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           With the cusp of the crowd swelling so much that the front half of the room became virtually inaccessible, it soon became clear that catching Devendra Banhart and the Hairy Fairies in a venue as quaint and contained as the Róisín Dubh was just the right idea. Balanced on the tippy-toes of one foot, stretching for a gap between heads with my neck craned at an awkward angle, I tried to catch the spacious sound of “Heard Somebody Say” – a dreamy anti-war song (“Oh, it’s simple, we don’t want to kill”) – as it struggles to travel with any sort of clarity down to the phased-out perimeter I find myself skirting.

            There’s always the hope that a dozen or so bodies will simultaneously sway in one direction, parting just an inch or two so a momentary space opens up to give me some fleeting glimpse of a pathway to manoeuvre through…Until it does, I can’t help but feel like a dog anxiously waiting to pounce on a corridor of opportunity across a highway at rush hour. Yet the crowd remains an impenetrable mass, and justifiably so: no amount of budging, shoving, or squeezing is going to get in the way of those that have been eagerly awaiting Devendra Banhart’s return to Dublin. Accordingly, it should be of little surprise that the new, previously unheard material proceeds to go down a storm. Numbers such as the soulful “Little Boys,” a song about a schizophrenic, “emotional hermaphrodite” featuring some eyebrow-raising lyrics (“I see so many little boys I want to marry”) with a dash of doo-wop, and “Long Haired Child,” a tune with a Clash-like chord stab (and another dash of doo-wop) about raising kids with enough locks to wrap right around their head and keep warm during the winter, are warmly received despite universal unfamiliarity. Rather than balancing out the unknown with well-loved nuggets from Banhart’s back catalogue, Vetiver’s “Los Pajaros Del Rio,” Canned Heat’s “Poor Moon,” and the Lauryn Hill / Charles Manson face-off are all present in the set once again.

            Presenting himself for selection when Banhart opens the floor to anyone wishing to perform their own song, Kevin McNamara stepped forward and promptly laid down “The Stalker,” surprising the crowd and almost running away with the show in the process.  Banhart promptly concurred: “Give it up for Kevin y’all. We’ve been on tour for a really long time, and we ask people to sing, and that’s the best song…Right on, that was cool. That was really, really good.” [To watch this segment of the show in YouTube, click here.]

            As if suddenly forced to raise their game in a bid to better the efforts of this stranger, Banhart and the Fairies pull a new, extended version of “At the Hop” out of the bag. Utilising the wonderful ease with which the band members can share harmonies, a beautiful acappella coda drifts in with the simple refrain of “well you’ve got…the prettiest face…” instantly becoming a clear highlight. Soon, Banhart is left alone on stage to softly croon through “Sight to Behold” and “Little Yellow Spider,” occasionally pierced only by the sounds of the crowd shushing every rising murmur, or the door to the bathroom flapping back and forth. Not many artists can easily finish the night on the same song they started their set with for their last gig, but the amazing new tune “Now that I Know” proves to be perfectly apt for both. Similarly, not many artists can pull off a show of new material months before its release so effectively (Neil Young certainly couldn’t when he played his Greendale shows in Dublin two years ago), but Devendra Banhart makes himself another exception to the rule. As the band mingle with the crowd once more, one gets the feeling that soon they may no longer be able to do so; clearly destined for an enormous surge in popularity, this might be the last time Banhart and co. will play such small venues on these shores.

Popularity: 1% [?]

           In the confines of the intimate Róisín Dubh, the greater part of a hundred people have staked out a comfortable little spot for themselves on clusters of wooden stools, leaving the rest to clamour for a standing space somewhere in the shadows or to squeeze themselves onto the edge of a lowly step. Devendra Banhart sits cross-legged on the floor amongst everyone, enthusiastically engrossed in Sir Richard Bishop’s fluent display of Fahey-like acoustics – the heat is beginning to rise to a stifling degree, and for a minute, we might as well be sitting in the dim light of an old beat café at the side of some dilapidated desert highway.

