1,122 JOHN GRANT, Southampton O2 Guildhall, Friday 8 February 2019

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.

973 JOHN GRANT, Soley, Southampton Guildhall, Thursday 4th February 2016

And on to the next one; quite a different proposition from last night, however, tonight’s host being US alt-rock singer-songwriter John Grant, whom I’d previously checked out on Bonfire Night 2010 (gig 797) with Jason Lytle, enjoying his wry, confessional and oft quirk-laden lyrics and dusky, Scott Walker-esque moody vocal delivery. Never followed up on it at the time, however, so he remained resolutely off my radar until “Down Here”, a splendid track on a late-2015 “Uncut” magazine compilation, prompted me to pick up his current, 3^rd, album “Grey Tickles, Black Pressure”. An odd juxtaposition of similar deliciously dark balladry to that on display back then, and some unexpected electronica which varied from the weirdly attractive, through cheesy, to downright jarring. Still, discovering his other 2 albums thanks to Grant fan Tim (and loving debut “Queen Of Denmark” in particular) underlined that here was a maverick, idiosyncratic talent worth checking out again, so I booked for this one, unfortunately being unable to persuade Tim to join me!

 

So, flying solo again, I set off down an inky A34, hitting unexpected slow traffic on the M3 approach to Soton, but parking up in the last space in the cobbled car park around the side of the venue. Wandered into this magisterial and ornate hall midway through support Soley, an Icelandic female pianist who meanderingly wittered on between her hushed schoolmarm ballads. I actually liked her oratories (“this is a little bit sad song, but it’s ok, I’m over it... I’m actually a happy person!”) more than her set numbers, which left little impression.

 

Thereby followed a half hour wait before the witching hour, as the place filled up amply but by no means completely – I reckoned about 2/3 full in this quite large hall, and plenty of space and a great view in my stage left spot, about 5 rows back from the front. Played “Spot The Hipster” to pass the time, which was easy – the place was replete with brogues, blazers and berets. And beards. Of course. Beards proliferated the place, beards on young, beards on old, bumfluff to lumberjacks. But of course the best beard of all was due onstage soon... Spot on 9, the lights smashed to black, and the 4-piece band took the stage to the taped layered spoken word opener to Grant’s current “Grey Tickles,” album. Grant himself took the stage last, a t-shirted big friendly bear of a man, smiling and waving to all, basking in the reverential reception. Following the sweeping orchestral grandeur of opener “Geraldine”, Grant paused to greet the crowd and introduce his band, including, “on drums – the incomparable Budgie!” Sure enough, black clad and hair dyed boot-polish black, it was the former Big In Japan/ Slits/ Siouxsie sticksman – crikey, we’re in the presence of punk rock royalty tonight, no doubt!

 

Grant’s set tonight reflected his musical oeuvre... an opening salvo of the lush, emotive and haunting balladry, with “Down Here” a widescreen, almost Bond theme moody piece and “It Doesn’t Matter To Him” eerie and elegiac, being followed by a mid-set interlude of more 80’s style electronica heralded by the almost tangible synth pulsebeat and Kraftwerkian traffic noise blasts of “Pale Green Ghosts”. Very much like Scott Walker, the man ploughs his own idiosyncratic furrow, seeking to blend these 2 uneasy bedfellows of musical styles together. I have to say some of these mid-set fuzzy electro grooves left me cold, but the subsequent “Glacier” was the set highlight, a stark and gorgeous piano led ballad with an exquisite sonorous vocal performance. Simply, Grant has a quite beautiful voice, more beautiful than any man – even a gay man – really has any right to have. Rich, haunting, dark, mysterious and melancholy, able to convey a range of emotions, and for me displayed to best effect on his more slow-burn, conventional material. A very relaxed between-song orator as well; praising Southampton as, “a beautiful city,” and responding to ironic laughs from the home crowd with, “you didn’t see where I grew up!” and thanking everyone for coming out on Thursday (“it is Thursday, right?”), remarking that during the week, “I wouldn’t leave the fucking house!” The Harry Nilsson-like “Queen Of Denmark” with its’ freeform prose lyric, leading to a slashing chorus noisefest, was also a highlight, almost topped by the entertainingly profane “GMF”. A couple more electro-dominated numbers bookended the set and encore, but the best was saved for last, with final number “Caramel” a stark and deeply intimate love song, with a Jeff Buckley-esque, octave straddling vocal performance. A beautiful way to end a real set of contrasts.

 

Grabbed set-lists for myself and Bristol gig buddy Alfie (whom I ran into down the front) before hitting the road, back home for midnight. As I said, a set of contrasts, but when it worked, boy was it a lush and lovely noise. And Budgie too! Splendid night out!

797 JASON LYTLE, Supp. Midlake, John Grant, Oxford O2 Academy, Friday 5 November 2010

An intriguing triple bill on a Bonfire night saw Tim and myself driving through filthy conditions (rain precluding the setting off of many fireworks tonight, I’d warrant) to Oxford for this early one, parking up just before 7 and getting into this rapidly-filling venue for a sell-out show, in good time for the first act.

Good thing too, as this was my main attraction; Jason Lytle, former main inspiration behind quirky California dreamy psychedelic alt-rockers Grandaddy, one of the most languidly inspirational and consistent acts of the late 90’s/ early noughties, and the only band to get my Top Act award from 2 different Reading Festivals! Jason, armed only with a fat acoustic, a sparsely-operated drum machine which, on the one occasion he did use it, he then accused of trying to upstage him (!) and his high-pitched, plaintive voice, treated us to a clutch of Grandaddy classics in his set, the highlights being an early “Now It’s On”, and the closer “Miner At The Dial A View”. “I’m having a good time, I get to watch John and Midlake every night,” he said, to which I shouted in response, “and they get to watch you!” Lovely stuff, which made me miss Grandaddy all the more.

Next up, John Grant, Tim’s tip, was a large, imposing bearded American with a real crooner’s voice; deep, resonant and lushly expressive. His cracked, late night singer-songwriter material was occasionally Scott Walker-esque, moody and slow-burn, yet he displayed a quirky lyrical bent at odds and yet somehow complementing this; “I only wanted you for sex and for someone who looks smashing in athletic wear,” being a personal favourite. However, his final number was as heart-wrenching as any Dashboard Confessional number, and overall he left a very favourable impression.

By contrast, however, Midlake were dreadful. For a moment when they took the stage at 9, I thought they’d taken a wrong turn from the Fillmore, circa 1969, as they now sported full-on beards and hippy checks. The music underlined this; new songs about “creatures of the earth” and suchlike (I was waiting for one about trolls), set to dreary, plodding pastoral sludge of the worst order. Their older, more thoughtful and varied material (even the likes of “Rosscoe”) was dragged down to the same level; to think I’d tagged them as potentially the new Grandaddy! Rachel was right in the first place when she dismissed this lot as, “hippyshit”! Halfway through their interminably long (the thick end of 2 hours) set I gave serious consideration to getting a ticket for upstairs, where Edwyn Collins was playing! The only saving grace from this desperate set was the encore, when they dragged Grant on for a run-through a song by his former band The Tsars, then did likewise with Lytle, delivering a splendid, moving “AM180” which only served to threw Midlake’s set into sharp relief.

So, a disappointing finish, but 2 fine supports, and Jason Lytle reinforcing why I loved Grandaddy so much, with a super little set. I wish they’d come back…