It is a truth universally acknowledged that the British public have a ferocious hunger for, and enjoyment of, live music, and will attend gigs in their droves- so long as they don’t have to pay a penny for it.
That at least was the conclusion your reviewer drew from the merry, bustling atmosphere at the Chester Arms, a cheery little pub just off the Iffley Road, on seeing it rammed to the rafters for The Marmadukes and Les Clochards. On closer inspection however, the majority of the punters seemed to be there for the craic and the (admittedly excellent) beer rather than a transformative artistic experience. Add a one pound cover and I’ll bet three quarters of the joint would be sent, post-haste, screaming into the night, but maybe I’m getting cynical.
At any rate, conversation was probably the best response to The Marmadukes set, a laid-back country rock job, which offered some nice trumpet breaks on occasion, but not a lot else. A pallid version of The Yarns, but without the tunes, they didn’t seem particularly engaged with the sizeable audience, and the sense of indifference was mutual.
The first part of Les Clochards’ set likewise felt perfunctory, Ian Nixon singing like a bad Elvis impersonator coaxed out of retirement for one last paycheque. This band has undergone some tough times of late, losing a singer and bassist ( they haven’t replaced the latter, their excellent lead guitarist moving to low-end duties, a serious waste of talent, and hopefully temporary), and one feels for them, but fine songs like ‘Glad I Made You Laugh’ and ‘Lavinia’ really shouldn’t feel like a chore.
Fortunately, the second half was a great improvement, boosted by strong tunes from the coming album, and highlighted the several reasons why we still love the group. First, Nixon is such an improbable and interesting frontman, a gruff Irish baritone with a love of Fifties rock and roll married to a kitschy Parisian sophistication. Secondly, Karen Cleave is an exceptional accordionist, her tiny, thrilling runs and fills scampering over Nixon’s songs like a field mouse over the belly of a farmer asleep in his hammock. Finally, the drummer is not only rock steady, he looks like The Dude from The Big Lebowski. So a pretty compelling case for the defence.
For these reasons, I really hope Les Clochards don’t succumb to the dispiriting loss of key players, as they remain an act of rare intelligence and charm. In summary, wounded but still wonderful.