ANN SEXTON at the 229 CLUB, LONDON

“You’ve Been Gone Too Long!” shouts a fella in front of the stage filming Ann Sexton on his iPad. He does it after every song. To my knowledge this is the first time Ann has sung in London, so you’d think Poundland Martin Scorsese could wait more patiently. “You know I’m gonna do that one,” replies Ann, “I couldn’t get out here alive if I didn’t.” She knows it, we know it.

The song in question, co-written by Ann and her husband Melvin Burton, and originally the 1971 B-side to a now mostly forgotten ‘You’re Letting Me Down’, is one of Northern Soul’s defining anthems. It’s not though especially “Northern” in the traditional 4x4 Motownesque stomp, but a funkier new dawn warning about what happens when a man doesn’t take care of his woman, there’s always a Jody waiting in the wings to move in.

When Ann plays the song, as her encore, the room goes bananas, and mateyboy finally gets the money shot he’s been waiting for. It’s a spine tingling moment but not one which overshadows the previous hour, which was a one of the funkiest, most badass, sets of ball squeezing soul music one could ever wish to see. Ann Sexton is simply brilliant. Her voice astonishing. Add a band who blatantly understand, and can achieve, the guttural power and snap of funk and are flexible enough to follow Ann’s lead is a match made in heaven. Mr YouTuber’s tiresome shouting, quite frankly, disrespectful to an artist pouring her very being into her set, leaving nothing behind. Ann isn't dialling this shit in. 

All too often audiences are presented with “heritage acts” who are a shadow of their former self. Despite their best efforts they’ve either lost what they had through the ravages of time, or neglect, and each song is like riding a wave: one moment reaching a quick peak, then sinking down again. Allowances are made and, even with tepid backing bands, they provide a nice night out and an opportunity to give something back, to say thank you for those wonderful records that have enriched our lives.

Ann Sexton is different. No allowances need to be made. This is as good as it gets. Ever. Caught in a crossfire hurricane, she shimmies around the stage, dancing from side to side, and as unlikely as it seems, I can’t imagine her voice has ever been in better shape nor a band, who by their own admission were under rehearsed, give as much oomph.

‘You’re Losing Me’, the second most popular song in her repertoire, is a sheer dynamite. The bomb. She gives the trumpeter some, then the organist, teasingly toys with the drummer. People are dancing and it’s rare to see a London audience dance like this. ‘I Still Love You’ tears the roof off the mother, as does ‘It’s All Over But The Shouting’, before diving into the swampy funk waters of ‘You’re Gonna Miss Me’.

‘Come Back Home’ is slower, cards on the table stuff. How anyone could’ve left Ann in the first place blows my mind. It makes the original recorded version, as great as it is, seem innocuous. By the time Ann is through, she’s wiping real tears away and apologising for getting emotional. This isn’t theatre. This is from the heart. The soul. I wrack my brain to recall being in a room with a voice as moving. Maybe never. ‘I’m His Wife (You’re Just A Friend)’ from 1977’s The Beginning is another winner, equal to anything the marvellous Millie Jackson was doing at her peak.

The sweaty 'Rising Up', an irresistible mix of the church brought to the clubs, before Ann exits the stage only to return for the world's most predictable encore. A truly unforgettable night.

THE LIMINANAS at OSLO, HACKNEY

A little over a week ago, I’d never heard of The Limiṅanas, now they’re my favourite new band. Only they aren’t new, having been around since 2009 and with a handful of albums under their belt, I’m just slow off the mark.

After being tipped-off they were playing their first ever London show, which would be “one of the gigs of the year”, a crash course ensued. What revealed itself was The Limiṅanas, from Perpignan, are French couple, Lionel and Marie Limiṅana, who I’m told rarely play outside France/north-east Spain. Marie sings and drums, Lionel sings and plays the other stuff. They don’t fit in one tidy box: they can caress with dreamy pop, the vocals can be his or hers, sung in whispered French or English, they can hit the fuzz, they can take you down the Velvet Underground Says route, whip ya with the Mary Chain, invoke spaghetti westerns, spy movies, La Nouvelle Vague, sitar stylings and, by French law, the smoke of Serge and Jane frequently wafts across the senses. Anton Newcombe of Brian Jonestown Massacre provides guest vocals on rattling new single, ‘Istanbul Is Sleepy’, and Peter Hook lent a very Peter Hook bassline to last year’s ‘Garden of Love’ on their Malamore LP.

The thought of watching yet another guitar/drums duo didn’t appeal yet I didn’t know how they’d transfer to a live setting; whether they’d use backing tapes or be accompanied on the extra instrumentation that give their records the extra, sometimes exotic, flavour.

What appeared on stage on Thursday night was seven-piece band - four at the front, three at the back – who for 75 minutes rocked the living daylights out of a corner of Hackney. Neither Lionel or Marie sang; those duties were handled by a tambourine punishing Monica Vitti lookalike and a curly haired bloke on guitar. Big hipster-bearded Lionel led with his guitar scrunching, propelling songs until a climax when he’d shoot a look to Marie who’d cease proceedings with a sharp emergency break. Marie, positioned stage-left, was the heartbeat. Playing a small drum kit –bass, snare and tom, no cymbals or hi-hat – she struck, with Moe Tucker simplicity, a thumping beat, so effective it made other drummers look silly with all that fancy darting around their kits, crashing cymbals and playing elaborate fills.

The sheer power was astonishing, especially as their records can sound sparse and airy. Tough guy opener ‘Malamore’ - “I’m Robert Mitchum, I’m Bob Duvall” – stomped hard as they asserted “Sit yourself down, and shut your mouth”. ‘Down Underground’ followed (which would’ve fitted nicely on the last Primitives LP) and destroyed the recorded version. Even lighter songs ‘El Beach’ and ‘Garden of Love’ were electrifying.

The further down the line it got the more I was sucked into a hypnotic, wah-wah pedalling, head spinning, metronomic trance; the heel on my right boot worn down to the leather as it hit the floor BANG-BANG-BANG.

Beyond Lionel’s occasional ‘thank you’, they didn’t say anything; they didn’t need to. It was one of the gigs of the year as I’d been promised.

With thanks to man in the know, Grover.

THE TRUTH at the 100 CLUB, LONDON

With a face like a bowl of mixed fruit Dennis Greaves was few teenager’s idea of a pop star but in 1983 there he was, kicking balloons skyward on Top of the Pops and splashed across the pages of Smash Hits as The Truth infiltrated the charts with their first two singles, ‘Confusion (Hits Us Every Time)’ and ‘A Step In The Right Direction’.

In the summer of ‘83 The Truth played an under-16s matinee show at the Marquee on Wardour Street. It was the first gig I ever attended. Not only was it a great gig, with the band giving it everything they had even though they had a ‘grown up’ show to do after, but the way they mingled and signed autographs for us kids beforehand left a lasting impression.

Despite Greaves’ claim “You won’t find our audience wearing parkas or Jam shoes” that’s precisely what you would have found them wearing. With a following born from the cooling ashes of the mod revival or, as I like to think of it, the lit match of a new post-Jam modernist movement, The Truth found favour with a young fan base searching for a fresh band to pin to their lapels. Ill plead not guilty to the parka, guilty to the Jam shoes.

After that initial success, they unfortunately released the limp ‘No Stone Unturned’, deservedly a flop in ‘84. Dropped from their label, increasingly keen to distance themselves from anything mod, they lost their way and their audience. By the time debut album, Playground, was released in ’85 it was too little, too late. The production was flat, there was no spark, the songs sounded tired and the bright happy faces of their early days had given way to the dark, cold, miserable looking scowls that adorned an uninviting album sleeve. Things then got really shit but let’s not go there.

