Isle Of Wight Rock
July 30, 1997
12 Bar Hitchcock
12 Bar Club, off Denmark Street, London, 30th July, 1997
by Mike Plubmley
The stench of rotting fruit rising up my nostrils combined with Robyn Hitchcock's vocal wafting from behind closed doors. I was waiting in the alleyway in a queue of one. The guy on the phone last night said there would be "thirty tickets on the door". I figured a two-hour wait to guarantee being at the songster's last summer 12 Bar performance worth a pause in my chaotic life. The soundcheck dulled my need for time. Robyn Hitchcock could be heard pacing himself through Lou Reed's "Sweet Jane".
Empty alleyways, like late night railway stations, blotted out by opening the diary I keep permanently to hand in my head. A Jumanji-ed swirl of fragments to replay when the need arises. I had barely focused the projector when the old wooden back door of the 12 Bar was sprung open by a bearded dapper guy in shorts busily adjusting the controls on his umbilical cord. He slung the mobile phone back in its holster and kindly offered to fix me up with a ticket.
Within minutes I was being ushered into the dusty darkness of the incredibly tiny 12 Bar Club past guitarist Tim Keegan, intent midsong. Onstage the statuesque figure of Robyn Hitchcock busily picking his way through the soundcheck. A guy at the 12 Bar's till asked for £8.50 which he exchanged for a receipt written on 12 Bar notepaper. "My name's Vic, I'm the manager," he smiled. "Come back at 8 p.m. and this will get you in."
I now had time for a coffee in that bookshop across from Foyles in Tottenham Court Road. A moment to reflect amongst these too manicured, "souless and bible black" rows of books on my favourite London venue, the 12 Bar Club. What makes the 12 Bar special are its back alleyway Dickensian ambiance and the friendly nature of the people. What I did not know at this point was that the dapper guy with the umbilical cord was Robyn Hitchcock's road manager following the transmutation from Mrs. Wafflehead/Sincere Management to Antwoman and whatever.
By the time I ventured down the alleyway to the 12 Bar it was a half-hour 'til opening time. Regulars Jonathan of London and Susan from Holland were already there. Jonathan dragging along his Scotch friend Alan for his second Robyn Hitchcock gig in a week. Susan flying back and forth between the flatlands collecting airmiles like most of us clock up supermarket points. She would be back again in a couple weeks when Robyn Hitchcock takes to the sea. A day trip from Lymington to the coast of The Isle Of Wight and back.
In three years there have been summer gigs on abandoned railway stations, tours of the West Wight by aging open-top double-decker buses and now RH takes to the water. "What next?" wonders Jonathan. "Underwater Hitchcock?" I suggest. "You will all be supplied with aqualungs but if he does I'll just put a telescope in the water and watch from the surface," I venture, tonque firmly in cheek.
Scotsman Alan has been intriqued enough from last week to return again for this final gig. The 12 Bar is, after all, a unique venue and Robyn Hitchcock is right at home in this club that resembles someone's front room. Capacity around 120 reckoned Mark the in-house wisecracking cameraman. The till is crammed up near the front door, the bar sandwiched into one corner, a tiny stage against the far wall in the performing room fitted around the remnants of the old forge from 1635. Upstairs is a tiny balcony area with not a nook or cranny of space wasted. When performers sing, their heads are almost cut off from those watching from the low-ceilinged downstairs.
Alan is wary of being drawn into the clutches of the RH-watchers present. We are passing the time chiding him about the moonies, anoraks, and trainspotters. He meanwhile is using our balcony table's candle to read over last Thursday's Daily Telegraph piece on Robyn Hitchcock. It is surprisingly readable given last year's rash of wine-glass-theatre-critic pieces that exhausted every cliche from unfathomable to unhinged. Weighted in time for Robyn Hitchcock's WOMAD Festival appearance it seems to have at least given the right nudges. The road manager earlier saying that the "tent was packed, about three thousand" crammed in for that performance.
