November 30, 2009
It's cold and it's raining and the weekend is nearly over. The upstairs room at the Jericho Tavern is full of slightly damp people waiting to see Malcolm Middleton, late of Arab Strap, who sings his miserable, bleakly funny songs to heartbreakingly gorgeous guitar.
But first there's support band Curly Hair, like having your dessert before your dinner. They're a guy and two girls on acoustic guitar, violin, two little synthesisers and a glockenspiel, the last three balanced on an ironing board. Positioned somewhere between The Seekers and Alphabet Backwards, they tick every box on the twee indie checklist. 70s knitted tank top: tick. Heavy-rimmed glasses and floppy hair: tick. Self-deprecating manner: tick. Endearing onstage mishaps: tick. Normally I love this sort of thing, but tonight, considering what's ahead, they seem as sugary and insubstantial as a meringue. When the violinist joins them they gain passion and depth. Shame she doesn't feature more.
The main event is something far more nourishing. Middleton is alone on stage, an unassuming man whose self-deprecation is the genuine article, but he has everyone's full, hushed attention from the first moment. It must not be fun to be him. It's cathartic to listen to him. This is the man who tried for Christmas No. 1 a few years ago with a song called 'We're All Going To Die'. The audience is rapt as he takes us on a journey through memories of chilly student bedsits, failed relationships and social ineptitude. It sounds awful but actually it's strangely cleansing. "Funny like Beckett is funny," says my companion.
His last words, sung softly, are "…and the songs are sh*te." Someone calls out affectionately from the back, "But you're not bad at the guitar." He's wrong. They're right.
But first there's support band Curly Hair, like having your dessert before your dinner. They're a guy and two girls on acoustic guitar, violin, two little synthesisers and a glockenspiel, the last three balanced on an ironing board. Positioned somewhere between The Seekers and Alphabet Backwards, they tick every box on the twee indie checklist. 70s knitted tank top: tick. Heavy-rimmed glasses and floppy hair: tick. Self-deprecating manner: tick. Endearing onstage mishaps: tick. Normally I love this sort of thing, but tonight, considering what's ahead, they seem as sugary and insubstantial as a meringue. When the violinist joins them they gain passion and depth. Shame she doesn't feature more.
The main event is something far more nourishing. Middleton is alone on stage, an unassuming man whose self-deprecation is the genuine article, but he has everyone's full, hushed attention from the first moment. It must not be fun to be him. It's cathartic to listen to him. This is the man who tried for Christmas No. 1 a few years ago with a song called 'We're All Going To Die'. The audience is rapt as he takes us on a journey through memories of chilly student bedsits, failed relationships and social ineptitude. It sounds awful but actually it's strangely cleansing. "Funny like Beckett is funny," says my companion.
His last words, sung softly, are "…and the songs are sh*te." Someone calls out affectionately from the back, "But you're not bad at the guitar." He's wrong. They're right.