Showing posts with label Brixton Academy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brixton Academy. Show all posts

Saturday, 2 May 2026

The world is full of wonder: Big Thief on tour, 2026

Sentrum Scene, Oslo, Norway – 8 and 9 April 2026
Brixton Academy, London, England – 23, 25 and 26 April 2026

Pre-amble

‘Orthostatic Intolerance’ sounds like one of those Dragon New Warm Mountain songs that you don’t put on quite as often as ‘Certainty’. But it is, in fact, the reason my insane plan to see 12 Big Thief shows on the Somersault Slide tour became somewhat derailed (and why my fabled Hollywood Bowl pilgrimage last year bit the dust, and why everyone is so far away in these photos). Can’t stand up, you see. I’ve had health stuff since I was a teenager, but this is new. Hopefully temporary.

Life still has wonders in it, though, like five nights with my favourite band, squinting from my seat in the gods or on the accessible platform. It was, I’ll admit, a very different experience, and often a lesser one, but that’s OK. Nothing was ever going to match the Ireland shows from 2024 anyway, and two of these five nights were nevertheless spectacular. Big Thief are a live band if ever there was one.

This piece includes unpublished quotes from my recent i Paper interview with Adrianne and co.

***

Oslo: first night
The first show of the tour, in Oslo, pinned me to the wall. It was, simply, and even in row 11 of the circle, one of the most exciting gigs I’ve ever been at. You know the drill, and the quirks, and even if this tour didn’t quite prove it all true again (since the fabled lottery of the setlist would draw from a smaller pool), the first show seemed to – and in the most exhilarating way. “That was absolutely bananas,” I wrote in my notes afterwards, with my usual high-minded eloquence.

Adrianne kicked off, solo, with the live debut of the greatest of her new songs, ‘What I Only Dream Of’ (later retitled ‘Cruel and Beautiful World’, though I prefer the original, more singular name). And, yes, there is still no feeling in life remotely comparable to Lenker unspooling some new song that sounds as old as the rocks, and feeling so miraculously blessed that you are among the first to ever hear it. (I, personally, would not have gone to grab another beer during such a moment, but there’s no accounting for the men of Oslo.)

“What I only dream of is waiting...,” sings Lenker with that slight catch in her throat, and I find that I have one too, as I always do in that pin-drop silence where the only sound on earth is her voice, backed by the gentlest of guitars, casting truth into the air.

When I interviewed the band last year, Adrianne explained her sense of composition as a multi-layered thing that has not altered, merely ascended. “I feel like I’ve always had these multiple different veins of writing: the simple and the small and the big and then the cosmic and then the literal, the physical, the macro and the micro… There’s all this going on simultaneously. I’ve just grown to a new level of it.”

In her online songwriting course earlier in 2025, she talked about the ‘key’ to her songs: not a musical key or a way to understanding them, but a key that she turns partway through, moving the subject matter from the intimate to the infinite. “Strangers’ eyes bring me alive,” she sings in ‘What I Only Dream Of’, grasping the key and turning it, “as I wade through the terrible wonder, the wonderful cruel and beautiful world.” It is an astonishingly beautiful song, just a touch short of her two greatest ballads, ‘Sadness as a Gift’ and ‘Already Lost’ (both, it is worth reiterating, heard best in their live solo iterations: perhaps at the Hammersmith and Edinburgh band shows of 2023).

Such majesty merely kicks off the night’s revelations, though when you open with a song like that, you’re erecting a glorious prism through which to see everything that follows.

The band are touring Double Infinity, an overproduced record of great songs, and eventually they’ll remember that, but tonight they include just one track off the album (the lead single, ‘Incomprehensible’, to close the main set). They play six newer songs, three of them for the first time. You could put this down to an appealing perversity, but I think it is simply a sign of an artist questing endlessly forward, and hewn to such folky, folksy maxims as Lenker’s oft-expressed, “If you write a song on tour, you have to play it.”

She follows the opener with ‘Forgive the Dream’, written during the North American dates, which can’t help but pale next to what came first, but casts a slighter spell of its own. It’s an elusive mood piece that conjures images of wintry industry and crushed expectations, as Lenker’s voice purposefully strains in and out of key, which isn’t my favourite thing she can do with it, but is always a gamble I admire, when being recorded for all eternity or else in front of a thousand people. As, indeed, is tossing out songs that your audience has never heard before.

I bumped into Dylan Meek, the brother of Big Thief guitarist, Buck, and support at three of these shows, at Brixton, and he told me Adrianne was putting aside a dedicated two hours for writing, every day of the tour. I tried to articulate to him what I wrote here about the feeling I get hearing those songs for the first time, and he said he gets it too. “And then you might never hear that song again,” he said, “or only four years later.”

Which brings us to ‘Wait a While’, a song I’ve written about several times, as it’s one of my favourites. It assumed a fabled place in the Big Thief narrative, after they debuted it in Bristol in 2022, played it four times (including Adrianne's heartstopping version during the famous Shepherd’s Bush run) and then put it back in the drawer. It poked its head out briefly once more when Buck joined Adrianne for one of her solo shows in 2024, and then suddenly here they were, playing it in Oslo. The gorgeous possibilities of what Adrianne's voice can do to the word “Hilary” are no longer apropos, since the chorus has morphed into the clunkier, “Wait a while, wait a while, don’t HU-rry" (perhaps because there is too synonymous a Hillary). Yet even with that dab less ethereality, being serenaded with it was the most glorious surprise.

From the stage, Lenker promises a setlist of “new songs, old songs and some inbetween”, which seemed to show how the song that she most wishes she’d written, Townes Van Zandt’s incomparable ‘High, Low and In Between’ (which she covers here) has invaded not just her writing – since there is barely a line of that song, nor a feeling within it, nor an idea, that does not find an echo in her work – but even her everyday chatter. (Incidentally, when we chatted about the artists whose songs have moved her most deeply, she named her friends Steve Fisher and Twain, along with “some of the greats”: namely Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell and Nina Simone.)