Instead, let’s go back to 1984 and the second gig I ever went to, The Truth at the 100 Club on the night they recorded their Five Live EP, with a new rhythm section and where, a mere 33 years later, the band returned at the weekend. It’s a risky business, this nostalgia. Some things are best left in the past, memories intact, untainted by retrospective analysis, but this was reaffirmed everything I felt as boy. I didn’t get everything right but The Truth were, then and now, superb.

Their live shows always far outshone their records and they’d lost none of it. Swirling, snappy, bobbing and weaving Brit-Soul played from the heart. I’d love a new band like this to exist now. The Truth didn’t studiously examine Motown records and attempt to recreate them in sterile, laboratory-like conditions; they had a crack at them – both through covers and originals – in their own style, infusing them with vibrancy and earthy, geezerish charm; their frequent call and response exchanges less Detroit church and more London terrace.

The set was strikingly similar to those old shows – ‘From The Heart’, ‘Exception of Love’, ‘Second Time Lucky’, ‘Nothing’s Too Good For My Baby’, ‘Is There A Solution’, with a few later additions such as ‘Playground’ and ‘Spread A Little Sunshine’ thrown in. Plus the hits of course. No new songs. Dennis Greaves and Mick Lister led from the front, trading harmonies, keeping energy levels high, keen on audience participation. ‘I’m In Tune’, ‘Ain’t Nothing But A Houseparty’, ‘I Just Can’t Seem To Stop’, and ‘Reach Out, I’ll Be There’ were always big frenzied favourites but the more measured ‘You Play With My Emotions’ was stunning. Perhaps because it wasn’t one to jump around to I’d never fully appreciated how good that song is, real depth, and Dennis’s vocals packing a mighty punch.

The audience were less exuberant than 30-something years ago but despite not leaping around in a seething mass of sweaty teenage boys I enjoyed this just as much as I did as a pizza-faced 15-year-old in Jam shoes.  

BETTY HARRIS at the 100 CLUB, LONDON

“It’s taken a long time, a real long time, but we made it.” When Betty Harris retired from performing in 1970 she could have had no inkling nearly 50 years later she’d be headlining a sell-out London show.

Buoyed by the upturn in interest since last year’s Soul Jazz Records’ The Lost Queen of New Orleans Soul, which gathered 17 tracks issued between 1965 and 1969 for Sansu under the direction of the legendary Allen Toussaint, Betty was afforded one of those hero receptions UK soul audiences are renown for.

As that collection showed, Betty was equally adept at R&B dancers, soul ballads and the lolloping New Orleans rhythms intrinsic to music from Louisiana’s Crescent City. Although despite Soul Jazz’s crown, Betty was not from nor ever lived in New Orleans, she was flown in from Florida to record. But that's splitting a beignet.

Shaky opening numbers ‘Mean Man’ and ’12 Red Roses’ indicated this might be a gig where fans were simply glad to be in the rare presence of someone whose records they’ve enjoyed over the years. As Betty told us, these were songs she recorded when she was 19-20 (born in 1939 she was older but you didn't hear that from me) and hasn’t sung some since, but come the third song, a rollicking ‘I Don’t Wanna Hear It’, Betty loosened up, that soulful rasp was to the fore, and we were cooking from there on in.

Backed by the Disposable Breaks, doing their best attempt at hitting the funk of the Meters, ‘Trouble With My Lover’, ‘Bad Luck’ and ‘Close To Me’ caught a groove and Betty’s slower take on Solomon Burke’s ‘Cry To Me’ – the closest she came to a real hit in 1963 – carried real emotion and experience.

Whilst fans were there to give something back, Betty, resplendent in glamourous gown and wearing her best hair, also had her own giving to do. Of her three backing singers, two were young teenage girls who’d not had the best start in life but had been offered a chance to come to the UK and sing. Betty acknowledged they found her intimidating but countered nobody was there to help guide her early in her career. Apologies for not catching the girls’ names but they should be proud of the job they did especially when handed the entire lead for ‘Can’t Last Much Longer’. The baton was passed.

Few people recorded a better version of ‘Ride Your Pony’ and after that irresistible mover Betty was brought back for a well-earned encore with the heavy funk bomb ‘There’s A Break In The Road’.

A cackling, engaging presence throughout, it was a joy to spend an hour in Betty’s company and this gig was everything, if not more, anyone could’ve hoped for. Betty was correct, it did take a long time but she made it.

WILLIAM BELL at the UNION CHAPEL, ISLINGTON

I’ve wanted to see Stax legend William Bell for years. On the occasions he’d cropped up in recent times – from performing for President Obama at the White House to appearing on Later with Jools Holland (how that for spanning the spectrum? From the sublime…) – he’s looked and sounded like he could still cut the mustard. Having now ticked him off the bucket list I couldn’t be happier to report he was well worth the wait.

At the Union Chapel last night he impressed straight from the start. It’s difficult to hear anyone sing ‘Easy Comin’ Out (Hard Goin’ In)’ without breaking into a smile and that expression was present for the following 90 minutes. ‘Any Other Way’ followed, the first of the real classics, and what a set of pipes this man has - tender yet rock solid assured.

Now aged 77, Bell’s voice was as strong as ever, fit as a flea, and managed to make wearing dark sunglasses in a chapel look like the coolest and more natural thing in the world. What I like in soul artists is when they can still feel contemporary rather than a cheesy old cabaret act. Mavis Staples does this supremely well and Bell does too. Half a dozen tracks from his new This Is Where I Live album underscored he’s not reliant on ancient hits to connect to his audience. ‘The Three of Me’, ‘I Will Take Care of You, ‘Mississippi-Arkansas Bridge’, ‘Poison In The Well’ and the title track all being personal reflections and breathed fresh life into his set and the Stax sound.

Bell kept his band on their toes throughout, and they were up to the not inconsiderable task, by frequently “breaking it down” and going off on a tangent. This could in lesser hands be tiresome but here it worked, not least during an already spectacular ‘Everybody Loves A Winner’ when he stopped to testify with the last of the evening light shining through the stained glass chapel windows.

This Is Where I Live takes Bell full circle, back on Stax, and as he reminded us, he was the label’s first solo male vocalist. ‘You Don’t Miss Your Water’ cut for the fledging label in 1961 and written by Bell when he was 17, “I was an old soul even then”. That Bell is still around, one of the last standing from that era, from the birth of Stax and, with that record, what we now call Southern Soul, is remarkable in itself, that he remains in such shape and voice is nothing short of incredible. There’s no need to make allowances, to overlook any shortcomings, as there are none. Needless to say the song was a highlight.

The Judy Clay role for ‘Private Number’ as taken by Bell’s “attractive lady” backing vocalist whose name I didn’t catch beyond, I think, Suzie. If William really does have her number he’s a lucky dog. ‘Everyday Is A Holiday’, ‘Eloise (Hang On In There)’ and ‘Tryin’ To Love Two’ all got an airing as did ‘I Forgot To Be Your Lover’ and although Bell isn’t a flashy or show-offy soul singer – one of the qualities I most like about him – he did allow himself one moment to hold a note during ‘Lover’ with superb control.

An extended ‘Born Under A Bad Sign’, reprised on this new LP – and let’s not forget a lot of these songs Bell at least co-wrote – topped off the evening in a style. Back in ’68 Bell and Booker T wrote ‘Tribute To A King’ for the departed Otis Redding. I’d be hard pressed to think of anyone other than William Bell more worthy of wearing the soul crown today.

THE STAIRS at the KAZIMIER, LIVERPOOL

After months of eager anticipation The Stairs were back on Thursday night for their first gig in over twenty years. It was, without a shadow of doubt, a brilliant night. Nearly 500 people from all over the country squashed into a sold out Kazimier club in Liverpool, a stone’s throw from where Edgar Jones, Ged Lynn and Paul Maguire established The Stairs at the beginning of the 1990s.