             Before long, Devendra and a line-up of comrades (Vetiver’s Andy Cabic, Jona Bechtolt of YACHT, aswell as Noah Georgeson and Luckey Remington of The Pleased) dubbed The Hairy Fairy Band (though one gets the feeling they’ve been through a hundred red herring names) take to the stage in jovial mood, joking about crawfish, clam chowder, restaurant music, and meeting Donovan in a gay bar the night before in Cork. Starting off with a gorgeous new song, “Now That I know,” and proceeding to shower us with a flow of Spanish lines and bubbling syllable sounds reminiscent of Venezualan singer Simón Díaz, the mood is a playful one…the rapport between Banhart and his cohorts centres around an interplay of the same zany eccentricities that colour his song-writing, and here, it humours the crowd at every opportunity.

             Although Banhart dips only slightly into his past releases (“This Beard is for Siobhan” and “Will is my Friend” make appearances), the majority of the material lends itself from his forthcoming album “Cripple Crow,” which, in a welcome move, sounds like it will have a richer, full-band sound to it. Banhart toys melodically with the time in between songs, and because it’s clear his head is filled an infinite stream of magnetic hooks, it’s difficult to tell which of these delectable little snippets of songs are made up on the spot about absolutely anything that comes to mind, and which are simply the shorter tracks from the as yet unreleased album (such as “The Beatles,” a thirty-second reverie about Paul and Ringo being the only members left).

             In a commendable feature to their show, Banhart and the Fairies give someone in the crowd the opportunity to play a song of their own while they take a minute’s break; After much cajoling from the peers that volunteered him, one gentleman steps up with a song his friend wrote, warning that he’d have to get “all heavy” to do so. He receives a rapturous applause for his efforts, and the band pick up their instruments once more, their wispy limbs dangling with a seemingly put-on, camp demeanour that has many of the audience in a state of complete confusion.

             After a hybrid-cover that synthesises Lauryn Hill (“Doo Wop [That Thing]“) with Charles Manson (“Home Is Where You’re Happy”), and a rendition of Canned Heat’s “Poor Moon,” Banhart breaks out the likes of a solo “Sight to Behold” to wow all as the set winds down. An empty DVD box of “Shaft” is offered up as a potential prize by the quirky Jona (of YACHT), who – complete with a knitted, fake beard that actually looks like a platypus beak every time he bows his head – has been drumming up a storm in the corner with unbridled restraint all night long. Rubbishing any expectation for the kind of hushed brushwork that might suit such enclosures, he steams impressively through the more upbeat numbers such as “I Feel like a Child” and “White Regga Troll,” before providing the perfect foil to a brilliant storytelling performance of “Little Yellow Spider” with a handful of hilarious sound-effects to represent each creature in Banhart’s kingdom.

             Admitting that they have no backstage to go to before an encore, the band stay on and cook up the partying “AFRICA,” a sound characteristic of the progress Banhart’s making with the Hairy Fairies on “Cripple Crow,” a direction he feels is best described as “space reggae.” Afterwards, the band stay on to drink and intermingle with the crowd, seeming entirely approachable as they dance away to the sounds of the Arcade Fire and Sonic Youth with the rest of us. a magical night.

Popularity: 1% [?]

           An icon of flamboyant funk and a veteran of extravagant live spectacles, if there’s one person that doesn’t need an excuse to party, it’s George Clinton. So when the man arrives in town on his birthday with an army of P-Funkateers in tow, you know little time will be wasted in creating an atmosphere less like a concert than a full-blown carnival. In a pattern that would feature heavily over the course of the night, a lone figure appears stage front to test the crowd’s appetite with some call-and-response interaction, immediately making it clear that the audience would be expected to play a full part in the jamboree – after all, it wouldn’t be to far-fetched to claim that Clinton’s crew are as emblematic of that tradition as anyone.