‘Certainty’ is next, with Lenker and Meek gazing across the stage at each other throughout, these “deep friends” who once felt this romantic love for one another, and now feel it for other people, and wrote this masterpiece to capture the feeling.

And then things get heavy. A ferocious ‘Shoulders’ (a song I like but which Adrianne likes more) is followed by ‘Real Love’, which climaxes with an explosive, spitting guitar solo, though its real revelation is the way Lenker transforms this early rocker by singing it in a conversational tone, and in the fragile voice she usually reserves for her solo records. Throughout this show, she takes risks with that most mesmerizing of instruments: rolling the dice on improvised melodies, in heady communion with her muse and in tandem with Meek’s Texan quiver and Krivchenia’s unstudied high harmonies. ‘Real Love’ is followed by a relentlessly cyclical ‘Real House’ – ‘Fools Gold’ via Henry the Human Fly – which explodes into the live debut of the cathartic ‘Christmas Day’, being another chunk of confessional domestic sadness depicting the early life of Adrianne Lenker, though this one coming with a cacophonous chorus.

That’s topped by the best of her new rock songs, the rampaging ‘Beautiful World’, which has some of the most phonetically satisfying moments in her recent writing (not just the rhyme of “coffee and a bagel” with “Winnebago” but the glee with which she belts it out), and is the closest thing she’s ever written to a protest song. There are some curiously clunky lines in its third verse, but its balance of whimsy, humanism and rage, and the way it turns the key to shift us from a “fucked up world” to “a beautiful world”, while retaining the rest of the chorus (“Why must everything be conquered?”), is a very definite vision of genius. Its author’s conception of politics never seems to have strayed beyond the childlike, but the innocence at the centre of her art is an essential part of its iridescence. Townes Van Zandt had it too: “I don’t know why we can’t be brothers here,” he wrote in ‘High, Low and In Between’, “I know we should be.”

The band follow that with the live debut of ‘Mr. Man’, and the best of the five versions they'll play across these five shows. It’s a bit riot grrrl, a bit Belly, a bit Breeders, Lenker pouncing on the Iran crisis, backed by her insouciant slacker riff, though finding more profundity in an ellipticism that hints at solidarity or at life’s obstacles (“Could you get past two, could you get past three?”) than in the more literal later passages (“Hey, Mr. Man, with a plan, what’s the confusion/Trashing the land, ‘cause you can, just for amusement”). Directness in her work is so often a virtue, and tonight immediacy is a godsend, it’s just when you hear the song on four other nights that it seems to fall short of sustained greatness.

'Muscle Memory’ is the final new song, in which Adrianne articulates the blank adolescent feeling of post-orgasm clarity. Around it, she does ‘not a lot just forever’ with the band, and ‘anything’ without. She plays a conventional ‘Not’ and a new arrangement of ‘Vampire Empire’, then ends the set with ‘Incomprehensible’, which sounds great though will be even better by London. Last year, Lenker described the song to me as “like a journal entry or something”, and introduced it tonight by saying, “It’s a big time right now. And I suppose in some small way this song is just a call to be the wild thing that I am.”

The encore is ‘Change’, her incomparable song about life’s very meaning lying in its finite nature, which survives a stumbling start that almost serves to accentuate the song’s miraculousness, then turns first into a singalong, and then into an experiment in revised phrasing and spontaneous falsetto, before the familiar jam of the mundane-to-cosmic ‘Spud Infinity’ closes the show, the key in the lock once more.

Adrianne said she was almost “vibrating with nerves” but even by her standards she is sensational on this first night of the tour. She told me last year, “The most comfort I’ve felt from music in my life is through playing.” I felt that tonight. She would hit a similar but different peak on the Saturday in London.

***

Oslo: second night
It happens again.

Not the whole thing. But the first thing. Adrianne opening a show solo, with a sad song you’ve never heard before (and, at the time of writing, no-one has heard since), and it feeling like nothing else on Earth. She must know, right?

This time, it’s one we’ll call ‘Leaving Her’, since its chorus goes, “Leaving her gets harder every time.” (If we’re ranking the songs written since her last visit, I’d have it third after ‘What I Only Dream Of’ and ‘Beautiful World’, alongside ‘These Are the Days’). Fingerpicked arpeggios, a Karen Dalton-ish melody, and Lenker at her most sincere (“I am helpless in your glow”, she sings at one point, before simply crooning the words, “I love her, I love her”). Once more she is drawing a contrast between emotional pain and the illimitable beauty of creation, which extends to me and you.

She adds a delicate ‘heavy focus’ and a pleading ‘anything’, before plunging into an even heavier show than the previous evening. ‘Christmas Day’ is a grunge anthem tonight (weren’t they predominantly a country band the last time we saw them?); ‘Real Love’, ‘Not’ and ‘Vampire Empire’ all end in solos of squalling feedback; and a rampaging ‘Beautiful World’ is even better than the previous night, with Adrianne vocally inhabiting the alpha psychos of her first two choruses, prior to the song’s simple yet profound shift.

