JAMES APOLLO's biography casts him as a latter day “troubadour”; a twenty-first century “hobo”, roaming the hinterlands of the US and beyond in a relentless quest for experience and adventure.
Loathe as I am to believe such PR-speak, he certainly lives up to the role. In the early hours of this evening, Apollo wanders the depths of The Fly bar aided by a rustic-looking walking stick, weaving through the crowd almost unnoticed despite cutting an eccentric figure. To the few that identify him as the main attraction, there's a palpable sense of bewilderment and excitement in their glances and asides.
At times, he appears fragile on his feet with the stick but once it's replaced by a guitar, Apollo becomes instantly steadier, more fluid and weighty in movement. He spins easily with the guitar, strikes the classic poses we've come to expect from rock n roll. It's as if the instrument provides the magnet in his compass. It’s his true north; more vital and life-preserving than a walking stick could ever hope to be.
After taking the stage without a word, he dives straight into subdued opener "Mercenary Blues", one among many from Apollo’s debut “Good Grief” given an airing tonight. Songs from the new album "Hide Your Heart In A Hive" go down well - the album is something of a minor gem and he calls it a "starry eyed-search for the human condition," which may be over-egging the pudding a little. On record, the production doesn't necessarily represent just how well the songs live and breathe in performance.
Apollo can sound scholarly at times - his songs hint at a (young) life well-lived and the experience of the troubadour is hewn deep in the fabric of his lyrics and music, symbiotically and seamlessly woven. A multitude of genres are there – his is a classic western sound with tinges of jazz, latin, rockabilly and gospel - all topped off nicely with a solid vocal [think Calexico's Joey Burns crossed with a parched-Tom Waits] and moody pop sensibility. Obvious single "I Got It Easy" resonates in the eardrums for days after the gig, catchy and classy to boot.
His appearance – wild Jerry Lee Lewis hair and eyes that stare, roll-back and pop with every line - gets more frantic over the course of the set. It’s less of performance and more a testimonial. Between songs, he snarls out faux-drunken bar-room proclamations and rumination about the soul, about the evils that he sings of in his songs. The room might be small, dark and cramped but he's playing to us like an infinite church of lost souls. There’s a very real sense that he might keel over and start speaking in tongues at any given moment, were the guitar not anchoring him up straight.
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Before he leaves the stage, ending a set which has been taut, economical and well-crafted from the start, he's comfortably taken on the role of a fallen rock n roll preacher, testifying to us - the congregation = and leading his band in the mournful, hang-dog chorus of "All the Pretty". He tell us it’s a "dark lullaby" and it recalls “Henry’s Dream”-era Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds but with a regret and energy more reminiscent of Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison.
He’s come on a journey tonight and exercised some demons, no doubt. The crowd too has made their own journey: three very different supports acts have brought along their own fans, friends and family, who noisily chat and tolerate Apollo's set at the start but end it as converts, silent-of-mouth and enthusiastically applauding.
After the gig, the quiet-but-affable gent from earlier in the evening returns. Walking stick back in hand, he entertains all who approach with a kind smile and story or two. There's nothing forced about it – he very well just might be the mythical troubadour after all. For once, the press release tells few lies: you can believe the hype.
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