Spiritual Catharsis: Richard Dawson, Live in London

26 June 2017, 10:22 | Written by Luke Cartledge

(Live)

St John on Bethnal Green: a hulking, austere slab of early 19th-century Anglican architecture, whose dominance of its corner of London’s East End has survived devastating fire, unprecedented population surge and, most notably, the London Blitz, which claimed much of its original vicarage, but thankfully left the majority of the church itself defiantly intact. Its congregation frequently shares this beautiful place of worship with devotees of rather more secular pursuits, most often visual art. Tonight, regular churchgoers staff the (righteously cheap) bar, gracefully welcoming the followers of a figure whose work straddles artistic progression and spiritual catharsis unlike anyone else in the country: Richard Dawson.

Dawson’s practice has long been shadowed by his endeavours to articulate his own relationship with the ultimate; it’s the eloquence, invention and sheer audacity with which he approaches such epochal themes which, for me at least, makes his songwriting so special. Yet for the life-and-death seriousness of much of his fundamental subject matter, Dawson manages to navigate those topics with a humanising lightness of touch, most often made manifest by a sparkly-eyed sense of mischief. He reiterates this aspect of his character from the beginning tonight, shambling onstage understatedly before instructing the audience to reimagine his microphone stand as, “Forceps. Right? Not a mic stand. Forceps”. From this disarming introduction, he launches unexpectedly into “A Parent’s First Address to His Newborn Son on the Day of His Birth”, a stirring acapella piece from his 2013 album, The Glass Trunk. Before an audience of this size in a venue this iconic, many artists may have played it safe at the top of their set; a crowd pleaser like “The Vile Stuff”, or a single from the new record, Peasant, might have been a more likely opener. Not for our man Richard - and that’s why we love him.

From there, Dawson’s set, interspersed with drawn-out but engaging passages of self-deprecation (such as reading aloud the negative reviews of his albums from the user comments section of Amazon.com) and apology (mainly for being a little grumpy), transfixes a rapt audience. Songs from Peasant, possibly his greatest record yet, sound magnificent here, their lyrical preoccupations with subsistence and community complimented beautifully by this arcane gathering-place. The arrangements played by his small band are expertly weighted, subtle yet potent, providing an earthy counterpoint as Dawson’s words twist and turn towards the heavens. Older material is given new life – “Wooden Bag”, previously so introspective and delicate, positively thrusts along when accompanied by the full band – and there are several moments, such as when Dawson’s repeated and increasingly frustrated requests for brighter onstage lighting are finally and hilariously met with an enormous, gothic church candelabra, in which the darkness, vulnerability and existentialism of these songs is momentarily lifted, giving the audience the chance to take stock of the performance so far. In the most straightforward move of the night, the set is concluded with that aforementioned cult favourite, “The Vile Stuff”, the foot-stomping account of apocalyptic fear expressed through an allegorical tale of a Year 7 school trip. It’s visceral, dizzying stuff, and the framing of Dawson amid the Stations of the Cross only reiterates his music’s power.

Is there anyone quite like Richard Dawson working in the UK, or indeed anywhere, at the moment? Nobody springs to mind. Judging by the passion and sheer size of tonight’s congregation, I’m not alone in that opinion. His performance tonight is remarkable (an honourable mention must also go to his support act, Still House Plants, who were excellent), and he deserves every plaudit he (increasingly often) gets.