Reformations can be dicey affairs with bands returning without original members, their motives questionable, looking a bit old and shit, and removed from their original period can appear out of date and, at worst, even cabaret. Certain bands are defined by their era and sit uncomfortably once extracted but The Stairs were always out of time; harking back to the 60s beat boom when the prevailing musical trends were an assortment of post-baggy, grunge and shoegazing. The Stairs weren’t the only ones going back to mono and recycling British R&B, US garage and Dutch Nederbeat but they were by far the best: more gifted, confident and charismatic than the rest and possessed an off-kilter humour. Who else concluded songs by asking “What do you think of Tarzan undies? Do they scare ya?”  

From the opening seconds of ‘Mary Joanna’ - Ged’s opening riff, Paul’s thumping drums and Edgar’s thunderous bass and exaggerated Jagger howl – it was immediately apparent this was going to be good. When that was followed by ‘Flying Machine’, from their first EP, my excitement built incrementally with each passing song. The last times I saw the band, ’93-’94, they’d progressed into a heavier psychedelic rock band than beat combo, and whilst still excellent hearing sets of unfamiliar, experimental material was a different experience to two years previously. They’d moved on. I vividly recall The Stairs play a Mod Rally at the Isle of Wight in 1993 and the stunned reaction of the assembled Mods who didn’t know what to make of it all. Well, they did, but frankly that was their loss.

From ‘Flying Machine’, a perfect set unravelled, nineteen songs whooshed past. The majority of the classic (and it is that) Mexican R’n’B including ‘My Window Pane’, ‘Mundane Mundae’, ‘Sweet Thing’, ‘Woman Gone and Say Goodbye’, ‘Out In The Country’ all sounded box fresh, as did the double-whammy of ‘Fall Down The Rain’ and ‘Right In The Back Of Your Mind’ which nearly reduced the Kazimier to rubble ahead of its forthcoming demolition by developers. There were some choice EP tracks, ‘When It All Goes Wrong’, ‘You Don’t Love Me’ and ‘Russian Spy and I’; a couple of the later songs in ‘Skin Up’ and ‘Stop Messin’’; the nutjob “new” found-under-bed single ‘Shit Town’ sung by Ged; and even a brand new number ‘1000 Miles Away’ thrown in for good measure. 

Everything was delivered with supercharged power, as if The Stairs had spent twenty years with all this energy suppressed, waiting to explode. The longer they played, the more they locked into each other. If all that wasn’t impressive enough what was bewildering was how the band had remained cryogenically frozen. Edgar looked like he’d walked straight off his record sleeves without a hair out of place and it took me a while to work out he wasn’t wearing the same pink and white paisley shirt from the Bass Clef in ’94 (that had a penny collar, this one pointed…); Ged has kept the same cut-by-himself-in-the-mirror curtains/bob affair and those bug eyes still bulge and his mouth still falls open as he plays guitar; it’s only a few flicks of grey in Paul’s still curly bonce that give any indication we’re now in a different millennium. Like I said, and call me shallow if you will, this stuff is important in bands. Imagine, if you dare, the horror of witnessing a bald Birdland or a fat Five Thirty. They were accompanied on acoustic/electric guitar and organ by Austin Murphy from Edgar’s band The Jones. For what it’s worth, he looked like a young David Hepworth.

There was little chat between songs, certainly no emotional milking of the situation: the music, the audience’s dolally reception, and the smiles of the band said it all. After a pounding ‘Skin Up’ they went off to quickly do that (possibly) before returning for the anthemic  ‘Weed Bus’, given a bizarre cowboy style intro by Edgar about the joys of Liverpool’s public transportation system. With that fantastic finale about knowing you’re in heaven, they were gone.

Apart from missing their old talisman Jason shaking his maracas one more time this gig had it all; any misgivings about spoiling their memory banished. Where The Stairs go from here remains to be seen – and I doubt they’ll want to keep treading old ground for long - but this night, this monumental night, this little piece of history, was nothing short of triumphant and, if anything, elevated their already treasured status for anyone fortunate enough to have witnessed it.

SUEDE at the ROUNDHOUSE, CAMDEN

Suede unveiled their forthcoming album, Night Thoughts, on Friday with a global première at the Roundhouse in Camden. From behind a giant screen they played it live in its entirety as Roger Sargent’s accompanying film provided a loose visual representation.

As one song bled seamlessly in to the next, the film changed scenes: a haunted man walking out into the sea; lovers embracing; kids in hoodies on housing estates; people taking drugs; overdosing; having sex; loving; fighting; brandishing guns; screaming; being desperate and alone. You know, all the usual Suede themes. There were cars so there would’ve been fumes too. To be honest I found it a bit distracting and would’ve preferred to simply see the band play, although a whole album of unheard material isn’t the most entertaining thing in the world. It reminded me of when The Style Council played their Jerusalem film at the Royal Albert Hall gigs and my mates headed to the bar grumbling loudly about “pretentious bollocks”. Suede fans however are far more tolerant of such grandiose artistic gestures.

The album itself sounded big and bold and dramatic. From only one hearing I’m not going to make any final assessment but I’d venture it’s a step up from the previous Bloodsports, and that was good. After the final track they disappeared (not that they could be seen very clearly beforehand) and had their half time orange before returning in the second half for what they promised would be a “Hits and Treats” set.

I don’t know what Suede did during their lost years to come back such a phenomenal live act but that’s what they are. The best there is. I saw them a dozen times when they first started, those early gigs at the South Africa Centre, the Rough Trade shop, the 100 Club, even suffering the ignominy of supporting such doggerel as Kingmaker and they weren’t like anybody else then but the flouncing, foppish, arse slapping Brett Anderson has been transformed.

Brett Anderson is a beast. A beautiful beast. A beautiful, lean, mean, fighting machine, rock star beast. Fitter than an army of fleas in a scuzzy mattress, Brett bounces up and down, leaps off monitors, shouts and does the “come on then, let’s have it” fingers, shakes his head, lassoes his microphone lead a la Daltrey and works the band and crowd into a frenzy. He is magnificent in this role, pulling out all the stops, and Suede have the knockout material to back all his showboating. Big hit singles, album tracks, obscure B-sides ('Darkest Days' had previously passed me, thanks for drawing it to my attention), all relentless in their majestic swagger. Even “The Living Dead”, a delicate lament, is transformed into a joyous lullaby with Anderson leaving much of singing to the audience. “Where’s all the money gone? I’m talking to you, all up the hole in your arm” they chant like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. A clean Brett grins like a cat with a never ending supply of cream.

They departed for a phony encore with Anderson telling the crowd to wait a minute. They do, naturally, and after beginning the evening with their newest recordings they end with their oldest, all three tracks from their 1992 debut single: ‘The Drowners’, ‘My Insatiable One’ and ‘To The Birds’. Incredible. Where do the years go? ‘To The Birds’ my absolute favourite Suede song – and I have many – what a treat. What a band.

Set 1: When You Are Young, Outsiders, No Tomorrow, Pale Show, I Don’t Know How To Reach You, What I’m Trying To Tell You, Tightrope, Learning To Be, Like Kids, I Can’t Give Her What She Wants When You Were Young, The Fur & The Feathers

Set 2: Moving, Killing Of A Flash Boy, Trash, Animal Nitrate, We Are The Pigs, Heroine, Pantomime Horse, The Living Dead, Darkest Days, New Generation, So Young, Metal Mickey, Beautiful Ones, The Drowners, My Insatiable One, To The Birds

Night Thoughts is released 22 January 2016.

