expressions of Amused, Bemused and Confused (occasionally an enlightened hybrid of the three) are effective emotional tools. And frankly I’m a soft touch. It is worth noting that Micky P Kerr neither requests nor requires 70p for a cup of tea. And there’s a good reason why he’ll never have to. When you have the God-given charisma of Kerr you’re unlikely to ever go hungry. He has a natural talent for tapping into a collective mainstream consciousness with wit, profanity and a charm that you can only get away with if you’re Micky P Kerr. Musically it’s unremarkable. The songs in the hands of anyone else would be painful. But when delivered by the bedraggled beardy one, it’s indispensable. Curtis Eller is also a man blessed with a unique and awe-inspiring charisma, but it’s channelled differently, which makes this a bizarre pair up. Whereas Kerr’s humour is broad and universal, Eller’s is barbed and considered, practically intellectual. Which is why he struggles somewhat with the football crowd bawdiness emanating from about half-way back. It’s a shame, as you feel that when he lurches across his metaphysical Big Top with his mic-less, speaker-stack clambering, contortionist addresses to the masses, the message is being lost somewhere in the acoustic ether, about half-way back. But no matter, because by way of compensation, he is cheered to the rafters – and at one point practically carried to the rafters – by the sheer passion and enthusiasm of the front half of the crowd who have turned this wiry, bendy, middle-aged, moustached yodelling banjo player singing songs about the formative days of the American travelling circus, into a bonafied rock star. “THE PRESIDENT OF AMERICA’S A LYING SACK OF SHIT” he spits to ecstatic whooping. They probably don’t realise he’s talking about Lincoln, not Bush. And that he’s in character. But it matters not. An additional inspired interchange with a suspiciously pasty “son of Hendrix” proves that the teething problems of the disinterested half-crowd have not crippled his humour. They threatened to derail the enjoyment of the other half, but when faced with a performer as electrifying as Eller, it’ll take more than a few meatheads to derail this circus wagon. Rob Paul Chapman
Jake Shillingford + Dan McGlade + Jason Wakefield @ The Cardigan Arms It’s about 7pm-ish and The Cardi is dark, dingy and sparsely populated. In other words, entirely perfect for the slight and impressively sinister grinning-imp perched at the ostentatiously grand digital piano placed centre stage. Seemingly in permanent oscillation, from cowed over the instrument’s frame, to bolt upright, head turned, eyes boring into the back of the crowd’s collective head while he screams, yelps, slams his fists to the keys and even more scarily, ‘looks a bit funny’ at his prey. Sorry… audience. It’s mesmerising. The tunes take shape like mini operas drenched in hysterics and theatrics. The presence of Wakefield himself is choreographically unsettling and stylisation runs deep. But it works. Brilliantly. Following this could cause a problem. But Dan McGlade has been gigging longer than Jason Wakefield has been un-dead. As front man of the currently resting Rent, there is a bountiful back catalogue to plunder. In fact, it seems about fifteen minutes before he even breaks, as one song segues into another to good effect. When the breaks do come, it’s ample opportunity for McGlade to charm with assured banter. It would be easy for the material to sound bland, stripped of 11-piece band and represented by a sole acoustic guitar and vocal, but he finds an extra level of frenetic aggression, thrashing the guitar about like he’s sawing wood at light speed. It’s to enough to ensure it’s more than passing curiosity. Which sets us up nicely for former My Life Story dandy-in-chief Jake Shillingford. That and some nice candles. Much like Jason Wakefield’s nasally Rufus Wainright whine, Mr. Shillingford’s enunciated estuary vowels and pronounced vibrato are something of an acquired taste. The arrangements are competent enough, but unlike McGlade, precious little thought appears to have gone into how to breath new life into epics stripped of their elaborate multi-faceted backing. As such, it’s the new solo stuff that works best, particularly former single Butterfly Wings. It is of course the MLS material that is most rapturously received by the modest, but enthusiastic crowd, but with the exception of the menacingly gentle Claret, it’s a bit patchy. None-the-less, it’s a perfectly pleasant bitter-sweet finish to a sumptuous three course feast, now made available in fun-sized format. Rob Paul Chapman
vibrations 38