Off to Dolan’s Warehouse later for Gavin Friday. I never saw him live before so I’m looking forward to this, although I’m not entirely sure what to expect. Perhaps some sort of Brechtian madness, maybe a quiet and introspective sharing of creativity, or for all I know perhaps a demented burlesque with acrobats, wild animals and strippers.
Will Bono jump out of his pocket and save the economy?
I just don’t know, but that’s half the fun of it. Yes, I’m lamentably ignorant of this man’s work. My hands are up in the air.
But at least it means that tonight I discover something new to me, and that can’t be a bad thing, can it?
If I get home at a reasonable hour, in a reasonable condition, I might have some pictures and perhaps a little review?
The night is my lobster.
Later. (Much later).
Maybe it’s because Dolan’s Warehouse is where I first heard Jack L, but I couldn’t help making comparison’s with Gavin Friday. And truth to tell, Gavin puts on a better show. He’s a powerful singer and a formidable stage presence. (He’s also a man with remarkably good knees, given his age. He must be taking his fish-oil capsules, because he’s able to crouch on the stage and leap back to his feet like a youth a third of his age).
I didn’t know much about him. Somehow, that Virgin Prunes thing passed me by, perhaps because of all the silly names, but after hearing Gavin last night, I’m sorry I missed out. What a great bag of songs he pulled out last night, and all delivered over a pumping backing band with the sort of visceral bass thump that some of us grew up loving.
Absolute commitment and energy, with a raw, syncopated decadence hinting at dark acts in the dockside taverns of old Europe. Of course, for I know, he might just as easily have been singing about football, or pastry-making, but that’s how it came across to me anyway. What’s one to do but report the feeling?
And this night, the feeling was good.