MAVIS STAPLES at the CLAPHAM GRAND, LONDON

“We’ve come all the way from Chicago, to bring you some joy, some happiness, inspiration and positive vibrations!” declared Mavis Staples three songs in to her performance at the Clapham Grand last Tuesday. In those few words Mavis perfectly encapsulates what her gigs are all about: joy, happiness, inspiration and positive vibrations turned up to eleven.

I don’t think I’ve ever beamed from ear to ear through a gig so much. Mavis is a remarkable woman, a little bundle of infectious energy, and the warmth radiating from her expressive face, cackling laugh and sensitive soul could melt the coldest heart. I make no bones about it; I want to give her a big hug. Luckily for her the closest I managed was a touch of her hand when she shook the outstretched paws of the first few rows.

This gig followed her Glastonbury début and watching that online it didn’t come across as well as it should. The mix – or the BBC’s continuing failure to broadcast live music satisfactorily - meant her band were close to inaudible. Here in Clapham they sounded full and funky and Mavis was cooking with them. They are a unit. One of the things which makes Mavis stand out from other touring singers is she always uses her own musicians rather than pick-up bands in different countries. It pays off.

Central to the performance and her music in general these days is Mavis’s working relationship with guitarist Rick Holmstrom. The bond between them is unmissable and beautiful to watch. Mavis is the reluctant solo star. She always wanted to remain singing with her family but the death of her father Pops in 2000 brought an end to the Staple Singers and put Mavis into a period of, at first, voluntary inactivity. But eventually she fought her way back and her later run of albums are every bit as essential as the early ones. It’s not blood anymore but it feels like family.

Yet it’s live, singing for people, delivering her message in person, which is at the heart of Mavis Staples, and she calls her group – the trio of Rick on guitar, Jeff Turmes on bass and Stephen Hodges on drums, plus the Deacon and Squeeky on backing vocals (there’s no sister Yvonne tonight) – “the greatest group in the world” (before gently mocking Kanye West’s grandiose claim of being the greatest rock and roll star on the planet) and there’s no doubt there are no more suitable musicians, who totally understand the feel and soul of the Staples, than these.

When Mavis hits an incredible final note on “Respect Yourself” she and Rick shoot each other a wide-eyed look as if to say “Hey, did you hear that?”; when Mavis embarks on a walkabout during “I Like The Things About Me” to touch the hands of those in the front rows she returns with the very faintest of stumbles unseen by most eyes except Rick’s who gives her an “I told you to be careful” twitch of the head. Mavis for her part can’t help but frequently go up to her band and give them cute little loving rabbit punches.

Sixty-five years in the business – Mavis started very young – she’s fit as a flea (my quick attempt to catch a half decent photo proved impossible as she wouldn’t keep still long enough) and can still belt out a song and make a lyric stand out in new ways. Her songs, and those of the Staples Singers, have always had meaning; they’re not lyrics to fill out a few bars of music. “Take that sheet off your face” on “Respect Yourself” conveys both horror and determination and in the set’s only real ballad “Holy Ghost” the glistening in Mavis’s eyes, as she so obviously remembers her father, demonstrate how deeply she inhabits these songs. It takes a comforting smile from Rick to help regain her composure.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have seen four Mavis gigs in recent years and they’ve all been unique. This set was different from the visit to London for her birthday last year and had even been altered from Glastonbury three days earlier when “Wade In The Water” and “You’re Not Alone” provided two highlights. That those two tracks make way here shows the depth of the well. Staples’ classics “If You’re Ready (Come Go With Me)” and a mirror-ball shining “I’ll Take You There” top and tailed the set; “Freedom Highway” was incendiary; “Can You Get To That”, “We’re Gonna Make It” and “Slippery People” hit the funk; and, forever marching on, never turning back, there were two tracks from her new Your Good Fortune EP, “Fight” which adds the snap of hip-hop to gospel, and “Wish I Had Answered” a number written by Pops for the church and refreshed here from  the Staples’ 1963 recording.

“You can buy that EP from over there for five dollars,” says Mavis proudly before correcting herself with that rasping laugh of hers, “I mean five pounds. How much is that? About twenty five dollars?” She’s giggling away. “One potato, two potato…” What price joy, happiness, inspiration and positive vibrations?

Your Good Fortune EP by Mavis Staples is out now on Anti-Records. 

THE PRIMITIVES live at OSLO, HACKNEY

Back in the late 80s the Primitives were bona fide pop stars. Credible ones too, who came up through the indie ranks to mainstream success. One could find them on a Thursday night’s Top of the Pops playing their latest hit single, pull a Tracy Tracy poster from the pages of Smash Hits, read a NME cover story, then catch them live on Saturday morning telly breaking out into an unrehearsed version of the Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog”. It was an impressive feat and great whilst it lasted.

The Primitives’ reformation in 2009 came with little fanfare from the band, the music press or the general public. They simply eased themselves gently back: a gig here, an EP, a gig there, an album of 60s covers, more gigs, and then an LP of new songs and my album of 2014, Spin-O-Rama.

Currently doing a short tour they’re engaged in a new type of balancing act: that of the songs from their original three albums (1988-91) and those from the revitalised band. Across a near 20 song set there’s a roughly and 50/50 spilt and the beauty being every song is equally welcome. Everything fits together. There’s no this-is-from-our-new-album sinking feeling, just bang-bang-bang, one high octane buzzsaw thumper followed by another twisty jangler.

Early 45s “Buzz Buzz Buzz” and “Stop Killing Me” are succeeded by 2014 duet “Lose The Reason”; “Spin-O-Rama” is sandwiched between a throbbing “Sick Of It” and trippy “Thru The Flowers”; “Petals” sits next to older cousin “Spacehead”; radio favourite “Crash” slips into the whirling “Dandelion Seed”; a menacing “Rattle My Cage” makes way for an audience participating “Way Behind Me” and so on. It’s a relentless flow of punky-pop, sparkling without being overly polished.

Throughout the gig, the audience jostle amongst a television crew from Brazil. It might not be Top Of The Pops any more, and you’re more likely to read about them on a blog than the published music press, but The Primitives still look and sound to me like credible pop stars, and cultish underground ones at that. And those are always the best. 

FRED WESLEY & THE NEW JB’S at STAND!, FAIRFIELD HALLS, CROYDON

There’s nothing like having a quick nosey at Fred Wesley’s discography to make one wonder what they’ve done with their life. As musician, band leader, arranger, composer and producer Fred has shaped the sound of funk on hundreds of recordings with James Brown, the JB’s, Bootsy’s Rubber Band, Parliament, the Horny Horns and many, many more.

In his 2002 autobiography, Hit Me, Fred: Recollections of a Sideman, Wesley calls himself “the greatest sideman in the world” – which in fact underplays his contribution, he isn’t just a horn player - but now he’s centre stage, perched on a stool, master of his own small but perfectly formed empire.  The moment he blows his trombone the sound is as instantly recognisable as a JB scream or a Bootsy Collins bass run. Fred Wesley only doesn’t have the funk, he is the funk. His New JB’s aren’t new anymore, this current line-up has mostly been in place many years and it shows in their tight groove.

The JB’s classic “Damn Right I Am Somebody” underlines Fred’s a man in his own right; “Bop To The Boogie” is an early invitation for audience participation - “Bop to the boogie, boogie to the bop, bop to the boogie, bop bop” - which looks ridiculously easy written down yet many (or maybe only me with my stiff honky ways) fail to master; there’s Fred’s favourite track from the Horny Horns 1977 LP A Blow For Me, A Toot For You – “Fourplay”; Fred takes a lead vocal on Earl King’s “Trick Bag”; and Dwayne Dolphin takes a bass solo in “No One But You Baby” as his boss looks on and appreciates with a knowing nod. No sign of any fine for bum notes or clumsy dance steps.