Around nine the evening begins with a trio called The Dear Janes. Robyn Hitchcock comes on to introduce them up onto the tiny stage. He gives a strong warning about those annoying jerks who come to gigs and chat all through an artist's performance. "If you want to chat go out in the bar," he points. Well said, that man. Only I don't think the waiter and the guy who ordered the nachos chips down from us had their hearing aids turned on. For one brief moment The Dear Janes are drowned by the pair blaring on about the food, completely oblivious to the scowls from the stage below.
The Dear Janes
Setlist: "Doormat", "Bigger Than America", "Drunk On Alleluias", "Rise, She Was The Dynamite", "Crack My Heart, Mr. Smith", "You Do Ron (Sexsmith)", "Skinning"
From previous weeks' reports The Dear Janes had lurched from a ragged combo to getting their chops in. Tonight's set was a good one rather than a stunner. Bass player Simon Edwards the glue to holding the often wayward lead guitar on track. Both girls played guitar. The shock-red-haired vocalist cranking riffs from a mic-ed acoustic while her long-black-haired partner hid fumbling fingers by tipping sandled toes on the foot pedals.
The Dear Janes' strength tonight, for me, came in the vocals. The red-haired one had plenty of belt in her voice while her tall black-haired companion added a whole tone colour beneath the sound.
They had begun fairly un-together in what the shock-haired one described as "a sauna". An apt description before the exit doors of the 12 Bar were flung open. Within a couple of numbers they had started to pull together. The vocals the strongest point in songs rife with angst and reflection. They were keen to point out from the start that they had few bright songs -- rather, they felt the best songs were sad songs. I found none of Nico's suicidal bent myself in these songs. They came over as mere flesh wounds needing, perhaps, some Tom Rapp bleakness for them to cut deeper.
The song that had the most clarity for me came when the bass player left the stage to the two girls for Mr. Smith. It was a simple, effective, tale carried by just two interlaced acoustic guitars. A sweetly sung, tart song that spun on the stick that the gals wished to turn up the A&R man's bum. Enough to bring tears to the eyes.
Robyn Hitchcock
Way past ten o'clock Robyn Hitchcock climbed onto the 12 Bar stage to begin his final set of this monthlong series. He began with his acoustic guitar singing "Daisy Bomb". The Dear Janes sang support vocals with the red-haired one cuddling the banana passed to her by the songwriter under her top. When this Beatlesque number was finished, The Dear Janes left the stage remembering to hand back the banana.
The next song was like a second cousin to "Raymond Chandler Evening". It might be called just "Gene Hackman" for it concerns taking a bath, a bottle of wine, going to bed and not mentioning Gene Hackman. Concerning itself with Gene Hackman's prescence in a pile of American movies.
From hackneyed film stars the songster moved on to singing about cheese including "roquefort and slippery brie". The song worked with interjections of raw harmonica playing. From here he suggested "another piece of Folk Rock" before drifting magnficently into Hendrix's "The Wind Cries Mary". The claustrophobic 12 Bar wrapped tight in Hitchcock's spine-chilled version, the acoustics of the 12 bar delivering RH's jangling guitar trademark as clear as a bell.
The 'tween song banter delves off into a discussion about listening for the clicks on Dylan bootlegs as he changes harmonicas. Robyn Hitchcock testing out a couple before he is satisfied enough to launch into a blinding version of "Clean Steve". It tore along culminating the solo set in fine style.
With that Robyn Hitchcock bade a welcoming arm out to "Carlos Santana" to join him onstage. Guitarist Tim Keegan shyly walked on to plug in his acoustic guitar. RH dedicating his next song up to gallery for Andy and the pregnant Juliet "and nobody else". The song concerned an artist as English as "Grantchester Meadows". I have not a clue what the song is called but it starts "I saw Nick Drake at the corner of time and motion". A song probably called "Jewels For Sophia" followed with RH preferring his "Hail Mary pick". This song was also new to me. Tim Keegan played a neat, simple-but-effective two-fingered chord fret by fret through it while Robyn Hitchcock wrapped a vocal as decorative as a Victorian tablecoth around the lyrics.
