The moderately intimate surrounds of the HiFi Bar owed much to the slow influx of Tuesday night punters. Still sparse and hollow, Rob Snarski (he of Black Sorrows fame) appeared on stage dressed as a confused 1940s coal miner.
Accompanied by man about town Dan Luscombe on guitar, the hatted duo went about their warmers, which one assume must have been nice if it weren’t for the horrid, ear frightening reverberations of the room.
Second only in unpleasantness to the price of bottled beer, this bouncing wave of irritation went bravely ignored by Snarki and Luscombe.
If they did try to fix it, it was all too slow and by then they were half done. (I’d have legged it to the bar for safety, but you know…)
After a short period of ambience, Richard Hawley and band sidled on-stage without any unnecessary clamber. Leather jacket, thick rimmed glasses, and a quiff better than Christopher Reeve’s, the brooding Sheffield-born tones bore gifts in the form of a rock’n roll badger.
From early works with the Longpigs, and then a convenient on-off/in-out time with Pulp, Hawley’s mind has gathered, but not left its roots. With a deep, knowing appreciation for the old world, he and his ‘Steal City’ contemporaries have forced their ways through the undercurrent of orange-sprayed delirium.
Wasting no time with old numbers no one remembers, Hawley and co. calmly slunk into tracks from last year’s Mercury Prize nominated Standing On The Sky’s Edge. The groaning sprawl of the album’s title track broke ground before Hawley opined that “Don’t Stare At The Sun” was a “rather dull theme really, but I’d a head full of acid at the time I wrote it. That tends to liven things up.”
The calming cool of Hawley’s dry wit and talent with a tale would go on to litter the evening in and around his understated guitar licks and baritone voice. Backed ably by his travelling comrades, the well measured sounds shimmered.
Nothing was overblown; no one took onus in place of the band; Hawley himself chugged along, taking his own cue but never overbearing.
“I may cough tonight. I have stopped smoking,” confided Hawley, “although I’ve got through two gigs and a radio show now… I wish I still fucking smoked,” he finished, clarifying the dead as the cheers turned to chortles.
As is the unfortunate happening at gigs for touring artists normally from the UK, there’s a legion of excited expats present, who give in to their desire to blurt out the name of a town.
“COME ON, SHEFFIELD!” is the call from the floor. Hawley, wary of the threat, baulked with “Yeah… I know. Thanks.” Though that wasn’t enough of a deterrent for the next enthusiast, seemingly unaware of the existence of things called ‘set lists’.
“PLAY THE OCEAN!” she pleaded. The sigh from Hawley must have been a little heartbreaking for her. “All artists have a plant in the crowd, you know,” he dryly advised, “and I’ve got a cabbage tonight.” A tad mean (but fucking funny); after all, someone always has to cop the stick.
Giggles aside, they slid into the leeringly hilarious “Blinded By Love”. Warming and ever smile worthy, the cheek of the lyric is key, just as Hawley’s constant changing of guitars adds subtle tailoring to the blend.
From Gretch, to Les Paul to Gibson to Danelectro, and back again. For guitar nerds, there was something on display for all occasions. Hawley then dug a little deeper into his seven album strong back catalogue of solo works.
“Soldier On” brought about crackly B&W visions of Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac; warbling through the gentle chords and tom-tom pats and before a glorious full band chime. Current single “Leave Your Body Behind” began and ended in a mass of swirling guitars and left the whole room grinning.
After a bit of licking up earlier, Hawley reverted to character and let out a home truth; “You Aussies have a big reputation for drinking. Not in fucking Melbourne.”
Aside from that disapproval, he did treat all with the charming closer “Down In The Woods.” Nursery rhymes are something to behold and in Hawley’s arms the hint of nostalgia is a blessing.
Closing with a mighty brace, the long forgotten requested diversion of “The Ocean” had the last laugh. A clattering of guitars and moody smirks later, and all were as grateful as ever. Richard Hawley’s slow burning fame is quite the bright star. If only there were more of his ilk.