The line between jazz and funk is thin one and on that line sits jazz-funk, which always strikes me as the musical equivalent of a lager-top: a less satisfying, watered down, compromise. Well, that's my take; I can't warm to it. There are a few numbers which epitomise jazz-funk and the audience get a little distracted during the one love song and shout for “Pass The Peas”. Don’t worry, says Fred, it’s coming. He’s been around long enough to know how to pace a show and bring it to the boil.

“Breakin’ Bread” from the first Fred Wesley and the New JB’s album is an odd song - early rap with a hint of country funk - but gets folk involved once more and leads into the final run of three massive JB’s tunes: the aforementioned “Pass The Peas”, “Gimme Some More” and “Doing It To Death”. These are what the crowd came for and they burst back into life as if transported back into the midst to the late-80s Rare Groove explosion when these tracks caught a second wind and became some of the biggest club tunes around. Fred has small pocket of south London tightly in his control as people are movin’, groovin’, doin’ it. To quote again from Hit Me, Fred: “The black people were dancing very well, as usual, and the white people, as usual, were enthusiastically doing the best that they could do.” Thank you Mr. Wesley. 

THE WHO HITS 50 at the O2 ARENA, LONDON

The buzz of riding a Lambretta is one of life’s great pleasures. It doesn’t matter where it is but I always get an extra kick when cruising through the streets of Shepherd’s Bush and specifically along the Goldhawk Road. In my little semi-fantasy world it is still the mid-1960s, this is the heart of Mod territory, and local band The Who are playing later for the umpteenth time at the Goldhawk Social Club. Although The Who are known as a Shepherd’s Bush band, Roger Daltrey was the only one who genuinely lived there. In The Who documentary, Amazing Journey, Pete Townshend called him “the king of the neighbourhood”.

This scruffy stretch of the capital has, as far as I can tell, remained- until now - largely unchanged. Cooke’s Pie and Mash Shop – the one in Quadrophenia - has clung on since 1934; the interior of Zippy Café a couple of doors down is every inch an abandoned Wimpy bar; Goldhawk Road tube station remains little more than a rickety shack; and, best of all, the Goldhawk Social Club has only tweaked its name slightly to the Shepherd’s Bush Club and now displays a blue Heritage Foundation plaque honouring The Who. With the likes of Cooke’s now sold to developers of Shepherd’s Bush market these are the last knockings of the area as it currently stands.

I rode past the Goldhawk again this weekend, exactly fifty years from when The Who walked through the hanging plastic drapes in the club to play a gig on Saturday 20^th March 1965 after hot-footing it from attending the opening show of the Tamla Motown Revue at the Finsbury Park Astoria. I know, what a night, lucky bleeders. I wasn’t there rabbiting amongst the West London Mods from the Bush, Acton, Notting Hill, West Drayton, Paddington and so on but I did, honestly, see The Who yesterday.

The O2 Arena in Greenwich is less than fifteen miles from the Goldhawk but they could be on different planets and as gig experiences go they couldn’t be much more different. No chance of bumping into Pete Townshend having a piss here in this soulless corporate "village". The O2 is a 20,000 capacity venue and not one of those people, as far as I could tell, was blocked on amphetamines.  Prescription drugs, now that’s different. When folk scuffled to the loo, they rattled. Unlike Keith Moon and John Entwistle, not everyone died before they got old I’m pleased to say.

Of course, I wouldn’t usually dream of attending one of these huge cavernous monstrosities, but then again I can probably only count on my thumbs the bands I like who’d be able to fill somewhere like this, The Who being one. This was part of their The Who Hits 50 tour; supposedly their last extended jaunt around the globe. They’ve said this before so I won’t hold them to it. Half a century gone and it’s still too early to say farewell.

For over two hours straight Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend and some other blokes put on hugely enjoyable show. Roger and Pete were in a relaxed mood; jovial and offered plenty of expletive-ridden between-song banter creating an almost intimate atmosphere despite the grand scale. Roger played the affable, one-of-the-lads role and Pete switched from serious artist to money-accumulating rock star. When Roger thanked everyone for coming, “It woulda been really boring without ya”, Pete quips back “And we’d be a lot poorer”. He also said we’d paid three thousand pound a ticket, which wasn’t too far off.

They earned their dough though, playing a mostly predictable set with a few surprises chucked in. Pete mentions it’s supposed to be a hits show. “All four of them,” he says, “plus the three from CSI, and two rock operas”. That “I Can See For Miles” wasn’t a huge hit - “it’s a great song” - obviously still rankles and it’s plain to hear way. Some of the other earlier singles like “I Can’t Explain” and “Substitute”, as much as they made brilliant records, sounded slightly plodding in comparison the more complex later material.

“Love Reign O’er Me” was emotional; the mini-Tommy brilliant, still to my mind The Who’s pinnacle; the double whammy of “Baba O’Riley” and “Won’t Get Fooled Again” is as good as big venue music gets. “Slip Kid” was unexpected; as was “So Sad About Us”; and “A Quick One, Whilst He’s Away” a welcome knee-trembler.

They’ve got to pace themselves these days so Roger’s microphone twirling was kept to minimum and Pete’s feet didn’t leave the floor although there was plenty of windmill action. Roger, bless him, couldn’t always hit the notes (it’s an unforgiving occupation being a lead singer in a shouty rock band; no one’s gonna notice a few bum chords or missed timings elsewhere) and he mentions the set list is a challenge emotionally as well as having to remember all Townshend’s lyrics. “Why couldn’t you write some easier songs?” he asks Pete. “Because I’m an intellectual,” came the reply, “you fucking cunt.”

The staging behind the band was superb. I always roll my eyes when people start talking about what a band’s backdrop and graphics and lighting was like – so bloody what? – but in this environment draping a union jack over a Marshall stack ain’t really gonna cut it, so hat’s off: these were a stylish and imaginative series of animations that complimented the songs. Some were very fancy and expensive looking yet the funniest was the simplest.  After Townshend gave his account of writing “Pictures of Lily” about wanking to old Lily Langtry postcards, the song is performed in front of a giant Keith Moon dressed in a wig and black bra. Should also say Zak Starkey’s “vision of ginger” behind the drums didn’t go unnoticed either. A nice touch.

After a closing “Magic Bus”, Roger apologised for a few gremlins throughout the show. For all the high-tech nature he appeared a touch put out he’d been given a B harmonica instead of a B Flat for “Baba O’Riley” and then suffered unwanted feedback with his harp during the last song. “But who gives a shit?” He’s fooling no-one this time. Roger Daltrey loves The Who and is fiercely proud of them. I love them too; they’re the kings of any neighbourhood. 

205 Goldhawk Road, Shepherd's Bush

THE LUCID DREAM - THE LUCID DREAM (2015)

It wasn't so long along Italian Vogue declared Dalston "the coolest place on earth". Such is the way of these things that title will have passed on to the next faddiest part of town by now. Not that the vagaries of fashion are of much concern to The Lucid Dream who rocked up on a visit to East London on Tuesday and took the stage wearing four different Carlisle United football shirts; a garish colour clash even the most psychedelic imagination would have trouble conjuring. It's symptomatic of their uncompromising and willfully outsiderish nature.

They've already released about half a dozen singles and an album, 2013's Songs Of Lies And Deceit, yet with their eyes always looking ahead they played almost exclusively from their forthcoming album, The Lucid Dream, which isn't out for another month. It's a cracking album which opens with two almighty tracks. "Mona Lisa" sets the tone, an eight and a half minute instrumental of Kraut rock rhythms, pirouetting guitar shapes, a wall of white noise, phasing and supersonic (boom) space travel. "Cold Killer" follows in a similar style, with vocals this time plus stabs of jagged guitar piercing the skin, and two tracks in I'm already thinking this could be the best UK guitar album since I don't know when. Brain meltingly good.    

