Someone once told me that I had "hyperbolic tendencies". At first I thought he meant I had excitable testicles, but with a quick flick through the dictionary I realised what he was getting at (and I also realised he meant ‘hyperbolical’, which would have made an ever more tenuous joke). It is true, though – I do exaggerate all the time. Well, not all the time, ha ha, but you get the idea.
Refreshing, then, when something is so good that it defies all attempts at hyperbole. Such a rare occasion occurred at this gig which was – take a deep breath, Bob, and just spit it out – the best I’ve ever seen. Truly. It was so good that the Make A Wish Foundation should tell Disneyworld to go fuck themselves and, instead, prescribe ALABAMA 3 concerts to sick kids. It won’t cure any of them, but by Christ it’ll make their last feeble weeks a whole lot more enjoyable.
To elaborate, the set becomes brilliant before even half the band members (an extended family of 11, of which usually only eight or nine are on stage at once) walk on, with bassist Segs and, er, harmonica-ist Nick Reynolds in particular commanding the stage with little discernible effort. Whether they achieve such epic presence through dedication to the cult of cowboy-hat-and-sunglasses is unclear and unimportant. All that matters is that by the time the Very Reverend D. Wayne Love and Larry Love walk on, the audience is already in the palm of their crap shootin’, whiskey swillin’ hands.
When they stop jamming and start playing, however, they step up into previously unseen gears. ‘Me and the Devil’ kicks it off, its why-didn’t-anyone-think-of-this-before mix of bluegrass and techno setting the tone for the next two –count ‘em – hours of pleasure, preaching and painkillers. The theme tune to The Soprano’s, ‘Woke Up This Morning’, is the third song in; despite the fact that, live, it loses some of the barely-suppressed menace of the recorded version, the frenzied crowd get frenzieder. Predictably, the atmosphere reaches its Himalayan peak during the encore, with recent single ‘Hello…I’m Johnny Cash’ arguably the highest highpoint of an evening of many.
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It’s difficult to nail what makes Alabama 3 so magnetic to watch. Their risibly stereotyped caricature of Deep South Americanism is a tool, certainly; but it must be something deeper. Perhaps it’s sheer balls: Larry Love, after all, is sporting a shiny suit with three-quarter length jacket of the sort usually work by one of Snoop Dogg’s onstage pimp pack, whilst clutching a Shaman’s pole and gesticulating wildly. Perhaps it’s the sheer lunacy of an occasion in which slide guitar blends perfectly with bongos and synthesisers. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps the only thing in the world tonight is Alabama 3.
Oh yeah, and here’s something I thought of on the walk back but couldn’t find a way to fit in the review: "It was like being fellated by your best friend’s mum – so perversely good that you almost feel guilty for enjoying it. Almost."
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