Ray Davies: kink in the armour

Here's another recent review that I'm waiting for The Fly to post on its site. In 2007, Ray Davies put on one of the most enjoyable shows I've seen. He played loads of old Kinks hits and belted them out with genuine enthusiasm. His voice was spot on and all the new tracks, from his solo album 'Other People's Lives', sounded great. I saw him again years later and he was just going through the motions, tossing off the likes of Lola with all the enthusiasm of a man who's been obliged to play the songs for about 40 years. I decided not to pay to see him again and only covered this show out of curiosity. It was a fun night, but I should probably have passed on it and continued to think of him as he was in five years ago.

Ray Davies

Glasgow Royal Concert Hall

12/10/12

After sheepishly asking our permission to play new material, a surprisingly self aware Ray Davies retracts his request on the grounds that tonight's audience has turned up purely in the hope of hearing decades old Kinks classics. Gone, it seems, is the misanthrope who penned 1981's sneering 'Give the People What they Want', not to mention the music industry survivor with two stellar solo albums under his belt. The Ray Davies of 2012 is an unrepentant crowd pleaser and wastes little time before dusting off the hits.

Stripped down renditions of 'Sunny Afternoon' and 'Dedicated Follower of Fashion' arrive early in the set and prompt mass sing-alongs, as do inevitable full band performances of 'Lola' and 'Till the End of the Day'. However, while the crowd's goodwill toward the performer is infectious, there's no mistaking the fact that he's sleepwalking through the material. The lyrics to 'Autumn Almanac' are repeatedly fluffed, while an a capella link between 'Where Have All the Good Times Gone?' and 'Tired of Waiting for You' seems careless and unfocussed, Davies absent mindedly veering from hit to hit with little sense of purpose.

The three most recent songs come from 1971's underrated Muswell Hillbillies album and are played with refreshing conviction, 'Oklahoma, USA' in particular. The ironic triumphalism of 'Victoria' feels especially pointed following the singer's turn at the Olympics' closing ceremony, while 'Waterloo Sunset' is presented before us with the love of a proud parent. Davies is clearly still capable of hitting the mark whenever the mood strikes him and, churlish as it may seem to complain about too nostalgic a set from one of the greatest singles acts of his time, sells himself short by bowing down to obligation. Not that tonight's audience notices, bellowing out each word with evangelical fervour. Whatever the evening's shortcomings, Ray Davies has earned himself a lifetime pass and, for most, just to be in the same room as him is an honour in itself.

Lewis Porteous

Grizzly Bear: the spirit of Prog

I've a backlog of live reviews that are yet to go up on The Fly's website. The advantage of posting content online is the immediacy with which it can reach people, but I supppose everything has to be vetted by busy editors. Anyway, since no-one reads this vanity site, it's OK for me to post the pieces here in the meantime.

This is the latest review, of last weekend's Grizzly Bear show.  My girlfriend had a ticket for this, so I covered it as a way of accompanying her. She describes the concert as the best thing she's ever seen, but I wouldn't go that far. It was good though, just lacking in any sense of spontaneity or real excitement. It was almost like prog rock in places, which surprised me coming from such a hip band. It's as if punk never happened. Ultimately, I enjoyed it but didn't have much of an opinion of the night, hence my stalling for time intro.

Finally, this was the third time I've seen Ireland's Villagers perform as a support act. Still the most utterly risible and pretentious lyricist I've ever encountered.

 

Grizzly Bear

The Barrowlands, Glasgow

20/10/12

The Fly is pulled aside to undergo a routine bag inspection immediately upon arrival at The Barrowlands. After some vigorous rummaging, a sealed pack of moth balls and bottle of Vicks Nasal Spray are uncovered. The security man holds them aloft with an inquisitive look on his face, before wearily concluding “At least you're not a fucking hipster.” What does he mean by this? We head upstairs to find out and are greeted by only a modest number of ironic moustaches and 90s Hip Hop t-shirts. People of all demographics have shown up and the atmosphere couldn't be more pleasant.

If the world is intent on proclaiming Grizzly Bear the quintessential hipster band, it's mainly because they're based in glamorous Brooklyn. It helps that their records sound slightly clinical and detached of course, but to suggest that the group make anything besides creative, accessible pop music is a bit of a stretch. Tonight's performance is that of a combo whose avant garde edges and wilful eclecticism are indications of increasing confidence and artistic maturity, rather than nods to prevailing trends.

Lifted from this year's Shields album, opener 'Speak in Rounds' is played with a forceful dub undertone and stuttering sense of momentum. The following 'Sleeping Ute', an already ragged slice of folk rock, is stripped of electronic embellishment to emphasise its rootsy core. When things are eventually slowed down as on 'Foreground', the band's hold on the audience becomes apparent. Their playing is hypnotic even when they shy away from overtly complex arrangements. The fact that fan favourite 'Two Weeks', requested many throughout the show, survives its own hype is testament to the substantial nature of their songs. In fact, it's a stunning acoustic take on 'All We Ask' that illustrates the full extent of the Grizzlies' versatility and proves that less is often more with these restless musos.

