Night Tripper Trips The Light Fantastic

Another old bloke, and also another one from Noo Awlins and who also just roils around the piano scales. Playing at the Trinity was the perfect venue – well, in Bristol anyway – for the great Dr John, the Night Tripper (aka on occasion as Mac Rebennack). Bringing his gris gris (I hope you’re getting all these references – it’s not easy fitting them in) and going through his back catalogue and also picking up the occasional track by Professor Longhair (what is it with people from New Orleans and their names?) he performed an object lesson (or is it masterclass?) in how to look effortless whilst leaving everyone else in the dust some way behind. Highlights included Walk on Gilded Splinters – although not quite as weird and eerie as when he played it recently (a couple of years back?) at the Colston Hall (I think – see how weird it must have been?).

Only slightly spoilt by some strange people who insisted on standing near the front so that they could shout louder at each other. This was duly dealt with when a very large man who asked them to be quiet (politely as far as I could tell but also fairly pointedly) and then adopted a decidedly heavy bouncer stance to one side. Let’s hear it for big blokes doing the decent thing. Yay!
Anyway, the good Doctor was as nimble as pie on the keyboard, his lethargic wanderings off-stage, around the piano and elsewhere not necessarily down to his age (he must have been performing for well over 40 years now – though with the occasional rest between shows) as he was never exactly athletic, Bless.
So go and see him. He’ll be around again. He’s not as regular as Robyn Hitchcock but he turns up now and then. Or, if you can, take a trip to the Crescent City (that’s New Orleans which of course I just underestimated your knowledge of) and se him there. He – and there – is fantastic.

Wall of Noise Makes Comeback - hold onto your ears

In search of something impressively loud and a complete contrast with the preceding weekend’s plethora of folk music brings us to the estimable Drive By Truckers. In fact it was such a shock to the system – together with the fact that the low stage meant that you could not actually see how many were actually supposed to be on stage (it turned out there was a steel guitar player sitting down and lost from view) that refuge was taken at the side of the stage. Whilst no-one else had spotted this prime location you could actually see what was happening on stage (albeit sideways on) and the sound was just as clear.
They’re a fine rock n’ roll band the Truckers – bottles of Jack Daniels liberally passed around on stage and smoking bans ignored, three lead guitars, a range of lead singers of which Patterson Hood’s has a decidedly honey and whisky-matured sand-papered growl (albeit some way short of Lemmy for which he should be grateful). Also a hugely attentive roadie who led the applause after each song, spotted and dealt with spilt drinks, swapped guitars and generally hovered by the side of the stage dealing with anything and everything that needed dealing with and, by the encores, was sufficiently appreciated by the band that he got to play lead guitar (well, one of three lead guitars actually). In spite of owning a selection of their fine albums – and having seen them a couple of times previously – this time it was almost impossible to distinguish what tracks they were actually playing. But it was played with such enthusiasm and at such high volume that it was pure mindless fun.

Flat Earth Society Makes Plausible Case

A trip to Cambridge for the folk festival, a place renowned for its flatness – it’s true, it is flat and the longstanding festival is still chuntering away – I last went in 1975 and have vague recollections of stunning performances from Richard & Linda Thompson and the beer tent. Be that as it may, the festival has a fine eclectic mix and is not too sanctimonious about what sort of music is let in the door. As is becoming apparent from this summer, one of the highlights was, yes, an old bloke. Allen Toussaint (you see, not an obvious folkie) appeared on stage to give us all a master-class in rolling funk and blues piano with a great fat slab of Noo Awlins (which is also flat and tragically even more prone to flooding). Assisted by a saxophonist, bassist and drummer, they ranged through his back catalogue (Working in a coalmine; Ride your pony and all sorts of songs you’d forgotten that he wrote. And just look at some of the people that have covered his songs - personal favourites including Little Feat, Robert Palmer and Jerry Garcia) interspersed with reminiscences of all the wonderful people he had worked with – see above but also and at most length in his reminiscing, Frankie Miller. Bizarre you will agree, but magic.