Four of the first five songs tonight are new, though such mixing-it-up will not be sustained, this evening or across the tour, as the last album creeps towards centre-stage. Double Infinity’s problem as a record – that it is overly busy – is almost instantly solved by the simple expedient of it being played by a four-piece band. (Meek told me last year that for him the key word to understanding the album was “play”: they invited a big group of musicians to come together, who heard the songs for the first time in the studio, at their microphones, “and everyone was responding intuitively and responding to each other and self-arranging very quickly, and just recording that”.) I wonder how many of Big Thief’s minor musical missteps have had to do with the politics of their bassist’s departure, and of an innate and ever-present desire for intra-band harmony. There was no real reason for them to record this record with a ton of musicians, nor for them to play festival shows in 2024 with two drummers, except to shield their new live bassist (Joshua Crumbley) from being the only new member; Big Thief have released just one poor song: ‘Grandmother’, off Double Infinity, which has the unfortunate distinction of filtering Adrianne's singular worldview through the chords of Status Quo and the generic fixations of Kiss, but presumably made the album because it was a full-band collaboration, and the limelight tends to fall on Lenker, which can’t be simple for any of them. We heard that song in Gunnersbury Park in 2025, where it took up a sixth of the set-time, and I thought something similar might happen with these shows, but no: we didn’t hear it once. Its position was arguably taken by an expansive ‘No Fear’, meditative to the point of rambling, more of which later.

In our interview, Adrianne described the latest album as “floaty, shimmery, uplifting, and faster than other records we’ve made”, saying that thematically it covered the same themes with which she was always preoccupied but “there’s a feeling that ties everything together”. On this second night, we get a thumping version of Double Infinity’s title track and its soundalike, ‘Los Angeles’, which highlights Lenker’s Lorenz Hart-like facility with a rhyme (“Los Angeles/You sang for me’), a current predilection of hers. When she explained the title track to me, she said its central phrase, “At the bridge of two infinities”, was “almost Orange-ish” in its obscurity, then half sang a snatch of that Two Hands album track: “Orange is the colour of my love…’”

‘Muscle Memory’ has extra verses tonight, apparently improvised. Then Lenker does ‘Simulation Swarm’ which is always ‘Sim Swarm’ on the setlist, such shorthand implying its centrality to Lenker’s own conception of her person as an artist, its lyrics alluding half-cryptically to the half-brother she’s never met, and its licks signalling to her status as one of our best living guitarists. It’s given a stunning reading tonight, flipping out into an insane second solo.

‘Real House’ might have been hypnotic but still doesn’t quite seem to work as a purposefully persistent dirge, though in any incarnation, it’s surely never going to approach her tear-streaked version in Kilkenny. While it’s an intensely personal song, she observed in our interview that “it’s funny how sometimes the more micro you get, the more macro it is. The more detailed you get, the more universal it is.”

Night two: Not.

For a while, Lenker and Krivchenia have been experimenting with a drum-and-vocal section in ‘Not’: creating that automatic rush of adrenalised exhilaration as the guitars rush back in. Tonight they try it in both ‘Not’ and ‘Vampire Empire’, but both feel slightly muted. Lenker may never write a more perfect song than ‘Not’, a thunderous Cole Porter-ish list song that makes its point through endless negation, but for the more obsessive fans, it needs (like a good cover version) to be something extra or something different, since we’ve heard it so many, many times. Here it’s neither, for the longest while, only for its heavy, formless solo to turn into an almost laidjack, Layla-ish jam full of gentle noodling, which is really nice, and gives the song some closure to go with its catharsis.
‘Mr. Man’ sounds ever more like Lenker proving she can do what boygenius do, 10 times better with her eyes closed (they offered her the chance to join, she does not appear to have taken them up on it, but then would Springsteen have joined McBusted?). Last night it was Adrianne inhabiting the bolshie spirit of riot grrrl, but tonight Buck gets more involved, coming in with loud vocal harmonies and a sprinkling of sparkling notes (remember when he tossed those onto ‘Ruined’ at Hammersmith in 2023, and how good it sounded? He'd do the same to 'Sim Swarm' too, on the first night at Brixton).

Just as great is a gorgeous ‘Promise Is a Pendulum’, a song in which Lenker edges towards the twee and repetitive but somehow falls into some space of wonder through sheer sense of conviction. She wraps the main set once more with a brilliant take on ‘Incomprehensible’, even better than the first night, its prelude (‘Incomprehensible... incomprehensible... incomprehensible... Let me be’) suddenly seeming to hint at a debt to Macca. Her talent stretches the farthest way, further than any songwriter still working, then occasionally snaps or falls over. Here she is toying around with the melody, finding brilliant new nuances in her delivery, then strains too far, her vocal turning flat and discordant. She goofs off to cover her embarrassment, as the others race in to obscure her blushes. The encore is ‘Forgive the Dream’, b/w ‘Masterpiece’, the latter pitched somewhere between the anthemic and conversational readings that Lenker will usually choose between.
“How was it?” texts a friend. “First night: 11/10. Tonight: 9/10,” I reply, then tell them some of the above.

***

London: first night
An absolutely gorgeous show, with highlights I mostly hadn’t seen coming. A rampaging ‘Beautiful World’ (which I had admittedly been singing beforehand; all day), a spacious, spacy ‘Incomprehensible’, and ‘anything’ with a hushed mid-section performed to rapt silence, in the rudest of all places to see a show: London. (It is city that has so many virtues but often makes its inhabitants feel as if they are the main character in their own movie.) Plus ‘What I Only Dream Of’, just a touch less personal second time around, with Adrianne accompanied only by Dylan Meek on portable keys.

I had griped to myself in Oslo that ‘Vampire Empire’ was like Suede’s ‘Beautiful Ones’ or the Manics’ ‘If You Tolerate This’: a great band’s signature song that to me feels not just mannered and shallow alongside their best work, but essentially unillustrative, being resented by some diehards for that reason and by others because it’s emblematic of the jump to arenas, and the distancing that creates. Yet tonight, suddenly, the song works. I’ve never heard it even half as good, nor half as triumphal. It is, after all, and for all of ‘Not’’s off-kilter profundity, the band's first howl-it-at-the-sky anthem, their first anthem in any conventional, mass-appeal sense, and despite that seeming like the sort of thing I wouldn’t like at all: how I did. Lenker clearly loved the spectacle of those five minutes too, turning fleetingly into one of those pop princesses who lets the audiences do half the work.

