Thursday, February 09, 2012
A Gig Very Much Of Two Halves
Going to see someone largely on the basis of one song you love is always an interesting proposition. Paul Kelly's "Every Fucking City" is one such song, even if I have an album from around that period and I saw him the thick end of a decade ago too. I've been sat on this ticket for over three months, and given that the one previous sighting was in a park with tens of thousands of people, a night in a local club playing to tens of people looks a slightly different kind of spectacle.
Emily Barker is the second support - I missed the first due to momentary difficulties reconciling a building I last went in when it was an Italian restaurant with a venue that doesn't push the boat out when it comes to self-labelling or signwriting. It takes something special for someone to open with a song which includes enough fading vocal moments to suggests the song is coming to an end and then building it all up again despite the plausible unfamiliarity of the crowd with the turn. Emily's voice has the clarity of Kate Wolf, and alternately sounds like Julianne Regan singing Dolly Parton and someone impossible to compare to anyone else. It's fair to say I'm impressed.
Two acoustic songs in, one of which I'm very familiar with, and nephew Dan Kelly steps up to add some electric guitar over Paul's acoustic. What should be an awkward mix of electric and acoustic sounds turns out magnificently as Dan sprinkles shimmering flurries of notes over Midnight Rain, mimicking the album tones and never succumbing to the temptation to rock out except when the song requires. There's a healthy family vibe on the stage, and a crowd lapping up Paul's occasional stories and additional explanatory notes about where certain songs come from.
And the songs are often story songs, Mick Thomas or Richard Thompson universal humanity story songs where the detail never clutters the picture but puts the emotions in a concrete context, with a side order of humour and pathos. It's a beautiful introduction to some songs that might be with me for some time.
And then it happens. Gigs where acoustic artists don't blow the speakers with feedback and volume for its own sake are not infrequently blighted by people who'd rather make their own noise than listen to what's coming from the people everyone else wants to listen to. But this one is extra special.
The general vibe shifts as people move away from our shouty friend, and nobody looks impressed. Then the repeated 'I love you Paul' shouts turn into a move towards the middle of the crowd, quickly followed by him telling someone to fuck off. I'm not afraid of a bit of language, I love 'Every Fucking City' after all, but things begin to look as ugly as our shouty friend, and he carries on in much the same vein.
And then it really happens, as the frustration gets to someone else who dumps most of a pint down the neck of you-know-who. There's a bit of shouting, he pushes her and half a dozen people step forward and eventually he calms down enough to walk off, but not before making threats that 'I'll see you outside and stab you in the throat' and declaring 'I'm Australian, who the fuck are you?' as if shared passports with the turn entitles him to act the clown with impunity. I don't know whether this is an export version of the Bogan kind or just an evening ruined by some tool who lacks the self-awareness to understand that his floor show isn't what everyone else came for. Either way, I'm biting my tongue, because I've talked myself around the edge of trouble enough times before without trying too hard and I don't really want to start anything else with this drunken shouty oaf - it's one of the risks of getting involved with arguing with idiots that you get brought down to their level and the casual onlooker can't tell which is which.
Paul Kelly was tremendous, the expat clown who feels so attached to his genius is rather less so, so take this as a warning and hope that it's only Paul, Dan and co that turn up in your town and that this imbecile is somewhere further down the road.
_
Emily Barker is the second support - I missed the first due to momentary difficulties reconciling a building I last went in when it was an Italian restaurant with a venue that doesn't push the boat out when it comes to self-labelling or signwriting. It takes something special for someone to open with a song which includes enough fading vocal moments to suggests the song is coming to an end and then building it all up again despite the plausible unfamiliarity of the crowd with the turn. Emily's voice has the clarity of Kate Wolf, and alternately sounds like Julianne Regan singing Dolly Parton and someone impossible to compare to anyone else. It's fair to say I'm impressed.
Two acoustic songs in, one of which I'm very familiar with, and nephew Dan Kelly steps up to add some electric guitar over Paul's acoustic. What should be an awkward mix of electric and acoustic sounds turns out magnificently as Dan sprinkles shimmering flurries of notes over Midnight Rain, mimicking the album tones and never succumbing to the temptation to rock out except when the song requires. There's a healthy family vibe on the stage, and a crowd lapping up Paul's occasional stories and additional explanatory notes about where certain songs come from.
And the songs are often story songs, Mick Thomas or Richard Thompson universal humanity story songs where the detail never clutters the picture but puts the emotions in a concrete context, with a side order of humour and pathos. It's a beautiful introduction to some songs that might be with me for some time.
And then it happens. Gigs where acoustic artists don't blow the speakers with feedback and volume for its own sake are not infrequently blighted by people who'd rather make their own noise than listen to what's coming from the people everyone else wants to listen to. But this one is extra special.
The general vibe shifts as people move away from our shouty friend, and nobody looks impressed. Then the repeated 'I love you Paul' shouts turn into a move towards the middle of the crowd, quickly followed by him telling someone to fuck off. I'm not afraid of a bit of language, I love 'Every Fucking City' after all, but things begin to look as ugly as our shouty friend, and he carries on in much the same vein.
And then it really happens, as the frustration gets to someone else who dumps most of a pint down the neck of you-know-who. There's a bit of shouting, he pushes her and half a dozen people step forward and eventually he calms down enough to walk off, but not before making threats that 'I'll see you outside and stab you in the throat' and declaring 'I'm Australian, who the fuck are you?' as if shared passports with the turn entitles him to act the clown with impunity. I don't know whether this is an export version of the Bogan kind or just an evening ruined by some tool who lacks the self-awareness to understand that his floor show isn't what everyone else came for. Either way, I'm biting my tongue, because I've talked myself around the edge of trouble enough times before without trying too hard and I don't really want to start anything else with this drunken shouty oaf - it's one of the risks of getting involved with arguing with idiots that you get brought down to their level and the casual onlooker can't tell which is which.
Paul Kelly was tremendous, the expat clown who feels so attached to his genius is rather less so, so take this as a warning and hope that it's only Paul, Dan and co that turn up in your town and that this imbecile is somewhere further down the road.