            Proceedings finally begin with an interesting take on “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” on the keys by the legendary Bernie Worrell. With the one-time Funkadelic-member being one of three keyboardists on the night, Clinton’s all-star line-up clearly has no need for spaceship stage props or reams of outlandish outfits (although there has to be some, of course) – the twenty or so band members, many of whom are, at times, queuing up to take their turn on stage, are intent on getting straight down to business. Garry Shider, dressed only in shades and a furry diaper embossed with stars, directs the band on an extended saunter through “Funkentelechy,” occasionally making nifty diversions into riffs such as Frank Zappa’s “I Am the Slime” along the way.

            With the audience’s attention spread between the likes of the sprawling six-string bass of a robed but bare-chested Lige, and the prowess of the duelling solos exchanged between Blackbyrd and Michael Hampton, few eyebrows would have even been raised at the fact that, an hour into the set, there’s still no sign of Dr. Funkenstein. But by the time a hooded George Clinton nonchalantly wanders on stage, the crowd have been sufficiently worked up into a frenzy, meaning it’s now time to push the boat out that little bit further. Bouncing into P-funk staples such as “Flashlight,” “Cosmic Slop,” “Atomic Dog,” and “Up for the Downstroke,” the reaction cannot be understated – it’s teetering between all-out euphoria and aggressive approval; in fact, come to think of it – it’s been some time since this amount of sweat has been shed in Vicar St.

            Before long, Sir Nose – a character of uncool in Parliament folklore – struts on in a suit of feathers, eventually shifting the focus of his put-on sourness into distracting displays of break-dancing and cheerleading, gyrating like a Chippendale atop of the monitors. Acting as a bridge of sorts between gargantuan versions of the aforementioned songs, Poo-Poo Man Anderson makes a walk-on appearance to spearhead a medley of James Brown’s “The Payback” and “Sex Machine,” wailing as he spins across the stage in his pinstripe suit. Similarly, George Clinton’s grand-daughter is brought on to rap for “Somethin’ Stank and I Want Some,” seemingly causing the smoking ban to be temporarily forgotten: as spliffs are passed around freely, Clinton calls for joints to rain down upon the stage, while Sir Noise does the needful and brings out a bong packed with the band’s own supplies.

            In fine form, Clinton keeps pushing the crowd for more, enthusiastically gesturing up to the roof as a blistering violin streams out beside him. A dozen or so girls from the audience are let loose on the stage, bumping and grinding between musicians – two to a band member. Eventually, a birthday cake arrives into the midst of the band, and those with hands free dig in, licking it off their fingers before belting into a set of old fashioned rock’n'roll: Jerome Rogers, hidden behind a set of keyboards until now, straps on a guitar and joins in the escalating chaos for decidedly messy versions of “At the Hop” and “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.” It’s messy only because their emphasis is now firmly on having fun, rather than putting any thought into checking the clock and tidily wrapping up the show. However, come the three hour mark, the house lights have begun to flash – all of a sudden, an end seems dangerously close, and cruelly premature…

            The band appears to retreat backstage for the standard pause before the encore. Again the lone figure bookends matters by resuming the call-and-response: “We…want…the funk” – in a unanimous show of support demanding more, the crowd are way ahead of him, roaring out the words before he even has a chance to begin. There are flickers of movement to the side of the stage, questions being asked – but the house lights remain on in defiance. The protests become increasingly boisterous, as if to say “we’re not leaving, so why should you?” Yet it’s all in vain – the equipment begins to be packed up and the mobs are left hanging, sweating, without the closure of even a simple “goodnight.” The cheers are resurrected as people are listing the hits that have yet to be played on their fingers, but it’s over. Once again, the greed of Dublin’s venues and their promoters deliver a sucker-punch – inexplicably, the gig is €25 more expensive, and an hour and a half shorter, than the one in Rome only nights before, but hey, this isn’t the first time a great party’s been broken up by the powers that be.

Popularity: 1% [?]

         There’s been somewhat of a rekindling of interest for music with a palpable Eighties feel in recent times, and while Cass McCombs might not immediately appear to fit the description of some of these retro-poseurs, being on the 4AD label and gathering comparisons to The Smiths, The Cure, and even Echo and The Bunnymen, means PREfection is bound to be placed squarely under the same umbrella.