‘Sim Swarm’, ‘Not’ and an explosive ‘Real Love’ get heavy solos, though ‘Not'’s ambient jam, that lengthy Clapton-ish outro, remains. ‘Pterodactyl’, premiered in Paris, is given an outing, and though it’s hard to make the words out, they do seem rather literal. Yes, that is indeed what it would be like to be a pterodactyl. The band play four off the latest album, three of them in the encore, accompanied by the 83-year-old Laraaji, who guests on Double Infinity, and is one of those vaguely mystifying figures with whom Big Thief surround themselves.

If the show lacks the profundity of that first night of the tour, the experience still shimmers in the South London air.

***

London: final night
You feel like a privileged and ungrateful dick saying it to anyone who could only make this show, but it does all seem a little anticlimactic after Saturday (I’m juggling the chronology here, since who wants an anticlimax?). I am up on the balcony, and feeling pretty woozy, so perhaps that is a part of it. “Not sure if I was tired or they were tired or everyone was tired,” a friend says afterwards. It feels to me like the band is trying to capture the intensity of the previous night, and failing, so has taken to miming it, and hoping some chemical reaction might result.

It’s certainly true that the setlist is largely shorn of surprises, which I hope is to do with the demands of a new bassist and a guest star, rather than a sign of relative conformity to come. Travelling home, it occurs to me that, so far on the tour, and accounting of course for music’s utter subjectivity, across these five shows they haven’t played either of the two best songs on the most recent album (‘All Night All Day’ and ‘How Should I Have Known’), just as Adrianne didn’t play two of Bright Future’s most revolutionary numbers (‘Evol’ and ‘Ruined’) across the UK and Ireland tour that shared its name.

When I asked the band about the process of concocting their setlists (traditionally a task led by Krivchenia), Meek described it as “pretty somatic”, and Lenker said it was “based on how we feel”, with Krivchenia adding, “Which could be anything: a specific mood we’re in, or just people throwing out songs, saying, ‘That one would sound good next. It’s intuitive.” In Meek’s words: “Sometimes it’s what we feel like that town or that crowd is wanting that night, then it becomes something reciprocal, or sometimes it’s just for us: ‘Whaddo we wanna do tonight?’ I think we’re just trying to be present and play what we wanna play … set ourselves free.”

On the balcony tonight, the demand is for the Spotify Top Songs. During the show that I’d missed, Adrianne had reportedly led a plodding 15-minute version of ‘No Fear’ that seemed to enrage not only the casual fans but several of the diehards. It was inevitable, given that reaction, that she would try again. Not, I would imagine, as an act of aggressive contrarianism, but because she had had an artistic idea that hadn’t yet come off. In her 2025 online songwriting course, she talked about the idea of ‘drone’ songs, where the artist forces us to meditate on a single phrase. This is her clearest expression yet within that subform (in our interview, Meek and Krivchenia compared the song to ‘Happy with You’, in the sense that adding words would have diluted its meaning), and it promptly proceeds to lose most of the crowd, as much as one can tell a thing like that. Knowing the intention does help, though, and after being at first intrigued by the concept, and then amused by how incredibly bored the people around me have become (some gazing about themselves in the hope of finding something more entertaining upon which to fix their attention, some simply leaving), the song begins to work its loping and cyclical magic upon me.

Despite departing with a vaguely unsatisfied feeling that I’m not sure I’ve ever had from a Big Thief show before, this one is still worth it a thousand times over for the echoes of ‘Change’ and ‘Time Escaping’ from the previous night, for the Beach Boys’-ish ‘Casual Touch’ (which worked despite Adrianne playing the majority of in the wrong key; she likes the song, as she said), and one of those instances of alchemy with which live music in general and this artist in particular can suddenly floor you: a deeply beautiful, solo ‘not a lot just forever’, a song I’ve heard countless times live, but never loved like I do tonight. Amid a little plodding and a fair amount of repetition, those four minutes are just breathtaking.

***

London: third night
What is this, a concert venue for ants?

Life doesn’t have to be linear, you know. Nor writing. Why not climax with how night three made us feel?

The idea of the ‘guitar god’, beloved to rock magazines of a certain vintage, who use phrases like ‘of a certain vintage’, is one that has never meant much to me. Perhaps briefly near the end of ‘Shoplifters of the World Unite’, or whenever I hear the Hammersmith Odeon version of ‘Sultans of Swing’. But give me voices, and words. This evening, though... well.

Because Big Thief on the Saturday at Brixton is hereafter the ‘guitar god’ show. Adrianne is, in the urban parlance, on one tonight. “Euphoric,” says my mate Peter, which says it. There are astounding versions of ‘Incomprehensible’ and ’Words’ to open, the latter spiked with blasts of six-string. (In our interview, she described the song as referencing “this whole other world that’s with you that is non-verbal … this whole universe that is wordless”.)

Lo-res, sure, but clock the atmosphere.

There is the new metal coda to ‘Christmas Day’, a frenzy of headbanging. There is the fingerpicking that dances around the duelling voices on the Fleetwood Mac-ish ‘These Are the Days’. An exuberant ‘Sim Swarm’, its second solo now scraping the ceiling with fuzz. My favourite version of ‘Change’ since the legendary one (when Adrianne walked back on alone at the end of the Shepherd’s Bush run in 2022 and sang it solo, and I never felt afraid of death in the same way after that). During it, she raises her arms to dance, and touches her heart. There’s a stunning ‘Time Escaping’, a ‘Beautiful World’ that comes marauding out of the traps, and a ‘Vampire Empire’ in which Lenker pulls away from the mic to encourage the crowd to belt out entire verses: maybe it’s the “falling” that brings the crowd to this song, maybe it’s the articulation of the soft butch experience, or of mystifying seesaw relationships more broadly. Whatever it is, the place crackles.

