The Rocket
August 27, 1997
Robyn Hitchcock (London, England)
Opera House, 1:30-2:45 p.m.
by Chris Nickson
Some people find Robyn Hitchcock inaccessible. Just because a man writes songs about people with lightbulb heads and throws in the occasional reference to insects and fish doesn't mean he's off. Just a little left-of-center, but there's nothing wrong with that. The man can still write material that sticks in the brain as if Velcro had been applied, or something so transparently lovely you might be tempted to burst into tears (and there are plenty of both on his latest album, Moss Elixir).
After a career that's now spanned 20 years, starting with The Soft Boys, then solo and with The Egyptians, Hitchcock could almost be the definition of cult figure. The kind of status that leaves him damned to something less than the mass acceptance he really deserves. Pithy, profound, slightly skewed, not to mention being an excellent guitarist, he deserves more. And if bonus career points were given for in-between song patter, he'd already be a major star; call it stream-of-consciousness, or mere ridiculous rabbiting-on, but he's never less than entertaining, and that's before he's played a note. Now, doesn't that sound more tempting?
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