The opening moments of "The Darkest Day/Head Musik" offer respite from the full bodied attack but with a thump-thumping rhythm it doesn't take long for more guitar to increase the pace and off into its slipstream the listener is pulled again before it explodes into a frenzy of feedback with squealing sax a la Stooges Fun House. "Moonstruck", with its pulsating keyboard lead, was a single that received some radio play although don't take that as any lessening of the intensity. "Unchained Dub" is all dubby squiggles with use of a melodica offsetting the dark industrial metallic scariness. "Unchained" is closer to slightly straighter pop (all things being relative of course). "Morning Breeze" shows these are hardened northern lads. Their breeze feels to me like the iciest wind that would strip the skin off even an Eskimo's face, but after that initial shiver the track settles down and recalls the gliding levitation Verve did so well on early singles like "Gravity Grave". Finally "You And I" is almost a sweet 60s Phil Spector girl group song (okay, via the Mary Chain) before the almost inevitable feedback finale.

The more I listen to The Lucid Dream the more impressed I become. Hearing it live it one swoop perhaps some of the nuances were lost a little but as these tracks become more familiar that'll soon change, although by then they'll have moved on again. Keep up if you can. 

The Lucid Dream by The Lucid Dream is released by Holy Are You Recordings on 30 March 2015. LP and CD. 

MAVIS STAPLES at the UNION CHAPEL, ISLINGTON

What better way to see Mavis Staples than to be sat on a pew in a chapel, with the last of the evening sun shining through stained glass windows, on her 75^th birthday? It’s an honour to see her any place and time, but this always promised to be something special.

The moment Mavis steps on stage, waving with both hands, a huge smile on the kindest face, she has the audience enchanted. “If You’re Ready (Come Go With Me)” eases her voice in gently but “For What It’s Worth” takes on gravitas and a depth of meaning barely noticeable in Buffalo Springfield’s original. But that’s always been Mavis’s strength, her power to interpret a song, to make the listener hear the message clearly. Nowhere is this more evident than during “The Weight”. Her backing singers – including big sister Yvonne (the recipient of gentle ribbing “Who’s this lady? I think she’s a groupie”) – and members of her crack three piece band take turns on the early verses before Mavis grabs the reigns. Not one to take the easy option, to turn back, she puts everything into the song. “Put the load, put the load, put the load, put the load, put the load on me!” she cries repeatedly. Hairs on the back of the neck stuff. She leaves little room for doubt she could carry anything on those shoulders. It’s an incredible, soul-stirring delivery, which brings the entire congregation to its feet.

The setting and occasion make it an emotionally charged evening. After a rousing rendition of “Freedom Highway”, Mavis explains how her father Pops wrote the song for the civil rights marches from Selma to Montgomery. “I was there,” she tells us, “and I’m still here.” It brings a lump to the throat, but that’s nothing compared to when Mavis reflects how wonderful it is spend her birthday in a beautiful church with Pops talking to the Elders and looking down proudly on his baby girl. Mavis’s bottom lip isn’t the only one to quiver. As the audience breaks into an impromptu chorus of Happy Birthday, Mavis discreetly wipes away a tear before merrily singing the song herself.   

But the overriding emotion throughout is of joy. Mavis is huge fun with an infectious chuckle, sparring musically with fantastic rootsy guitarist Rick Holmstrom, and making wisecracks and chatting easily to all who shout out. This is the third time I’ve seen Mavis perform in recent years and her set is constantly changing. “Respect Yourself” of course remains, as does the Curtis Mayfield penned “Let’s Do It Again” but “I Like The Things About Me” and a super-sensitive and moving “You’re Not Alone” from recent albums are a sign of striding onward, whilst a version of the Talking Heads “Slippery People” is so new it requires the lyrics brought out on a music stand to act as a memory jogger; not that Mavis can see it straight away in the light. “I thought it was a couple of racoons!”

When the singers take a breather to let the band play a few instrumental numbers, Mavis and Yvonne take a seat at the back of the stage, and instead of using this time to rest, Mavis continues to excitedly pump her arms and wave her towel, caught up in the music.  

The big finale is “I’ll Take You There” which requires some audience participation. “We’ve been taking you there for 64 years,” Mavis reminds us, “you can take us there for one minute.” How could anyone refuse? Reluctantly Mavis Staples leaves the stage to a thunderous ovation. It’s been an extraordinary, uplifting and life-affirming evening.

THE JIM JONES REVUE - THE LAST HURRAH

The Jim Jones Revue live at The Vintage Festival, 2011

On Sunday I received a call to review The Jim Jones Revue for The Blues magazine. I didn’t need asking twice. On every occasion I’ve seen them – about ten times so far  – I’ve come away thinking they’re the greatest live band in the world. Certainly the best I’ve been fortunate enough to witness. They're near perfect as a rock and roll band: loud, energetic, born performers, no weak members and they look like a gang. They’re a model of what a band should be. Kids - look, listen and learn. Not every song is a killer but the lesser ones still knock seven shades of shit of anyone else’s thanks to their delivery. It’s a bit of cliché now but imagine a honky Little Richard fronting the MC5 and you’re half way there.

Anyway, Sunday night was no exception. It was a low-key nothing to promote night in a small venue (new Blues Kitchen in Shoreditch) but I stood there jaw slightly agog and came away excited once again and began raving to anyone who’d listen. This continued into the Monday when I posted on Facebook about how much I loved The Jim Jones Revue and if they ever needed a tambourine player, I’m their man. It was then I was informed they’re splitting up. They can’t be, I saw them last time, they were brilliant. But they are.

The band’s statement gave no reason, saying only “The Jim Jones Revue will cease playing live and recording in October 2014”. Let the speculation begin. One tiny crumb of consolation is they’re embarking on a Last Hurrah European tour culminating in a show at Forum in London on Saturday 4^th October. That is gonna be one hell of a night.

For tour dates and tickets see The Jim Jones Revue.   

BARRENCE WHITFIELD & THE SAVAGES and KING SALAMI & THE CUMBERLAND THREE at the BORDERLINE, LONDON

Seconds out, round one. King Salami and the Cumberland Three were in exhilarating form at the Borderline on Saturday. One quarter Caribbean, Spanish, French and Japanese they launched a smash and grab raid of blistering, larger than life, greasy rockabilly and roll that fried and crackled the eyes and ears. King Salami shook the Diddley out of his maracas, twisted his elasticated body into unlikely shapes, and stared with crazy bug-eyes at the audience. On an unusually hot night in the capital he asked, “It was meant to be minus 10 degrees today but it’s plus 23. Is that because of the weatherman or because of rock ‘n’ rooooooll?”

The Cumberland Three were packed tight and pinged and ricocheted around the stage and demanded “Less Bone… More Meat” and put on feather headdresses for the Zulu stomp of “Big Chief”. They ripped up a version of “Troubles” by The Rollers and shook up something about a pineapple. Their show was one of exaggerated Frat Shackish cartoon entertainment - brilliant fun -but they’ve got the licks to back it up too, notably from the fabulous Telecaster and Vox AC30 combo cooked by guitarist T.Bone Sanchez; which owed as much to Wilko Johnson as Link Wray. They’ve released a string of sausage flavoured cuts since 2006 (new EP “Howlin’ For My Woman” is out soon) but the best way to taste King Salami & The Cumberland Three is in the flesh. When Salami asked the crowd to kneel before The King, they obediently complied. He, and they, was irresistible.

