Cat Power - Live

Cat Power
Shepherds Bush Empire, London
Sunday 27th January

You don’t quite know what to expect from Cat Power. She never seems sure what to expect from herself. Tonight, she is an intoxicating mix of alluring emotion, kooky elusiveness and vocal presence.

The start is pedestrian as she pitter-patters onstage, suitably understated in waistcoat and jeans. Her four-piece band, The Dirty Delta Blues, are restless, a note shy, a foot wrong. ‘Metal Heart’ simmers by, adequate but uninspired; Cat saunters, comfortably subdued. It takes the contiguous charm of ‘Dark End Of The Street’ to pierce the normality of the show, coaxing a quivering croon from Cat and sparking her into newfound theatrical interaction.

Suddenly, the crowd is laughing at her exaggerated cockney impressions, swooning at a stylish take of ‘Naked If I Want To’, gaping at a smoky cascade through ‘New York, New York.’ Cat Power looks like a star, relaxed amid the luxurious sound she is conjuring. Yet a tension remains. She dances with flowers, but stays strangely side on, rarely centre-stage. She seeks refuge in her band, never assured the whole business isn’t a mirage. “I’m so sorry,” she says, sincerely, after merely dropping her mic. “Turn the spotlight off."

It is this self-conscious complexity burrowing within that charges the potential to create striking moments like ‘Lived In Bars.’ In a set heavy with covers, it is the reinterpretations of her own tracks that are most intriguing. The song, underpinned by a melting melody, wrestles with its singers contradictions. Ethereal subtlety becomes anguished howls, passing into joyous release before reconnecting with a lost hopefulness as the drums fade out.

The soulful American retains shards of mystery as she disappears offstage, returning with fresh drinks and a ban-defying cigarette. She’s playful again, pitching paper in baseball fashion into the audience, casually coasting in jazz-tinged renditions of ‘Could We’, and ‘Willie.’ Her tribute to Dylan, ‘Song To Bobby’, is more revealing. An open tenderness amplifies her wounded vocals, spreading warmth. The atmosphere is inclusive - tight but never constricting. Cat feeds on this, drawing you closer with the bashful imagery of ‘The Moon.’

Ultimately though, there is always distance. The adorable sorrow in her voice as she ends with Otis Redding’s ‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long’ never quite gives way to reckless abandonment; you get the feeling there’s more, she’s subconsciously holding back. This enigmatic nature is undoubtedly part of her attraction, and probably keeps her just about sane. As she departs without encore, scattering petals as she goes, those present appear satisfied to witness as much as she is willing to show.

Seasick Steve - Live

Seasick Steve
Astoria, London
Thursday 24th January 2008

If you see an old haggard man wearing dungarees staggering towards you, a guitar slung over his shoulder and a bottle of Jack in his hand, you probably cross the street. If he happens to be Seasick Steve, you join 2000 other people and watch him play blues so raw and raucous you don’t know whether to take that whiskey from him or buy him another bottle.

After emerging with a manic grin from the eager crowd, he reels straight into ‘Things Go Up’, churning up a primitive riff before orchestrating aurally-pleasing audience accompaniment. The Astoria’s terraced style aids his aim of producing a sound “like a gospel choir,” but the results owe more to infectious enthusiasm than acoustics. With each brash stroke of his guitar, his songs, with the simplicity and authenticity that define their singer, marry visceral rage with loveable ease.

This twisting of tenderness and harsh reality is evident in his freewheeling storytelling. As he casually reminisces of simpler times, he is glib without being deceptive, indulgent but never boring. The set is loose, but hangs on to the exciting edge of uncertainty. A willingness to experiment is seen when KT Tunstall appears to duet on ‘Happy Man.’ The Scottish singer’s voice is slightly lost underneath Steve’s coarse vocals, but it’s a moment as charming as it is bizarre.

Seasick Steve’s horizons are limited, but his portraits are illuminating. ‘Cut My Wings’, which sees the drummer of former band The Level Devils add depth to Steve’s instinctive playing, isn’t particularly different from ‘Fallen Off A Rock.’ Most songs see a deep, booming sound rumbling over narrow, charged lyrics. There isn’t much to analyse or build on, the music feeds on a more blatant, physical attachment.

The secret is the passion the tracks are played with and the sheer geniality of Seasick Steve. He sings a soft, clumsy melody to a girl lifted from the audience; he looks genuinely startled by the adulation. “I wanna say if my mama could see me now,” he chuckles, wide-eyed. “But I didn’t like her too much.”