And when you take as many risks as they are tonight, things fail too. You experiment by adding Laraaji’s incongruous murmurings to ‘anything’ and it doesn’t work. You embark on a frenetic ‘Not’ and find that you’ve twice misplaced the words. You select ‘Red Moon’ for the encore, giving solo spots to a couple of the band’s brothers, only to find it’s a self-indulgent, haphazard, under-rehearsed mess. You start a guitar break and your ex-husband has to wander across the stage and flick the switch on your amp. You start some freeform experimental poetry in the calm after ‘These Are the Days’ and, yes, you’re the greatest living writer but this isn’t much of anything at all. Yet more often than not you’re in this space where you aim for the heavens and find them far beneath your feet.

Jake Tilson wrote the next day: “Adrianne’s solos were really on fire. When she starts, you never quite know if she’ll land on that perfect moment, you can sense her feeling it out, looking for it, that slight worry draws you in – and OMG did she find it last night.” So she did.

She seemed happy too, but to have much unfinished business. “Take care of each other out there,” Lenker said to close, “we have a lot of work to do in this world together. Let’s keep going.”

***

Setlists:
***

Thanks for reading. The headline this time comes from the lyrics of 'Leaving Her'. Previous tour diaries are here: 2020, 2022, 2023, 2024

Sunday, 23 December 2018

Review of 2018: Part 2 – Live

This part focuses on LIVE things: mostly music and theatre. Part one (the best part) was about books, you can read that here. Without additional ado, here goes:



2018 had its challenges, but its artistic compensations too. If my seven-year-old self could have seen me in the staff box as Morrissey played 'Everyday Is Like Sunday', he would have first asked whether I'd already retired as a footballer, then asked me to explain exactly how my job was a job, and then felt curiously proud. It was a pinch-yourself moment, of which I've been lucky to have many. I may not see eye-to-eye with Mozza on Anne-Marie Waters, but we'll always have Viva Hate. Most of it, anyway. Not 'Bengali in Platforms'. I saw Lynne Ramsey talk about Morvern Callar (her reaction to seeing the movie for the first time since release, "What a weird fucking film"), Sally Rooney talk about Conversations with Friends, and Tom Courtenay get heckled by opponents of the 1960 Education Act during a seminar on Woodfall's kitchen sink cycle. The world seems to have moved on from stand-up Bridget Christie, judging by the words of friends and the empty seats, which is a shame, as she is better than ever and better than anyone else. I was invited to Edith Bowman's Soundtracking with Lenny Abrahamson, lured to the 2018 Panzini Lectures – blank space has never been so much fun – and dragged others to Elis James and John Robins' book tour. Is watching a man drunkenly planking while his friend recreates the whole of Freddie Mercury's Live Aid set in mime entertaining? I'm still not sure, but I think it is.

***

Gigs of the year:


This man was not in attendance.

10. A Celebration of John Williams/Star Wars: A New Hope in Concert (Royal Albert Hall) – Don't worry, they won't all be things that took place in my office and for which I was responsible for the PR. Just three of the first four, and then the #2. The Williams show was originally 'An Evening with John Williams' and then became 'An Evening without John Williams' as he was regrettably checked into hospital while preparing for the show in London. This created an awful lot of work for the Hall's handsome Press Manager, but we found enough Blitz Spirit that wasn't already being used for Brexit to rally round and win the day. I say 'we', it was mostly the London Symphony Orchestra and substitute conductor Dirk Brossé. It was a hell of a night: poignant, nostalgic, life-affirming, with one great piece of music after another: a triumphant Superman, a lilting, heartbreaking Schindler's List. No-one sounds quite like this orchestra. They were back the following month to accompany the original Star Wars (well, the '97 version) in full: as the two suns rose over Tatooine, the LSO rose to meet them.



9. HAIM (Alexandra Palace) – Being a HAIM fan is like being in a cool gang where everyone is really nice. Support came from Maggie Rogers, who rocked up on stage wearing a cape and got increasingly less interesting.



8. The Snowman (Royal Albert Hall) – I watch this every Christmas. For me it is Christmas, though it was only this year that I realised its ending is a metaphor for Christmas as a grown-up – or at least can be. I watched it with thousands of children, and the Royal Philharmonic playing the music live, and the moment when it becomes clear (after a little ingenious use of perspective) that The Snowman and Young David Bowie are flying was as exalting as ever. The kids loved the show, though despite the neat jokes (pineapple nose!), the bit they laughed at most was when the boy gets changed out of his pyjamas and you see his bum. (Technically this was the second half of a show, but it was on in the middle of the afternoon and I do have to do some work.)


This is actually from the 2016 performance, don't tell anyone.

7. Guy Barker's Big Band Christmas (Royal Albert Hall) – This is one of my favourite things we do, and now an indispensable part of my Christmas. Paloma Faith turned up in a Big Hat, but as ever the incomparable Vanessa Haynes stole the show. She is our Aretha and I still don't understand how she isn't the biggest star in the world.


Still not quite sure about this publicity shot tbh.

6. Paul Brady and Andy Irvine (Barbican Centre) – It's not every day you get to see one of your all-time favourite records played live, long after you thought any such opportunity must have passed. The first half was deep cuts and obscurities, the second half that immortal debut album, featuring Irvine's 'Bonny Woodhall' and Brady's immortal 'Arthur McBride', up there with the best seven minutes of my year.


Somewhere in there is Bjӧrk.

5. All Points East: Bjӧrk and Father John Misty (Victoria Park) – I returned to the fray of the 'outdoor gig' after six years, irresistibly tempted by the two headliners. Neither were as good as the last time I saw them (Bjӧrk in 2016, Misty last year), but those were some unscalable bars. Her absurd sets, magical soundscapes and conga of flautists, and his stripped-back singer-songwriter shtick made for a lovely night. Highlights: 'Isobel' and 'Holy Shit'. And the queues for the loos weren't too bad at all.