It was going to take a mighty effort to follow that display and Bostonian Barrence Whitfield was up for the challenge, laying down an opening jab with “Ramblin’ Rose”. “The Corner Man” and “Willie Meehan” were both boxing related blasts of in-the-red rockin’ R&B and whilst King Salami had speed and agility, Barrence used brute force and staying power, his punches given extra oomph from the Savages’ fat, round sound led by a honking sax. With thirty years since their debut album these gentlemen knew how to work the ropes and the longer they played the stronger they got. “Ship Sailed At Six”, “Blackjack” and “Bloody Mary” were all were powerhouse numbers rasped and barked Rufus Thomas-style by Barrence, who repeatedly wrung the sweat from his drenched shirt, until finally unbuttoning it to display his full fighting weight.

To mix it up, there were a couple of slower, more straight-soul covers. Lee Moses’ “I’m Sad About It” from the recent Dig Thy Savage Soul album and Johnny Sayles’ “You Told A Lie” saw Barrence take a leaf out of James Brown’s manual, dropping to his knees, sobbing (not entirely convincingly), only for his band to come to his aid and pat him on the back, encouraging him to his feet. Breath caught, it was back on the counter attack once more. Unlike the majority of the set, firmly rooted in the late 50’s/early 60s, “Oscar Levant” sounded like a New York Dolls take on that era and almost landed the knockout blow.

Two encores, the second started by bassist Phil Lenker, showed neither the squashed to capacity Borderline crowd nor band wanted this last date of their UK tour to end. Full credit to the promoter Not The Same Old Blues Crap for putting on such a tremendous double-bill. This judge’s decision? A tie. 

THE VELVELETTES and BRENDA HOLLOWAY live at MODSTOCK 50, LONDON

Cal Gill, The Velvelettes

It’s a year shy of 50 years since Berry Gordy sent the cream of his empire to the UK for the Tamla-Motown Revue:  The Supremes, Martha & The Vandellas, Smokey Robinson & The Miracles, Stevie Wonder and the Earl Van Dyke Six. The Tamla Motown Revue of 2014 for the second night at Modstock – a four night affair in Central London organised by the New Untouchables - is more modestly scaled but the acts flown in are still greeted by an excited appreciation society including some of those fortunate enough to witness the original tour.

Brenda Holloway, favourite female Motown artist for many (count me in), enters with ‘Just Look What You’ve Done’, looking every inch the glamorous star. Not bad for a grandmother to seventeen and she mixes class with straight-talking street-funk. "I'm gonna have a collection for new bra," she announces. "This one ain't working," she adds, hoicking her ample bosom back inside her dress. The elegance and sophistication in her singing voice though is evident during ‘When I’m Gone’, ‘Operator’ and her classic ballad ‘Every Little Bit Hurts’, but it’s the up-tempo pairing of ‘Reconsider’ and ‘Crying Time’ which shine brightest. The only disappointment is the shortness of the set which ends after ‘You’ve Made Me So Very Happy’. Given the limited opportunities to see Brenda a few more songs (including ‘Starting The Hurt All Over Again’ which was sorely missed) would’ve been welcome. Keep them wanting more? She did that.

Like Brenda, The Velvelettes were never high on Motown’s pecking order with only six releases to their name. But with producer Norman Whitfield, itching to prove himself to gain access to the Temptations, they cut some of the label’s most enduring 45s; spanning the decades ever since in youth clubs, Mod clubs, scooter rallies and soul nights.

“We are the original, the only Velvelettes!” they proudly announce and they’re not kidding. With wonderful synchronicity with an event marking fifty years of Mod culture, the four family members who cut ‘He Was Really Sayin’ Somethin’’ – Cal Gill, Millie Gill, Bertha Barbee and Norma Barbee – are all here opening their set with that song they recorded in 1964.     

One common problem with seeing Motown acts is the backing band rarely does justice to the sound of the original records. With the best will in the world, how does anyone recreate the depth and feeling of the Funk Brothers in the Snake Pit? Despite the efforts of Mick Talbot and company they sound a little sparse and plinky-plonky which puts greater emphasis on the vocals. Fortunately lead singer Cal Gill is impressively up to the task and keeps in firm control as the group add harmonies and gentle loose choreography.

‘Lonely, Lonely Girl Am I’ and ‘A Bird In The Hand’ are full of exuberance, the sassy ladies shaking and shimmying in glittering gold, whilst ‘I’m So Glad It’s Twilight Time’ and a lovely reading of ‘Everybody Needs Love’ drop the pace. 'Boy From Crosstown' gets an airing;‘These Things Will Keep Me Loving You’ is a guaranteed winner; ‘Nowhere To Run’ fuels the growing party atmosphere but the best moment is the addition of a spine-tingling gospel style intro to launch ‘Needle In A Haystack’. For a track often unfairly derided due to over familiarity and, for folk of a certain standing, thoughts of grass skirt wearing scooterboys on cut-down Lambrettas pouring snakebite over their heads, few resist the urge to “do-lang, do-lang” in joyful unison.

For the finale Brenda Holloway returns and takes the lead on a barnstorming ‘I’ll Keep On Holding On’, the perfect Motown/Mod crossover thanks to versions by the Marvelettes and the Action, and an ideal choice to close a night celebrating the entwined pillars of everlasting music and style.

A version of this review also appears as part of a fuller Modstock review for Shindig! Magazine.
See also My Life Has Been Beautiful: The Brenda Holloway Interview

MANIC STREET PREACHERS at BRIXTON ACADEMY

I should be used to seeing the Manic Street Preachers without Richey Edwards by now. It’s been twenty years since I last saw him throwing rock ‘n’ roll shapes on the left hand side of the stage. Guitar slung low, nonchalantly hitting a few chords, looking beautiful. Even before his disappearance in 1995 the Manics played shows without him when his fragile mental state required professional attention. In a frank interview with Gary Crowley prior to their Reading ’94 appearance about Richey’s condition, James Dean Bradfield described how they’d resemble “a shitty mod trio” without him.

Every Manics gig still brings thoughts of Richey, from his unoccupied space on the stage, to the songs he left behind, to the lyrics Nicky Wire has written since which so frequently bring his absence to mind, whether intentional or otherwise.

Half an hour into the final date on their latest tour - a second night at Brixton Academy - the Manics play “Rewind The Film”, which reflects on a life nearing completion (“So rewind the film again, I’d love to see my joy, my friends”) whilst a film projects behind them of people in their later years pottering about playing bingo, the camera honing in on their wrinkled faces. It’s very poignant and hard not to think not only of Richey but friends and family no longer with us.

With those images fresh, they followed with an unexpected rendition on “Die In The Summertime”, one of three tracks to be played, none singles, from the most bleakest, brilliant record imaginable, their masterpiece, and Richey’s parting shot, The Holy Bible. The narrative being played out in my mind, at least, continued with a rousing and emotive “Everything Must Go” as Bradfield bellowed “Nothing but memories, MEMORIES!”  

All this makes it sound a somber and depressing affair but it was anything but. They put on a show; it’s an intelligent, thought-provoking show but a show nonetheless. James Dean Bradfield from the opener “If You Tolerate This Then Your Children Will Be Next” wanted to see those clapping hands in the air and did. As much as I treasure those early gigs in front of a handful of hostile people bouncing cans and bottles off Bradfield’s bonce it was never the Manics’ intention to be a credible but unsellable product so any slight rockisms are par for the course I guess.

During the first half Nicky Wire looked absolutely fabulous in his black jeans, black leather jacket, dark punky air and panda eyes – like Sid Vicious’ wealthy, clean-living uncle – and jumped and leaped and bounced like he’d finally been given the new bionic knees he’s so long craved. Second half he returned dressed as a camp milkman.  Wire’s favourite part of the evening, he told us, is thousands of people yelling “fuck off” at him mid-song. During “Stay Beautiful” his smile couldn’t have been wider.