Lewis Porteous

Mark Little- THEbullsh*tARTIST

Of all the reviews I wrote during this year's Fringe Festival, this is my favourite. Normally it's a bit of a drag having to attend potentially rubbish shows alone on a Saturday night, but ticket prices were so expensive for Mark Little that I felt almost priviledged to have been allocated his. Besides which, he's a sort of minor celebrity and there's nothing more thrilling than seeing one of them in person. The show was baffling and watching it felt like participating in a psychological study.

I like the review mainly because I got to write the word 'cunt' next to the show's pathetically censored (probably not by Little himself, to be fair) title.

With all due respect to Mark Little, the man is a dinosaur. He's been performing comedy since the early 80s and retains some of the era's incendiary spirit, but his first Edinburgh show since 2005 is a relic from a bygone age. Ignorant of the industry's current climate, he damns contemporary acts for their perceived tendency to insult audiences and posits himself as some kind of approachable, right-thinking alternative. The former Neighbours star may shudder when uttering David Cameron's name and repeatedly brands Rupert Murdoch a cunt, but despite THEbullsh*tARTIST's often honourable intentions, he seems more confused by the present than he'd ever care to admit.

Essentially delivering a 40 minute preamble followed by a meagre helping of solid material, Little rails against a world of lies and bureaucracy with no focus whatsoever. Though he acknowledges that his allocated hour is hardly long enough for him to make an impact on the audience (he says that it takes him at least 30 minutes to “get to know everyone”), he nevertheless wastes half this time engaging with tedious drunk latecomers and probing us for irrelevant information. Keen to appear as an intellectual and an everyman, the comic struggles to reconcile both sides of his character and subsequently fails to do justice to either.

Does Little support the Occupy movement referenced many times throughout the hour, or is he an armchair pundit who thinks all that's needed to solve our problems is old fashioned common sense? We're still unclear as we exit the venue, the comedian's closing line “Take it outside, let's get stuck into them!” ringing meekly in our ears.

Chris Martin- Spot the Difference: who edits the editors?

Since graduating, I've submitted copy to a variety of publications, often thanklessly and without payment, in the hope of creating a strong folio of work under my name. I'm now happy with the standard of my writing and look forward to seeing each piece in print or online, a far cry from how I felt when I started out. I'm getting better then, not that you'd necessarily be able to tell from reading the publications themselves. You see, occasionally an editor, who cares less about your name being tarnished than you do, will make changes that are objectively detrimental to your writing. They're often very busy and can't be expected to pay as much thought to all submissions as you do your own, but it's frustrating whenever this happens.

My recent review of the comedian Chris Martin is a case in point. Here's what I submitted:

The performer cuts a trim figure on stage, sports a fashionable t-shirt/cardigan combo and leers at us from behind neatly cultivated facial hair. He speaks of relatable, everyday phenomena. Backed by a major promoter, he is being bred for success and will go far so long as he continues to share his name with an existing mega-celebrity.

It's tempting to dismiss Chris Martin as a generic young standup, lacking in originality yet poised for national success. Outside of a significant poster campaign, there's little to distinguish him from countless other hopefuls, each desperately clambering for a slot on Live at the Apollo.

A tricky proposition to market, the superficially bland 26 year old shines in the quality of his frequently mundane material and takes time to reveal his considerable strengths.

An opening routine concerning a squirrel-triggered epiphany is too far fetched to impress, but Martin soon changes tack. Dwelling on culinary politics for much of Spot the Difference, his observations are so broad and universal that he seems to conjure solid material out of nothing. Emitting the verbal tic “but food is weird, I'm obsessed with food,” between each gag, he appears to act outside his own will, musing on vegetarianism, biscuits and cheese like a man possessed. Only when he reads from his father's food diary, an interesting idea in itself, does he slow down and relinquish his command of the audience. Frequently inane but always good natured, the hour flies by.

So there you have it. Eagle eyed readers will notice that I don't name Chris Martin until the second paragraph. Why? Because I'm emphasising his superficial blandness and generic qualities. The opening is deliberately inspecific because at first glance he could be any mid-20s comic on the circuit. Whether you think the way the review is structured is clever or not, you can't deny that it has a structure.

Now, imagine my disappointment when I see the fruits of my labour in print:

Chris Martin cuts a trim figure on stage, sports a fashionable t-shirt/cardigan combo and leers at us from behind neatly cultivated facial hair. He speaks of relatable, everyday phenomena. Backed by a major promoter, he is being bred for success and will go far so long as he continues to share his name with an existing mega-celebrity.

It's tempting to dismiss Chris Martin as a generic young standup...

It now seems that I am obsessed with Chris Martin, describing his appearance in too much detail and repeating his full name too frequently. Do dear in mind that the text pasted above appeared under a bold heading which stated the man's name.

Once more, a decent piece of work instantly becomes a source of shame. Getting paid for it was admittedly some consolation.