4. David Ford presents Milk and Cookies 2018 (Bush Hall) – With #s 8 and 7, think of this as the third part of an informal trilogy of Christmas musical traditions, in which Eastbourne's finest digs out the charity buckets, lays off the songs about dashed dreams and macro-economics, and cranks up his guitar for a succession of unmissable covers. This year's highlights included a heartbreaking piano-led take on Lionel Richie's 'Hello', a gorgeous 'God Only Knows' and an uproarious 'Go Your Own Way', before he made his peace with 'YMCA' (once his punchline in a muddled interview with Rolling Stone) in thrilling, climactic fashion. There was space for his own material too, including a metal-ish freakout to 'Requiem'.



3. Courtney Barnett (Brixton Academy) was blistering and brilliant: intense and heavy and heart-open, warts-and-all joyous. Go get her new record – her best yet – and I'll see you there next time.



2. Nine Inch Nails (Royal Albert Hall) – Fourteen years ago I came down from Manchester on the £1 Megabus to see my first gig in London: Nine Inch Nails at Brixton Academy. This time I got to promote the show. That's not a humblebrag, it's just a brag. I knew this would be great, but not how confrontational and brutal and majestic the new material would sound against the old. Amidst songs from The Downward Spiral and The Fragile, the absolute stand-out was a relentless, furious 'Copy of A'. Sensational light show too: snapping timers casting rhythmic, perverse and iconic shadows.



1. Susanne Sundfør: Music for People in Trouble AV (Barbican Centre) – She just gets better and better. A suite of 11 songs, staged with a deceptively tricksy, pixie-ish sense of fun (the whole band dressed alike in hooded black capes, behind a mesh of projections, so Sundfør will be apparently sat behind a guitar at stage left, then pop up at the piano on the far side), but with a greater emotional heft than any gig I have been to in years. The album, and the show, begin with the quiet naïve simplicity of 'Mantra' and build, via 'Undercover' (the song of the decade), to the towering, escalating wall of sound that is 'Mountaineers'. An utterly singular experience that for an hour takes you out of the world, and then allows you to live in it a little more happily.

***

Theatre of the year...

... is quite a grand title considering I've only seen a dozen things, but here are my six favourites.



6. Julius Caesar (Bridge Theatre) – My artistic appreciation of this production was hampered by having an overloaded kidney and a back spasm, meaning that Caesar was the only person who came out of this play worse than me... but through wincing eyes and a cloud of codeine I found much to love, especially the heartstopping 'Et tu, Brute?' set-piece, a sequence so profoundly moving that it has led me to stop using the phrase as a joke. The acting was variable and the Trumpian trappings a fairly unconvincing gimmick, but at its best it made Shakespeare new.



5. Witness for the Prosecution (County Hall) – As purely entertaining as anything I saw this year: a cleverly-staged production of the Agatha Christie story (memorably filmed by Billy Wilder in 1957): never profound or touched by genius, but remarkably enjoyable. It seems I can live without genius now and then.



4. Guys and Dolls in Concert (Royal Albert Hall) – I'm glad this was good, as I spent about a month working intensively on press for the show and we convinced lots of people to attend. Its abridged nature slightly undercut the play's emotional impact, but the numbers were astonishingly good. Clive Rowe's reprisal of his Olivier-winning role as Nicely Nicely meant that a show-stopping 'Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat' was guaranteed, Adrian Lester's 'Luck Be a Lady' was great fun and director Stephen Mear's take on the 'Crapshooters' Ballet' was inspired, but it was Australian cabaret star Meow Meow who absolutely stole the show, shrinking the Hall's notably large stage with her mammoth talent, presence and charisma.


It's-a-me, Iago!

3. Othello (The Globe), in which Mark Rylance (as Iago), manages to play the first half of the play almost exclusively for laughs. Genuinely. Rather than wickedness, Iago's evasiveness commences (at least in appearance) as a kind of shameless, confounded innocence – and his plotting as a clever caper – somehow dragging us to his side. Then he starts to drip cruel and complex villainy, all the time looking like Super Mario. Sheila Atim, as a bullish, knowing Emelia, is excellent in support too. The best five quid I've spent since the Merlin Premier League 1993-4 sticker album.



2. The Sea Wall (The Old Vic) – Andrew Scott stands on an otherwise empty stage for half an hour and breaks our hearts. Theatre at its most primal, modern and moving.



1. The Writer (Almeida Theatre) – Oh to write like this. Ella Hickson's confounding, irresistible, meta-textual exploration of gender and sexuality begins with a two-hander between a misogynistic but superficially reasonable theatre director (Samuel West) and a feminist audience member (Lara Rossi), then snaps back to reveal that these are just characters, and that writer Romola Garai is going somewhere else: perhaps to a quasi-psychedelic lesbian rural idyll (complete with a subsequent, sarcastic post-modern deconstruction), perhaps to the brink of masculinity and beyond, attaining power and control at the expense of her identity. It is so entertaining, so funny, so clever and so packed with ideas that it's exhilarating, but it's also utterly haunting: a profoundly disquieting and disorientating piece of theatre. And it even acknowledges that preaching to a small, committed choir in an Islington theatre is a complete waste of time. Maybe I do need some genius now and again.

***



Exhibitions get just a brief mention this year, as I didn't go to many. My favourite was Ocean Liners: Speed and Style at the V&A, which included genuine bits of the Titanic, alongside a celebration of the Normandie's hilarious levels of excess (perhaps not so hilarious during the Depression), and a crash course in liner design. The Great British Seaside, at the National Maritime Museum, was also a lot of fun, bringing together the work of four very different photographers, each preoccupied with a vanishing culture, whether capturing its inherent quirkiness (Martin Parr), its poetry, offbeat dignity and key to national character (Tony Ray-Jones), or its scale if you put a camera a long way away (I wasn't as into Simon Roberts).