As he brings his grandson onstage to play tambourine on the emphatic force of ‘Dog House Boogie,’ the sense of occasion grows. The song refuses to end, Steve grinding the notes into the ground with savage intensity. It finally collapses inwards and the crowd reluctantly retreats. The prevailing feeling is that one of the good guys has made it.

Lightspeed Champion - Falling Off The Lavender Bridge

Having garnered critical praise for the unruly din his former band Test Icicles made, Dev Hynes decided he didn’t like all that blaring mischievousness after all. The result is another new musical identity, another rubbish name, but surprisingly not another shoddy album.

It seems Hynes was hiding an aptitude for melody all along. Falling Off The Lavender Bridge is considered; glossy but understated, a seemingly light listen, yet resonant. Perhaps the source of this thoughtfulness is producer and long-time Bright Eyes collaborator Mike Mogis. Lightspeed Champion doesn’t reproduce anything like the juvenile profundity Conor Oberst sometimes conjures, but he picks up the country-tinged romanticism and shattering simplicity.

It slides towards flimsiness at times, notably on the pointless 72 seconds of ‘All To Shit.’ and the clunky piano of ‘Salty Water.’ It makes no attempts at innovation musically, and is lyrically rooted in the present. This is an album for the generation that will get the references to The OC, and not squeam at lines like “Wake up and smell the semen.”

However, it is most outrageous in its inoffensiveness. If you’re expecting the cutting edge of cool, Lightspeed Champion isn’t it. Sure, he names a track ‘Let The Bitches Die’, but generally he’s heartfelt, sincere and pretty wholesome. Your mum would listen to the likes of ‘No Surprise,’ if she ever takes Michael Buble off repeat.

The possibility of commercial success is there in ‘Tell Me What It’s Worth’, the kind of hysterically likeable tune that perforates your skin on repeat listens. But the album’s real vigour lies in ‘Midnight Surprise’, a decadent 10-minute voyage full of pensive sadness and weighted irony. It revels in its own inconsistencies, an emotive frolic that captures the feel of this loveably self-indulgent record.

The album invites few conclusions, but is an intriguing insight into a bemusing man. After trawling along in projects his heart wasn’t in, he seems to have found some purpose in these songs. They aren’t masterpieces, they’re easily dismissed portions of pop more easy to discard than find. But if you’ve got the time and inclination, it’s worth persevering.

I'm Not There Original Soundtrack

These songs were written by music’s most gifted songsmith and are reinterpreted here by a selection of today’s most talented artists. This sounds like a winning formula, but actually produces a shapeless batch that rouses as much infuriation as inspiration.

Luminaries such as Sonic Youth, Antony & The Johnsons and Jack Johnson attempt the impossible in covering Bob Dylan for the soundtrack to his upcoming experimental biopic. His voice is so distinctive that hearing the likes of ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’ in anything except his absorbing, hoarse hum generally sounds alien and ineffective.

However, many people find Dylan’s tone more excruciating than exhilarating, so this album is a chance to experience his songs with more acceptable audibility. Cat Power brings a simmering charm to ‘Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again’ that is alluring and effortless, while Sufjan Stevens conjures a sweet, marauding spell with ‘Ring Them Bells.’

In a 34-track collection misfires are acceptable, but their regularity is disappointing. While Yo La Tengo’s performance of ‘Fourth Time Around’ is perfectly adequate, it sounds so similar to Dylan’s version you merely yearn for that. Eddie Vedder, Stephen Malkmus and Jeff Tweedy’s efforts all border on karaoke impressions.

The most effective renditions are those that alter the originals significantly. Karen O blends Dylan’s gravel-tinted elusiveness with her own kooky, feline snarl to muster an atmosphere of agitated fun on ‘Highway 61 Revisited.’ Willie Mason adds country grandeur on ‘Senor’, The Black Keys bring their deliciously filthy sound to ‘Wicked Messenger’ and suddenly the scope of Dylan’s versatility is partly found.

Nevertheless, the brilliance and ambiguousness of his character is never captured, as Sonic Youth’s cover of ‘I’m Not There’ shows. It’s moody, heartfelt and professional. But the album ends with Dylan singing the same track. It’s haunting, memorable - and superior. This soundtrack can serve as an introduction to his music, an antidote for his voice’s critics and an interesting portrayal of various artists being challenged. But by the end, you’ll be reaching for Blonde On Blonde, or The Freewheelin’, or Blood On The Tracks, or…..