I’ve never much been a fan of Bradfield’s acoustic interlude – my clearest memory of those final Richey gigs at the Astoria isn’t of nosebleeds and destruction but of me sulking off to have a piss during “Bright Eyes” – but his handling of “This Is Yesterday” and “This Sullen Welsh Heart” was truly exceptional music from and for the soul.

With their twelfth album, Futurology, imminent – only six months since the last one - there’s a wealth of material to draw from and although they continue to rate “Tsunami” and “You Stole The Sun From My Heart” far higher than I, it was a superb set list choice. The big hitters “Design For Life”, “You Love Us” (“We love you”, sings Bradfield back at the crowd), “Motorcycle Emptiness”, “The Masses Against The Classes” (seems incredible now to think the general public made that the first number one single of the new millennium), “Your Love Alone Is Not Enough” were present and although “Faster” was absent, a spectacular, lesser-spotted “Archives Of Pain” was more than enough consolation with around ten songs not released as singles. As for “Motown Junk”, I could listen to that on repeat all night and the thrill would never diminish.

Throughout the past 23 years I’ve never seen a bad Manics gig, I’ve always enjoyed them, but on occasions they’ve maybe treaded water. Not now. Following the post- National Treasures hiatus there’s real fire in their bellies and in the three spiky new songs – “Europa Geht Durch Mich” (yes, parts were in German), “Futurology” and “Let’s Go To War” – showcased on Saturday.

There's nothing shitty, mod or even trio about the Manic Street Preachers (a couple of other musicians discreetly do their thing), just a remarkable band. As much as they, and I, reflect on the past, it's the present and future which still excites. 

WILKO JOHNSON and ROGER DALTREY at the SHEPHERD'S BUSH EMPIRE

Issue 38 of Shindig! is out in newsagents today, containing  - amongst many other things - welcome features on Nigel Waymouth, Mary Love and John Sinclair. It also includes my review of Wilko and Daltrey’s gig from last month. Their album, Going Back Home, was released on Monday and sounds exactly as it should.

I don’t know if Wilko Johnson created a bucket list but making a new album with Roger Daltrey for Chess Records would be an audacious dream for most yet for Wilko, he simply got on and did it without any fuss. Tick, job done.

Ahead of release they’re in Shepherd’s Bush showcasing Going Back Home – a collection of new recordings of Dr. Feelgood songs, Wilko solo songs and a Dylan cover - for the first time. Accompanied by Norman Watt-Roy on bass and Dylan Howe on drums, for thirty minutes Wilko juts from side to side, chops at his guitar strings with his open hand and machine-guns his audience, belying the doctor who gave him an expiry date of four months earlier. As engaging as ‘All Right’, ‘Barbed Wire Blues’ and a drawn out ‘Roxette’ are, it’s impossible not to feel the expectation hanging heavy in the air awaiting Daltrey’s appearance.

One street and fifty years from where Daltrey fronted a fiery British R&B band at the Goldhawk Road Social Club led by a uniquely styled song writing guitarist, he’s back doing it again. With the addition of Daltrey, the always welcome sight of Merton Mick Talbot on keys, and Steve Weston blowing a mean blues harp, the sextet breathe new life and power into Wilko’s songs.

It’s an ideal combination, Wilko does what he does best – cutting razor sharp shapes and sounds - and Daltrey, at last, gets to wrap his vocal chords around fresh material. Stripped from the security of The Who, his familiar moves, his microphone twirling, Daltrey is out of his comfort zone but gamely throws himself centre stage, dancing like a slightly awkward fella at a wedding. His voice is still strong and any ragged edges are far better suited here to the blues-based ‘Going Back Home’, ‘Some Kind Of Hero’, ‘Sneaking Suspicion’ and ‘Ice On The Motorway’ than anything the theatrical Townshend may now throw at him.

They make a natural pair, full of down the boozer geezerness and old rogue charm. If Daltrey fluffs some lyrics, then so what? “This is a lot of shit to remember at my age,” he jokes, “you fucking come up here and try to do it”. When Daltrey asks if they can slow down so he can catch his breath he nods towards Wilko and says “Fucking cancer, it speeds him up, gives him energy”.

Whatever gives Wilko energy – determination, bloody-mindedness, luck, the stars – it rubs off all around him, from the band to the squashed, over-capacity crowd. It’s an emotional night but the overriding emotion is joy, as shown in the huge grin worn on Wilko’s face throughout as he looks across his left shoulder to see his bandmate, that bloke from The ‘Oo, belting out his own songs and a pandemonium inducing version of ‘I Can’t Explain’.

An encore gives a second airing to the rip-roaring ‘I Keep It To Myself’ before, without any fuss or sentimentality, a quick wave and dignified exit. Tick, job done.  

THE IMPRESSIONS at the ISLINGTON ASSEMBLY HALL

On my way to see The Impressions on Sunday I tried to think of something I’d sooner have been doing. I couldn’t. Two hours later when Sam Godden, Fred Cash and Reggie Torian strode on to the stage, with their beaming smiles, and began “Gypsy Woman” with their simply choreographed moves and synchronised handclaps, there was no doubt about it: this was the only place to be. 

Three times I’ve been fortunate enough to see them now (equally my Curtis Mayfield score) and each time I’ve been blown away. There is something very magical which radiates from them. Their voices hit deep into the most joyous part of the soul but it’s their whole demeanour which elevates them into a truly special place. Sam and Fred, in particular, possess the kindest, sweetest faces one could wish to see. They look like the happiest men alive and it transmits to the audience. For 75 minutes all the woes and troubles of the world melt away.

The Impressions respect their material, their fans and the memory of Curtis (who receives heartfelt applause). Nearly everything is done true to the original versions. There’s no need to mess with them and they don’t. All the biggies are present and correct and whilst their amount of hits means one or two personal favourites could be absent any set containing “You’ve Been Cheatin’”, “This Is My Country”, “We’re A Winner”, “Choice of Colors” and “I’m So Proud” can never be knocked. Even their one new recording “Rhythm!” - a recent single for Daptone - is an old Mayfield number previously cut by Major Lance and fits, complete with Johnny Pate horn arrangement, seamlessly. It also replaced the rather superfluous “Superfly” which I’d seen on the other occasions, making it a welcome switch.

Although Sam and Fred naturally receive the lion’s share of affection for being members of the classic Impressions line-up, Reggie Torian (a mere pup, having first joined the group in 1973) deserves huge credit for his role as lead singer. He’s no Mayfield imitator but his voice is close enough to suit the songs – excelling on the ballads - and his gregarious personality adds much to the show. When during “People Get Ready” – the only song to noticeably deviate from the 45 – Reggie gives an oration about checking in your baggage before boarding the train to join God, it’s done with such a skilful blend of humour and conviction it’s enough make even the most committed atheists doubt themselves. This was surely heaven.

After an encore of “Move On Up”, ever the gentlemen, Sam, Fred and Reggie make themselves available to meet the fans. It’s always difficult in these situations to say anything too much but to able to shake the hands of these people – these legends, these idols – to touch the hem of their garments, as it were, and tell them face to face how much their music means is something which makes an already incredible evening perfect.

Setlist: Gypsy Woman, It's Alright, Talkin' About My Baby, I'm So Proud, Keep On Pushin', I've Been Tryin', Woman's Got Soul, People Get Ready, You've Been Cheatin', Nothing Can Stop Me, We're A Winner, I Loved And I Lost, This Is My Country, Choice of Colors, Rhythm!, Mighty Mighty Space and Whitey, Move On Up. 

The Impressions: Fred Cash, Reggie Torian, Sam Godden