Mr Twizz Twangle has a reputation for dividing rooms like no other performer. Such polarization certainly occurred at The Port Mahon last night. Some cheered and interacted, even to the extent, later on, of receiving Mr Twangle’s electrically illuminated jacket as a gift (he said he wasn’t going to use it any more). Others, early in his performance, fled for the relative calm of downstairs. To be fair, some of these others had been ambushed with a trumpet.
So what is so wrong with the chap? While the vocal microphone betrayed all the acts at various times by taking random breaks from function, it must be admitted that singing is not Twizz’s strongest suit. Such a handicap might deter a lesser spirit from performance. But Twizz Twangle, in addition to rather weak vocals, has a guitar, a trumpet, abundant energy and enthusiasm, and a breezy disregard for the norms of performance, and he puts all these substitute qualities to work without hesitation.
He bounces. He climbs. He makes forays. He strums. He trumpets. He tries to sing. He bounces some more. Sometimes the songs are classics where you know the words, or quiet ones where you can just about hear them. At other times I found myself wishing I could hear what he was singing, because the small bits I could hear were quite funny.
He’s like a puppy, really, albeit a bald one in a cloth cap. His eagerness to please made me want to be there. I can sympathise with those who have different priorities.
Certainly he was more fun than the following band, who caused even more people to leave the room. They seemed like two nice chaps, but their music was too depressing for me to want to work out the lyrics, a different thing altogether from being keen but baffled. “Too many minor chords” said a friend, and he may have been right.
The Gs, who finished off proceedings, are numerous in number and have a consequently huge sound. I would have preferred to hear them in a large outdoor location where I might a) get a tiny bit further away and b) dance around a lot. They are all clearly accomplished musicians. Sometimes their jam lacks clearly defined fruit pieces, other times it’s just fine. In the confined space I was slightly relieved when the bagpiper had to leave early. I enjoyed the expressions on the faces of the many drummers when they could just contain themselves no longer and erupted in accelerated thumping, though I think the guest flautist found these outbursts a little tricky to work with.
All in all, an enjoyable evening, marred only by the gents’ toilets being an inch deep in water of uncertain provenance.
So what is so wrong with the chap? While the vocal microphone betrayed all the acts at various times by taking random breaks from function, it must be admitted that singing is not Twizz’s strongest suit. Such a handicap might deter a lesser spirit from performance. But Twizz Twangle, in addition to rather weak vocals, has a guitar, a trumpet, abundant energy and enthusiasm, and a breezy disregard for the norms of performance, and he puts all these substitute qualities to work without hesitation.
He bounces. He climbs. He makes forays. He strums. He trumpets. He tries to sing. He bounces some more. Sometimes the songs are classics where you know the words, or quiet ones where you can just about hear them. At other times I found myself wishing I could hear what he was singing, because the small bits I could hear were quite funny.
He’s like a puppy, really, albeit a bald one in a cloth cap. His eagerness to please made me want to be there. I can sympathise with those who have different priorities.
Certainly he was more fun than the following band, who caused even more people to leave the room. They seemed like two nice chaps, but their music was too depressing for me to want to work out the lyrics, a different thing altogether from being keen but baffled. “Too many minor chords” said a friend, and he may have been right.
The Gs, who finished off proceedings, are numerous in number and have a consequently huge sound. I would have preferred to hear them in a large outdoor location where I might a) get a tiny bit further away and b) dance around a lot. They are all clearly accomplished musicians. Sometimes their jam lacks clearly defined fruit pieces, other times it’s just fine. In the confined space I was slightly relieved when the bagpiper had to leave early. I enjoyed the expressions on the faces of the many drummers when they could just contain themselves no longer and erupted in accelerated thumping, though I think the guest flautist found these outbursts a little tricky to work with.
All in all, an enjoyable evening, marred only by the gents’ toilets being an inch deep in water of uncertain provenance.