***

Thanks for reading. Part three will be about FILMS.

Sunday, 22 May 2011

Review: Suede at Brixton Academy, May 19 and 20, 2011



Eleven years after the decade ended, eight years after they split for the first time, it seems Suede are finally being recognised as the ‘90s band. The one that really matters.

There were plenty of us doggedly sticking to the belief that their self-titled 1993 record (at the time, the fastest-selling British debut album bar none) and 1994 follow-up Dog Man Star were as good as anything ever released by anybody. But it took a sell-out reunion at the Royal Albert Hall last March to wake up the broadsheet critics and magazine journalists and kickstart a critical re-appraisal.

Then, a couple of months back, the band announced that their five studio records would all be getting a cleaned-up, bumped-up re-release and – more importantly – that they’d be playing the first three live, in their entirety, across three nights at Brixton Academy. Now call me a misguided, pauper-y old misery guts, but I’m not overly enamoured with Coming Up, the unashamedly poppy 1996 album that has as much filler as killer – and only a couple of really special songs. But the first two nights? I could barely dip into my overdraft quickly enough. Just a quick call to my dad to check he was up for it. After all, he first played me The Drowners – taped off a John Peel show – in ’92. He took the 12-year-old me to see Suede at the Manchester Apollo in ‘96. He still listens to Dog Man Star with admirable regularity. And, well, he’s my dad.

***

Suede play the classic album Suede
Brixton Academy – Friday, May 19, 2011


"Last night at Brixton was one of the best crowds I can remember EVER! There was so much love in the room, how could it not have been amazing?" - Brett Anderson

Energy. Pure pulsating, raw energy. I’ve never been to a gig with more of the stuff, the tone set by frontman Brett Anderson’s invigorating performance. He paces, leaps, pines with an expression of pained longing and gets down on his knees. He pants, sweats, shimmies and frequently ventures into the arms of the crowd. By the end his white shirt is transparent, held together by a solitary button, his torso exposed and glistening with sweat as the audience passes into rapture.

As a statement of intent, the opening shrieks of So Young take some beating: “She can! ... start... to walk out!... when she wants...” And setting the rock-out numbers – dealing invariably with youth, sex and death – against the heightened balladry of Pantomime Horse et al works just as well as on record. Perhaps even better, since the heavy numbers are heavier and the troubled ones more desolate and plaintive.

The highlights of the main set (and this is a relative term, since it's all so damn good) are as you’d expect. A flamboyant Animal Nitrate, a raucous Metal Mickey, escapist closer The Next Life (with its glorious, child-like pay-off: “We’ll flog ice-cream/Till the company’s on its knees”) and the peerless four-song suite that forms the centrepiece of the record. Has there ever been an album with a run of four songs like it? Pantomime Horse/The Drowners/Sleeping Pills/Breakdown. It takes the breath away. Brett’s on his knees for a devastating Pantomime Horse and in the audience for The Drowners (“You owe me a button,” he tells a woman in the crowd), before combining with Richard Oakes – a phenomenally gifted guitarist and the unsung hero of these gigs – for a sensitive, mesmeric Sleeping Pills.

But it’s Breakdown that’s the standout. One of my favourite two Suede songs (The Power, since you ask), I’d noted in the review of the Royal Albert Hall show that while they hadn’t played it that night, you couldn’t have everything. This prompted blogger and intimidatingly knowledgeable Suede fan Planet Me to observe that I was being a bit unrealistic as they’d only played Breakdown live “once, EVER”. Well, they did it again on Friday and it was extraordinary. An eloquent evocation of mental disintegration, class A intertia and sexual anguish dominated by a refrain of “You can only go so far... in your mind”, the song is a wonderful marriage of incredibly rich imagery (“Back where the dogs bark/Where still life bleeds the concrete white”) and the saddest tune this side of Mighty Lak' a Rose, before it blasts out in a weighty din, Brett wailing the obscure, Suedehead-esque question: “Does your love only come in a Volvo?” The live version, with its tremulous vocal wracked with fear and regret, and music building from a whisper to a cacophony, was one of the most wonderful things I’ve heard in my time on this earth. If that sounds like hyperbole, then you weren’t there.

After The Next Life brings our primary reason for being here to a close, the group stride off, wait about a minute, then stride back on again, launching into High Rising, a B-side to So Young. As has been observed time and again, Suede’s B-sides are unprecedentedly strong: better than most bands’ A-sides; hell: better than some of their A-sides. After that gentle, sweeping number, we get a heap of these secret gems: the dirgy He’s Dead, My Insatiable One (a special one for Oakes, as he played this on his audition tape in ’94) – which like so much of the night’s show turns into a huge sing-along – an epic To the Birds and the explosive Killing of a Flashboy, which sends the mosh-pit into a meltdown from which my feet are only just beginning to recover. They close with Can’t Get Enough from fourth album Head Music and a couple of hit singles off Coming Up: Trash and Beautiful Ones.

It was a wonderful show: a pivotal, unimpeachable record given the treatment it deserved – sounding utterly familiar and yet somehow fresh, of-the-moment, even new. A great venue, a fantastic crowd and even a smattering of relative rarities given the timeless treatment. The best thing of all? It's Dog Man flipping Star tomorrow.

