St. Patrick's Day in Manchester started off very brightly indeed, but nightfall saw the streets drenched with the inevitable rain. Though I spotted plenty of promotions for the ol' paddy water, I had to look hard for signs of drunken patriotism in town (had that been my evening's mission, I'd
have beelined to either Chorlton or Cheetham Hill Irish Centre. That's where the proper celebrating would have been taking place. Hence the slightly deserted feel to central Manchester this evening.
Me? I was at home with no plans to brave the filthy weather, but by half eight I was in the Whitworth to watch an acoustic showcase at the suggestion of a pal who'll be wielding his gu-ee-tarr as part of a future billing from the same promoter. That aside, the big draw was the chance to catch JOFF WHITTEN in action. One five minute phone call and I'm out the door. Stay in? No way Jose!
The Whitworth is off my beaten track and right at the heart of the action for the university studes, though everyone is welcomed here and the bar staff are real and friendly, and that always deserves a mention. One of the few remaining 'proper' pubs it is as well, with frayed upholstery and yellowing walls that suggest that the management are shit scared of painting
out the character. Rational fears being the best ones to have, I mention the off-white three-piece suite only because it was there, and people sat on it.
DIY entertainment like this puts a different slant on a night at the pub and whether it's the unspoilt layout or just pure luck, the pub's acoustics are impressive - a feature that makes the unlikely venue a performers' favourite. With a tiny 4-channel mixer and PA set up & ready to go, 'ALEX' MARCZAK opened proceedings with a 20-minute sample of ten years songwriting.
Slightly built, with a voice that easily reaches the dizzying falsetto heights, his crafted and subtle style at times forced his eyes tight shut.
From a standing start, he responded well to the task at hand, and was warmed up and away by the time my head was absorbing his second number 'See Through'. Intricate licks and hammer-ons spiced up his accomplished flair for playing, and audience speculation as to whether or not his songs were, in fact, cover versions was praise indeed for his creative efforts. His skills have been honed right down to a fine point by that decade's worth of experience you could hear, but not see in him.
(With eyes now open) he ended with 'Eye Contact'. His delicately soulful songs wash over and through you, and the quality of his performance was unquestionably high: his voice uncannily powerful. As the pub filled up, the applause grew, and the appreciation for this unassuming troubador was understated, but undivided.
All of which meant that you'd have been forgiven for mistaking the follow up from TONY SMITH as a wanton display of devil's advocacy. His upbeat autopilot blues-based jamming verged on the manic as he jerked this way and that in order to peer and stare right into the faces of audience members and the folks just making their way to the bar. Haa-harr, you check THIS lad out, and he will subject you to a more scrutinous gaze.
Sounding like he'd been playing non-stop with a dedication you only usually find in a martial arts expert, his set was less about songs, and more about the creation of a groove, out of which flowed streams of unconsciousness. Cover versions peppered his uninterrupted flow, and came seamlessly adhered to a performance shaped entirely by his volatile southpaw style. Excellent interpretations of 'Voodoo Chile', 'No Woman No Cry', and 'I Heard It Through The Grapevine' evolved out of his continious set, bringing whoops and the odd cheer from an audience long since captivated by his ability to kick up some top-notch noise.
Of his own creations, only the stirring 'Victory' hinted at the broken past that every fibre of his euphoric approach suggests that he's bounced back from. With ten good minutes of acid
headed twelve-bar improvisation preceding the mini-selection of classics, he pleased himself first, and then entertained his audience very well indeed.
JOFF WHITTEN performs a sit-down swap shop that is thickened by delay and warped still further with wah FX. Alternating between guitar and bass, his delivery hinges on the 'live' creation of loops that he then feeds in and out of each other to create a surprisingly full and slightly trippy sound. With the pulse of each song a constant in the face of a rapidly woven concoction of layered textures, and his stockinged feet working the pedals,
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Whitten effortlessly and effectively adds new angles to the act of performing solo.
All sounds a bit experimental that doesn't it? It certainly pushes his uncanny ability for perfect timing to the fore, adding a truly four-dimensional aura to his folk-drenched musings. 'Eyesore' ("I saw") had vocals that mirrored the song's looping structure and the odd harmony of this reclusive eyewitness testimony was soon awash with all manner of string-bending craziness.
'Pigs' again incorporated an uncanny sense of harmony, combined with a beautiful rhythmic skip. Vocally repetitive absorbing and trancelike, with a vital raw edge, the sudden end left the whole room floundering. The stunned response to this Barrett-influenced number was made of pure awe (the brief silence before their punch-drunk 33rpm applause) probably tells the tale
better without words. The culture of the modern audience often includes a determination not even to be entertained, let alone look impressed, especially if the artist is new to them. Ha ha ha, Whitten left them all gobsmacked.
There was the summer-hazy 'Gardens'."Irish gardens", he assured those punters who shouted requests for summat 'Irish'. Then 'Go On', a finale which became progressively more dischordant as the staccato guitar and thumping bassline dissolved amidst a dial-twisting sonic offensive.
It was brief - 5 or 6 songs from each artist, tops. However, the simple set-up was geared to continuity, and with the gauntlet duly thrown down, not one but any one of these three performances alone would have gotten me out of the house, even accounting for the extra kick that you get from those 'spur-of-the-moment' nights out. Last-minute decisions seem all the better in direct comparison to the quiet night in that you had all but resigned yourself to. You know how it is. One minute you're there in your slippers eating a fish finger butty and browsing the shelves full of books you've re-read a hundred times or more, and the next you're on t'tiles again. Magic.
The Whitworth residency has just moved to what will be its permanent slot - from 9pm onwards every Saturday. This is twinned with a Wednesday nite session at the Thirsty Scholar, put on by the same promoter-cum-songsmith (namely, one Eddie Toner!). The gigs are free, and if the entertainment guarantee gets anywhere near the heights of this evening, or comes halfway
close to the quality of tonights billing, you will come away with the glow of an evening well spent.
If you really do need a further incentive, open your spiritual side to the potential for your attendance to permanently eradicate the possibility of Toner's missus from snapping and bin-bagging him on charges of purposeless herbertry (and believe me, the threat is very real). Sustaining Toner's new 'non-delinquent' image in the eyes of his beloved would bring you the kind of rewards that money cannot buy, at no cost to yourself. Collectively, we have the power to save marriages. How Good (with a capital 'G') is that?
www.myspace.com/jamarczak
www.myspace.com/anthonydavid
www.myspace.com/joffwhitten
www.myspace.com/eddietoner
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