|
It took him a few years, grunge’s soulful dreamer,
but he got there, finally. ‘Blackberry Belle’, released
last year, was in many ways the record he always promised
to make. Afghan Whigs albums always tended to
be slightly patchy affairs (except probably the crunchy
explosion that is ‘Gentlemen’), but his second release
as the Twilight Singers is a heads-down, covered in
gasoline and sparkling in the sun, adrenaline-coursing
masterpiece. The rhythm is exact, the content impassioned
and the execution just raw enough. It’s the ‘Whigs ‘1965’
realised. There is next to nothing to fault. So it comes
as a bit of a brainteaser as to why its performance
is, on the face of it, little more than a Greg Dulli
vanity project. We were expecting a little more dignity,
if nothing else, from the author of the recent Twilight
Singers releases. He does have more dignity in reserve,
right? He sure didn’t bring it with him tonight, preferring
instead to loll around on a wave of infamy like an afternoon
drunk drifting out to sea on an inflatable.
The light-fingered care that was afforded to the recorded
versions of songs like ‘Twilight’ (off the first album,
‘Twilight As Played By…’), ‘The Killer’ and ‘Martin
Eden’ (from ‘Blackberry Belle’) was lost to the bolshy
demands of a rock show, namely that posture and posing
are elevated above all else. This is most explicitly
illustrated when during one particularly tumultuous
rock and roll climax he turns to his right and calls
“Jon Skibic on guitar, everybody!”, things going all
a bit Bon Jovi for at least a minute, and probably more,
thereafter. Someone’s teenage dreams clearly never died.
The 80s stadium reverb and bass sound do serve to solidly
underline the shape of the songs, but most other aspects
see them cracking when they reach a certain altitude.
Not least his powerfully hoarse vocals, which should
rocket the punch in songs like ‘Teenage Wristband’ and
‘Decatur St.’ through the stratosphere, but tonight
are prone to stalling at just the necessary moment.
Yet still he receives nothing but rapture from the
entourage-like audience, his every lame quip drowned
in laughter, his every drag on his numerous cigarettes
worshiped, his every question met with unreserved positivity.
There’s no unconverting the converted, not when juicy
snatches of his Afghan Whigs past are thrown in to keep
them focused and attentive. And he’s quite the indulgent
showman, fired by the knowledge that he can get away
with it. He begins ‘Love’ as the encore alone on piano
including schizo add-libs and promising that it will
turn into a Stevie Nicks trilogy, “because I muthafuckin
lurve Stevie Nicks”. And it does, as promised, but not
before also adding a Darkness medley (‘Get Your Hands
Off My Woman/I Believe In A Thing Called Love”), segueing
into a dash of Ice Cube and finishing off with the Eric
Clapton air-guitar standard ‘Layla’. And, hey, it’s
entertaining. It’s an excessively self-assured man who’s
already proved his worth acting up because he can. But
it also betrays the strength and fragility of his latest
songs. The hardest thing is admitting it’s a wiseass
behind it all.
Relevant sites:
http://www.thetwilightsingers.com/
http://www.islington-academy.co.uk/
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2004©
|