This particular pairing ended with a superb new song about Seattle which referenced like some starry-eyed-and-laughing tour guide the delights of Kurt-Cobain-land. The hook-line chorus listing computers, coffee, "and smack/Uh!". The magic continuing when Morris Windsor replaced Tim Keegan onstage. Robyn Hitchcock switching to electric with Morris Windsor plugging in a twelve string acoustic. Not sure what the song was, never having owned RHs complete works. It may have been a Pink Floyd song for it had all the ambience of a tune from Piper At The Gates Of Dawn. (In fact it was "Each Of Her Silver Wands" from the vinyl-only Mossy Liquor. Thanks Jonathan.)
My favourite song of the set came with the Floyd's "Astronomy Domine". The twinned vocals of Windsor and Hitchcock floating in the ether above the former's stick-hit hand-drums and the latter's outer space guitar work. The pair evoking Wallace & Grommit's classic liftoff for the moon. The sound vibrating around the closed-in walls of the 12 Bar. Believe me it was the corker.
With the applause ringing in their ears the duo were re-joined by Tim Keegan. There was much banter from the tiny artists'-gallery of friends and musicians. One Andy Kershaw could be heard but not seen and there were some shots between stage and party-timers about the doings at number 10 Downing Street tonight. Blair and his spin doctors were hosting a bash for the kind of folks seen in Hello! magazine. Kind of, art for trendy folks night. Gather up the "top" rock 'n' rollers, the sultans of swingers and remember to paper over the "crack". "I'm surprised you're not there," joked Hitchcock to one of the top table party. "I'm going over later," he laughed. To end this political bish-bash, Robyn Hitchcock put his vote behind Ken Livingstone to be the new Lord Mayor of London.
Then the trio got back to the music with "Queen Of Eyes". As with all the songs tonight the version just shone above the recorded evidence. There was room, RH felt, for an extra song squeezed in before the end. It was often-requested, but in all the times I have seen RH, never played. It was "Queen Elvis". A song that I take to be a reference to the whole Bowie Glam Rock period of the early-'70s. Even if it ain't, that is where it takes me. "Alright, Yeah" was the closer before the encores. The audience well-versed in the time that it takes for RH to change his shirt.
Tonight it is the old Captain Beefheart polka dot model with the trio returning to do a rendition of "Beautiful Queen" from the last album. This simple, effective song is upstaged somewhat by the closing anthem. Reminiscent of Captain Beefheart's detour into vaudeville with "Making Love To A Vampire With A Monkey On My Knee" the entire stage is crammed with performers. The trio of Dear Janes at one end. Tim Keegan and Morris Windsor and sneaking in Sean Lyons from the days of The Eygptians. Lyons plays electric guitar, RH forsakes his guitar to flay his arms throughout his Bryan Ferry cover pisstake "Avalon".
The song has all the flavour of a very bad Spanish disco with RH thanking all the performers by giving them obscure Latin sounding names. You would have needed a tape recorder or a fast line in shorthand to cop them all, but RH calls himself "Otis Fagg". It is a fitting chaotic end to a night of superb music. The venue had been brilliant, the sound spot-on and the songs just about as good as you could wish for. I headed back on the Northern Line to Waterloo well chuffed with life.
As Noel Gallagher and Tony Blair were probably locking grins on the steps of number ten my lonely wait for the one o'clock train was avoided by meeting Sally and Chris who I recognised from the 12 Bar. We filled our time up reminiscing over all kinds of gigs since the early-'70s. Our journey home dampened by the flying vomit of a well-heeled drunk. He emptied his stomach through the train window -- which was akin to "pissing in the wind".
In two weeks we would be meeting again aboard the good ship Hitchcock on another off-the-pier day with one unique, surreal and challenging songwriter. Maybe we will all wear anoraks. Just in case someone decides to throw up over the side.
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