Loney, Dear / Andrew Bird / Joan As Police Woman, Shepherds Bush Empire, London, 11th July 2007

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Loney, Dear

For lucky Londoners, one spin-off of the thriving summer festival circuit is that the world and his wife are passing through at this time of year – all gagging for a warm-up gig or an extra little earner. So, without so much as the bother of investing in a pair of designer wellies, I was pleased to have spotted this intriguing triple bill. Each of the acts had made a faint blip on my musical radar, but I was generally unfamiliar with all of them and here was a chance for them to impress and gain a new fan. So hoisting my trousers up to my mid-riff in best Simon Cowell fashion (always a good way of gaining a little bit of extra elbow room – no one wants to stand next to the nutter), I stood back in judgement and prepared to be won over.

The schedule forced Loney, Dear to kick things off as the Empire was still only sparsely populated. Seemingly a bit timid to start in the face of this lack of atmosphere, they earnestly set about their business and soon worked up a joyous zest that never quite spilled over to ignite the crowd, but did put a smile upon most people’s faces. A full band provided a rounder sound than I had been expecting based on limited exposure to a few of the more folky (dare I say whiney?) and/or solo album tracks, and wisely their set list stuck with a generally more upbeat indie-pop selection that also better suited their allotted slot. I had already fallen in love with the twinkling rapture of I Am John and it was a highlight. All too quickly the closer arrived – Saturday Waits – and it was another belter in what must be Emil Svanängen’s one man campaign to battle the melancholy that feeds that infamous Swedish suicide rate. I don’t know, maybe he’s a grumpy bugger in the long dark winters too, but tonight he had won some new friends for his bouncier side at least – me included, and that may be a way in to a more long term following.

Andrew Bird

A pleasing brief interlude later and Andrew Bird had unceremoniously slipped on stage to a ripple of anticipation – it was clear that a percentage of the audience were here just to catch a glimpse of him walking his precarious tightrope of one man multi-track sampling and looping in a live setting. I have seen this done before, but never as seemlessly and with such complexity of form. Virtuoso violin (pizzicato too), guitar, glockenspiel, and the trademark flawless eerie whistling stylings filled the room. It was striking, stunning even. The dexterous theatre of instrument switching and the genuinely unique sound kept me fascinated even if each individual track sounded broadly similar on first hearing. I wasn’t getting much of the vocals, so a proper listen in a more ambient setting might be what I need to work on a more distinct appreciation, but I do now have the curiosity to find out more. In just as self-effacing manner as on his arrival, Andrew Bird slipped away after finishing with The Happy Birthday Song, dedicated to himself to celebrate his own 35th birthday.

Joan As Police Woman

So, we’d had infectious, we’d had interesting. What could Joan As Policewoman bring to the party? Unfortunately her one word summary would be: dull. As the roadies made their final adjustments, there was a noticeable sudden rush to the front from those who must previously been lingering around the bars providing the annoying buzz that had underpinned the previous performances. I was surrounded by snippets of conversation about people “friending” each other on MySpace. The omens were not good. Getting a photo or two and then retreating to the perifory seemed like a good plan. I had wanted to like Joan (As Policewoman) Wasser. I had wanted to enjoy something like the smokey emotions of Cat Power’s The Greatest. She has an impressive CV (Rufus Wainwright, Antony and the Johnsons, Sparklehorse, Lou Reed, Jeff Buckley amongst many), and has accumulated a following who seemed to be out in force and lapping her up. It felt like I was the one thinking that the emperor really wasn’t wearing any clothes. It’s one thing to be confident in front of an audience, but I was getting an aura of over-reaching self-importance. There was a voice that did not captivate, and songs from behind the piano that meandered past in a rather forgetful parade, with neither lingering melodies not emotional interest. Only when picking up to lead with a guitar in her hands was there a small injection of pazzaz. If it was just an uninspiring voice on the night, then I would give her another try on CD, but I just don’t think the songs are good enough. I left early – a sin for a reviewer I know, but I had company who was similarly disenchanted. It was a dissappointing end to the night, but my Simon Cowell impersonation would not be complete without giving someone a rocket.