Narc. Magazine Online
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Lee Fisher spends a night amidst masked luchadores and comfortably familiar tunes
Oliver Darling had a lot going for him: great hair, great suit, nice guitar, decent voice and a clear love for Big Bill Broonzy. Unfortunately, at the end of each song in his brief support slot, I remembered… nothing.
I’m pretty certain there were a few people at this gig who were there more for Los Straitjackets than Nick Lowe, myself included. I’ve respected – admired even – Lowe for years without ever getting too invested beyond the few songs everybody knows, most of which we got tonight, whereas Los Straitjackets get regular spins round this casa. This longstanding collaboration is a curious one: beyond the fact that they clearly enjoy working together, I guess Lowe gets a more than competent backing band for what is, these days, pretty much a kind of rock’n’roll revival act, and our masked luchadores get a good payday and some bigger than usual audiences.
The Los Straitjacket segment, mid-set, was a delight, a flurry of instrumental, Latin-tinged surf tunes with sly nods to famous riffs (Paint It Black cropped up), The band are remarkably tight and fun (well, they’ve been at this a long time). But Lowe seems to have settled into a comfortable, nostalgic old age (to be fair, he’s a remarkably sprightly 75, so that’s no big surprise) and delivers a hit-laden set that never gets more raucous than a comfortable shuffle. Even the famous songs from that weird period when this pub rock survivor was considered vaguely new wave – Cruel To Be Kind and So It Goes in particular – are surprisingly pedestrian, and his all-time banger (What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding felt strangely underpowered and low-key.
There were some lovely country-tinged numbers – House For Sale was a real heartbreaker – but most of the set was made of mid-paced ‘twisting by the pool’ rock ’n’ roll numbers that lacked any real energy. In fact the highlight was probably a comparatively rockin’ blast through Shocking Blue’s Venus, where Lowe gave the band their head. But Lowe’s in fine voice, was charming company the almost-capacity crowd lapped it up and it was certainly a fun way to spend a grim Thursday evening. The oddness of the pairing was perhaps summed up by an exchange I heard as we filed out, as a local lass complained “Ee, but why did that band wear those daft masks? You couldn’t see their faces”.
