart from Chicory Tip-style
glitter glam make-up around his eyes, partly obscured by the farmer’s baseball
cap. Giving the crowd an affable double-handed wave, he immediately seemed to
set about winning us over with opener “Tempest”, his wonderfully deep, sonorous
vocal towering over some early Human League-like synth backwash. Things seemed
very promising then, right up to an early “Jesus Hates Faggots”, (“an old
traditional folk song from my country,” quipped Grant), his stately, commanding
voice conveying the caustic lyrics perfectly. However, thereafter was when the
synths kicked in…
“Smug
Cunt” saw Grant stomping around the stage in time to the plodding synth riff,
but at this point the monotonous dirge-like sheet metal keyboard riffery started
smothering Grant’s own vocals, and after a few numbers like that (including newie
“Metamorphosis”, which was just plain awful and headache-inducing, Grant
delivering a sneering and unpleasant vocal performance too), I was seriously
considering going home… “TC and Honeybear” was however beautifully rendered,
touching and tender, throwing a welcome “thank fuck for that!” moment into the
proceedings, and newie “Touch And Go” was better too, with the synths
embellishing rather than overwhelming the nuances of the song. However, the
throwaway disco stomp of “He’s Got His Mother’s Hips” then funnelled us back to
the synth-dominated material, so I high-tailed it to the loo to give my ears a
break, thereafter watching the rest of proceedings from the back.
The man however saved the best for last, as I knew he would (thank fuck for “setlist.fm”, otherwise without prior knowledge I might well have gone home midway through!). Set closer “Queen Of Denmark” was utterly majestic, the plaintive, piano-led Nilsson-like verse contrasting with the thrilling white noise of the crashing hook (that’s how to blend these two styles, right there!), and all the encores were superb too, a stately “Sigourney Weaver” and “GMF” the highlights. Worth enduring the frankly painful noise just to get to these songs, I concluded as I left promptly, mixing desk list in hand, and drove home in inky blackness. I do worry, however, as this feels that Grant is no longer walking that tightrope between these two styles anymore; I fear he may well have tipped right over into the wrong territory, and that’s really not the John Grant I want to see.
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