Setlist:

So Young
Animal Nitrate
She's Not Dead
Moving
Pantomime Horse
The Drowners
Sleeping Pills
Breakdown
Metal Mickey
Animal Lover
The Next Life
Encore:
High Rising
He's Dead
My Insatiable One
To the Birds
Killing of a Flash Boy
Can't Get Enough
Trash
Beautiful Ones

***

Suede play the classic album Dog Man Star
Brixton Academy – Saturday, May 20, 2011


So how do you follow that? Well, we went on the London Eye. Yeah, really good. You can see everything. Then we went to see Suede again, joined by my old friend Phil (whom regular readers will remember from the Thea Gilmore review).

For me, Dog Man Star is the greatest record of all time: breathtakingly ambitious and completely original, with a worldview and an atmosphere of stifling misery and fantastical escape that’s all its own. Lyrically it’s one of the most coherent and articulate albums around – not many writers could kick off a song with a William Blake line, then maintain that level of artistry – and Bernard Butler’s soaring soundscapes are so far ahead of anything attempted by his contemporaries that you’re almost embarrassed for them. Sling in vocal performances of unmatched emotional intensity, a tight but expressive and exciting band, and a photo of a naked guy on a bed and you can understand the fervour it inspires. So what’ll it be like live? Rather good, it turns out.

It mightn’t surprise you to know that I’d been imagining the start of this gig quite a bit. I was pretty excited. And what a set-opener Introducing the Band is, with its methodical rhythm and Ballardian lyrics, the delivery potent and forceful as the band kicks the lid off the atmosphere of bottled-up excitement. A couple of live regulars – We Are the Pigs and Heroine – are as polished and as reliably superb as you’d expect, before an unforgettable rendering of The Wild Ones, an Anderson anthem that saw him dive into ‘50s American culture once more (James Dean and Marilyn also get a name-check on the record), nabbing the title of a macho Brando biker flick for this fey imagining of a flight from suburbia. As the chorus approaches, Brett casts his microphone in our direction, imploring us to join in. We would, Brett, but it’s a bit high.

I'd read that, by 2003, Daddy's Speeding had been turned, Dylan-style, into something more brooding and intriguing than the slightly muted album version. No kidding. The verses are pared down, but with the vocal torment cranked up to breaking point, lending greater resonance to the slightly clichéd subject matter. The chorus is a chugging racket, the climax remarkable in its ferocity and unhappiness. My girlfriend couldn’t make the gig, so I rang her halfway through and held my phone in the air. She could make out enough of it to know what it was. Brilliant. That’s what it was.

I’ve always held a special place in my heart for The Power. I don’t know another Suede fan who regards it as their greatest song, but it’s just got a special something I’ve never come across anywhere else. It's an update of '60s 'kitchen sink' realism, recalling A Taste of Honey (“Or enslaved in a pebble-dash grave/With a kid on the way”) and tracing the John Osborne idea that the loss of Empire meant imperial derring-do ("If you're far over Africa, on the wings of youth") had been replaced by joblessness and stultifying tedium ("Or if you're down in some satellite town and there's nothing you can do"). It's also extremely cinematic and contains perhaps my favourite couplet in all of music; one which perfectly captures the album’s melding of Hollywood romance and British malaise: “You might live in a screen kiss, it’s a glamorous dream/Or belong to a world that’s gone, it’s the English disease.” They never play it live, but this week they did. It was like the album version, only more so, and - singing it with passion and conviction - two thousand voices (and pointing hands) imploring him to give them the power, it seemed Brett was discovering again what a glorious song he’d created.

New Generation is exuberant and This Hollywood Life (the weak link, though it's a relative term) sleazily appealing, before we reach the only four-song stretch that can give Suede's debut a run for its money. A quartet of ballads - The 2 of Us, Black or Blue, The Asphalt World and Still Life - each with a stunning climax, whether string-led and grandiose (Still Life) or tortured beyond belief (The Asphalt World). The first two are transfixing; the others simply jaw-dropping. The Asphalt World, which begins like a kids’ story (“I know a girl/She walks the Asphalt World”) before being torpedoed by heartache, sexual jealousy and thin consolation, shakes with unleashed unhappiness. The band takes centre-stage near the close, as Richard Oakes unleashes a blistering guitar solo, before Brett rejoins them for the final, hurt-wracked chorus. I’ve seen them do Still Life a couple of times before, but it still gets me anew each time: a simple but epic heroin confessional, with a painfully self-aware Anderson trapped behind glass, crawling the walls, but clinging onto the idea that for all that he’s still alive. As this once-in-a-lifetime version draws to a close and the (recorded) strings swell, the crowd lifts its arms as one, for a two-minute ovation. A thank you, for the greatest record ever made.

Then things get really silly. You know Stay Together, the sensational stand-alone single that Suede never perform, because they’re apparently ashamed of it? Well, they play that. An amazing version of that. Preceded by its legendary B-sides: the heartbreaking The Living Dead and fan favourite My Dark Star. That prompts an “Oh, what?” moment from the fella next to me, as his dream setlist materialises before his very ears. Then they roll out four of the biggest successes from the night before: Killing of a Flashboy (which I had been singing all day), So Young, Metal Mickey and Animal Nitrate, as the venue threatens to erupt with delight. And then they stroll off, exiting to deafening applause and hoarse-throated shouts.

We tumble out, sweat-drenched and grinning, exclaiming the same thing: one of the best gigs I’ve ever seen, one of the best nights I’ve ever had. Better than last night? Ooh, hard to say.

Setlist:

Introducing the Band
We Are The Pigs
Heroine
The Wild Ones
Daddy's Speeding
The Power
New Generation
This Hollywood Life
The 2 of Us
Black or Blue
The Asphalt World
Still Life
Encore:
The Living Dead
My Dark Star
Stay Together
Killing of a Flash Boy
So Young
Metal Mickey
Animal Nitrate

***

Please note: The YouTube vids I've linked to aren't mine. Comments are very welcome below - if you want to link to your own review, Flickr feed or whatever, feel free, and I can also tack the urls up in the body of this post.