Liam Frost e.t.c.
To inaugurate a brand new year of obsessive gig-going, I went to see the fantastic Liam Frost and the Slowdown Family at a little place called the London Spitz. This trendy bar/restaurant/gig venue in the depths of New Spitalfields reminded me of the superb Night and Day Cafe in Manchester with its diverse range of alcoholic beverages (I partook in some German strawberry beer, I implore you not to do the same) and small, wonderfully intimate stage. However, the Spitz noticeably lacked the cute redhead sitting in front of me playing with her iMac who later transpired to be none other than Jenny Lewis (yes, of Rilo Kiley/Rabbit Fur Coat fame.) That admittedly was a bit of a shame, but luckily the quality of the music more than made up for that.
For those who haven’t heard of Mr. Frost, he’s a twenty-two year old singer-songwriter from Manchester whose “Mourners of St. Paul” (a tribute to his late father) was Planet Sound’s Top Single of 2006. I was initially put off by the fact he seemed to be lumped in with the masses of other twenty-something guys who play guitar ballads in an terribly over-earnest fashion (James Blunt, Jack Johnson, James Morrison), but after hearing the hype about that song I decided to check him out. And he was a real revelation; perhaps he won’t have the same appeal to middle class housewives as his peers, but his mix of rough-hewn folkiness and heart-stirring strings is infinitely more interesting than most of his ilk. So when I found out he was playing in London, I thought I’d grace his show with my rotund presence.
Well, first off, he wasn’t the pony-tailed, skinny jeaned hippy I always envisaged him as. Liam Frost is, like myself, an unabashed ‘man of volume’. Or for those feeling less kind, ‘a fat bastard’. In any case, I instantly felt a kinship with the guy- he seemed a lot more down to earth than most of the indie types I’ve encountered. Any fears I might have had that the lush instrumentation of the album wouldn’t be able to be recreated in such a tiny venue were immediately dispelled; backed by a string quartet, percussion and piano, this was certainly no dreary acoustic strum-a-thon. Frost’s cracked Mancunian vocals suits the melancholy material perfectly, adding a real rawness to the proceedings but it’s when his set hits its most uplifting moments where his singing really impresses. You wouldn’t expect it, but underneath the roughness is a genuinely strong voice and he employs it marvellously. True, some of the renditions were perhaps slightly more subdued than I would have liked (The City Is At A Standstill), but it’s a petty complaint. The fact is, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a more beautiful song than “The Mourner’s of St. Pauls,” which was somehow even more acutely moving live than on record. After the deluge of middle-of-the-road, suicide-inducing dullards like Blunt and Nutini, it’s heartening to see that there are still singer-songwriters out there with real emotion and soul. He also seems like a top bloke as well; lots of great banter with the audience and band and he even waited by the door to thank the punters after the show - a small touch, but one that was definitely appreciated. A fine way to kick off what will be undoubtedly a superb year of live music.
As I was coming home from said gig, I was sitting on the Circle and District, reading/scowling dismissively at a copy of the Daily Express (the Daily Mail’s leperous ginger step-child) I’d found on the train when a gentleman sitting opposite came over to me and pointing at the front page asked me, “Helen Mirren- you would, wouldn’t you?” Now, I must admit I was slightly taken aback by this question- it’s not an everyday occurrence when a complete stranger comes up to you and enquires about whether you’d consider partaking in carnal opportunities inherent in an actress who is, when all is said and done, over sixty years old. It was a conversational gambit that inspired both a sense of utter fear and yet a strange sense of admiration. I replied firmly in the negative and to my mild relief I wasn’t stabbed repeatedly in the face; instead, my new companion engaged in conversation about his idea for a football-related website. Which was, when all’s considered, a lucky escape for me. There’s really nowt as odd as London folk…
Also, another year, another predictably dull set of Brit nominations. Still, there were a couple of surprises; nice to see the Flaming Lips get a nod for Best International Band. And as for Cat Power and Guillemots making the list, well, I’m forced to grudgingly accept that someone involved in this annual farce actually has a modicum of actual musical taste. And that hurts me bad. So, so bad.