Honourable mentions also go to Chris Wood (not the dead one from Traffic and all the better for it); kd lang (spirited Hallelujah but Lenny had already upped his game); Eric Bibb (spotted on three different stages - yes at three different times); Grupo Fantasma and Bassekou Kouytate & Ngoni ba.

One thing you do notice about Cambridge is that it’s not actually very big. This means that you don’t have to go very far to hear some extraordinary things. It also means that you can’t go very far – it’s nothing like Glastonbury where you can trudge for hours (even when it isn’t mud) before you find a little bolthole stage that has a tiny audience listening to the best thing you’ve ever heard. And because it’s run by the council they are very strict about when they close up each night – which worked against the Imagined Village who, straddled by loads of equipment and technology, found themselves with a shorter set than anticipated. Still, you can’t knock a festival that pumps the Archers omnibus edition through its main PA system on a Sunday morning.

The Triumph of the Old - old blokes part 2

Highlight of a fine sunny day (yes, at Glastonbury – weird!) is this long-term pensioner who doesn’t actually appear old and is possibly performing at a level higher than he has achieved in his much-acclaimed past. With a very tightly-knit backing band and fine sound quality Leonard Cohen (for it is he) had the audience in his hand and treated us all to a lesson in how you take a massive crowd without shouting at them. He played his hits from the early bed-sit suicidal student years (the listeners rather than him) through to the blatant “he’s having a laugh isn’t he?” songs which encompassed a thundering, crowd-silencing version of Hallelujah. His original recorded version of this has been left way behind following Jeff Buckley’s rightly lauded reappraisal and various other solid improvements (Rufus Wainwright, kd lang) but his performance here reclaimed it as his own and left all other pretenders in a way distant zone. Breathtaking.
And a final mention for the true fan standing right by me (oh, so too close) who insisted on singing along woefully off-key and occasionally well off on the words too (how many times do you need to hear a chorus to identify that you’re version is not the same as Lenny is singing? More than we covered in So Long Marianne on this occasion that’s for sure). But no matter, Leonard was fantastic and all those of you who weren’t there and raged at him for not agreeing to the BBC coverage, sorry, you should have bought a ticket. A contender for event of the year (in any year).

And so to another man who appears infrequently (but not forced out this time because his manager’s legged it with all his money) to mass adulation from fans and critics alike and is keen that his tickets do not appear on ebay either. Thanks to eagle-eyed attentiveness several months in advance, tickets for Tom Waits’s Edinburgh show ( only appearance in the UK, first time in Scotland in 21 years, second in Britain for four years so perhaps not so rare) were procured and travel arrangements duly, well, arranged with dear old easy jet. Which was just as well as passports had to be shown to match the name on the ticket (mine as opposed to Tom Waits, he got in OK without it). So lots of excitement on a July evening in Scotland (i.e. drizzly and no decent beer to be had for miles). The Playhouse is a fun venue, full of stuffing and looking like a music hall venue with a good atmosphere. The vast majority of the crowd were dyed in the wool fans snapping up the memorabilia – programmes, posters etc – before taking their seats in anticipation. Half an hour later (in an attempt to appear youthful? Most older performers seem to turn up bang on time so that they can get their post-show ovaltine and stilll be in bed before news at ten) the man appears to huge acclaim, milking the audience to applaud more – which they do, banging his foot on a massive drum laid out as a stand for him and covered in powder to billow out with every boom. Showmanship for sure but that’s what he is, and a fine one too. Anyway, backed by his small, tight band (featuring his son at one point) he stomped and hollered and played with the audience sounding somewhere not too far from Captain Beefheart (which is certainly a good place to be even if not particularly crowded), directing the band and audience with stunning and rearranged renditions of great chunks of his back catalogue, most of which I couldn’t recognise but it all provoked much discussion after the show amongst fans so I wasn’t alone. An excellent evening’s entertainment for everyone – Tom seemed to be enjoying himself too – which seems all too rare these days (Van Morrison could certainly learn from it). Another surefire contender for show of the year (maybe the award should be split between indoor and outdoor shows).