A fresh December eve, accompanied by an intrepid father
though quietly brimming with nostalgia fuelled ecstasy no doubt stemming from
our freeloading musical bounty having won a pair of tickets from an email draw
in low budget Devon music freezine, we drifted through flocks of receding
hairlines. I felt veritably marginalised. Finding myself a sensible seat and fittingly offered half a cider we were greeted
with bare footed, whispy haired ozzie Kim Churchill; singer song-writing one
man band, harmonicas brazen and brandishing his guitar with arachnid type
dexterity authentically concocting an auditory aperitif, convincingly clad in
an open necked denim article. A quivering halo of locks empasionately bobbing
as vocals broaden. He offers an ultimatum- ‘acoustic contemplation on the
concept of rage’ or a ‘psychadelic rock’ umber, a delirious interjection of
‘DISCO!’ from a swaying punter to a hearty middle class chortle confirms the
latter in a notably un‘psych’ed rendition. A driving outback spin on Dyaln’s ‘Subterranean
Homesick Blues’ seduces his observers to sporadic standing ovations and a pat on the back from
a paternal Bragg. Indicative of the age, a flurry of Samsungs and HTCs protrude
from the sea of middle class parent’s pockets, proclaiming to their followers
of their CONCERT. GOSH HOW YOUTHFUL OF YOU! I catch mutterings of ‘real ale
festivals’ and patiently press a stress inducing game of Candy Crush. Bragg
enters in a wake of polished angsty triumph, ‘Nobody Know Nothing Anymore’ sets
the tone, we are subservient to your ideological preachings. He sings of cyber
surveillance, scientific progression and inequality with an Americana undertone
(to which he informs us is ‘country music for people who like The Smiths’) with
a peddle guitar prevalent. Famed for his patriotism he is soon to declare an
adoration of the archaic British brew, aptly namedropping his associate
Morrisey as a fellow lover of a cuppa to soothe the vocals. Sporting a newfound
speckled grey fuzz of facial hair and an all American Cowboy shirt he admits
his boots are ‘a little bit pointier than before’. The anedcotes however one
could have checked off a premeditated list- Syria, Twitter, the SNP, the glory
of the old school protest songs (a suitable nod to Woody Guthrie) alongside
Tory cynicism, Socialist cries of DEMOCRACY FOR THE PEOPLE , globalisation,
radicalism, THATCHERITE BRITAIN and gender constrictions with ‘Sexuality’
dedicated to recently forthcoming Tom Daley. He trails the nouveau, grinding to
a halt at a surprisingly delightful Kraftwerk infused ‘New England’ with a
verse dedicated to fated Kirsty Maccoll. He emerges for the encore rehydrated
yet furrowed with poignant news, after a stomping ‘There is Power in a Union’ he
addresses the crowd. ‘Tonight we have lost a father.. Nelson Mandela, I’m sorry
to have to tell you’ to which spectators let out protestations, ‘NO!’ followed
by cannonic sharp inhalations of breath, it’s a suitably moving tribute and one
that defined the night to be engrained in the memories of many. As a product of
95 I felt somewhat disparate from the wave of songs condoning 80s political
oppression and the multitude of his nostalgia wading followers. Regardless,
Bragg’s ideological groundings are undeniably relevant to today’s society and
his aptitude as a song writer and performer is formidable, even 30 years on
from the release his first album.
No comments:
Post a Comment