             Opening on the excellent “Equinox,” McCombs begins with one of the best melodies of the year, but the song also acts as a telling template for what’s yet to come. While his intentionally obscure lyrics are carried with some clever rhymes, they have to be taken with a pinch of salt – a meditation on the happenings of the court of Fontaineblleu over half a century ago is most likely not what will stick with you from this song, but instead the well-balanced slow-dance of floaty, day-dreaming syllables is bound to catch your ear. Indeed, despite the fact that he sounds nothing like him, Cass McCombs plucks his melodies out of the same air that John Lennon found his very best – you know the ones…”I was dreaming of the past, and my heart was beating fast…” or “I read the news today, oh boy…”

             However, what lets down PREfection, aside from the conceptual red herrings, is a sound that’s altogether muddied, an atmosphere far too clouded to be enjoyed. Even with highlights such as the first single “Sacred Heart,” the sulking, moody “Cuckoo,” or the playful, sing-along simplicity of “Bury Mary,” the musicianship counterparts the sleepy vocals by being a touch too messy, and as a result, the overall sound is in dire need of some sharpening up. Which is a shame, because it looks like McCombs could have the potential to use his knack for effective hooks and elaborate lyrics to create something truly memorable. In the meantime, that’s exactly what the unremarkable “PREfection” is not.

Artist / Group:
Cass McCombs
Album:
PREfection
Label:
4AD
Released:
7th February 2005

Popularity: 1% [?]

             Completed not long after Brian Jones’ death (the guitarist is still featured on two tracks), “Let It Bleed” was recorded just as the sun was beginning to set on the ideology of the Sixties, so it should be no surprise to find an element or two of disillusionment and disenchantment in the air. Nowhere is such a note more present than on the opener “Gimme Shelter,” a slick, brooding premonition of the tragic violence that broke out at the Stones’ free gig at Altamont the very same month the album was released. However, despite its apocalyptic feel and topical lyrics, the Rolling Stones were never ones for sustaining serious political messages, and “Gimme Shelter” has since become an anthem of cool more than anything else: the pronounced, heavy piano at the beginning, the edgy, slinking rhythm, Keith Richards’ guitar as sharp as a knife, the sultry Afro-American backup vocals…all make for one of the bands’ smoothest hits.

             As expected, the dramatic mood doesn’t quite last, and instead we drift into the slow country blues of Robert Johnson’s “Love In Vain” (notably, the bluesman still wasn’t a well-known figure in popular culture in 1969) and then continue to ride in that saddle for a countrified re-take of the smash single “Honky Tonk Woman,” which was left off “Let It Bleed” in favour of this roadside relation, now titled “Country Honk.” Perhaps influenced by their new pal Gram Parsons, this acoustic, lo-fi version is recorded outside in what sounds like a pleasant hoe-down jam, punctuated with the horns of passing cars (listen to Jagger shooting a moody “Yeah?” to the first beep), and drenched in sunshine.

             A snappy funk bass-line from Richards kicks in “Live With Me” with some straight-slamming drumming from Charlie Watts and spits of proper rock’n'roll piano from both Leon Russell and Nicky Hopkins, as Jagger sings of self-parody (and not for the first time):

“I got nasty habits, I take tea at three / Yes, and the meat I eat for dinner
Must be hung up for a week / My best friend, he shoots water rats
And feeds them to his geese / Don’cha think there’s a place for you
In between the sheets?”

The pounding mix grows even heavier as a roaring sax solo from Jimmy Miller and some militant foot stomping stake a place in the sound, bringing things to a climax just before the cowboy boots are to be dusted off again for Jagger’s swagger on the title track. Choosing to take on a hint of an American accent, stretching out the syllables with an exaggerated drawl, you can just picture him with a devilish pout as he stirs up controversy with some risqué lyrics (for the time):

“She said, my breasts, they will always be open / Baby, you can rest your weary head right on me / And there will always be a space in my parking lot / When you need a little coke and sympathy…Yeah, we all need someone we can cream on / And if you want to, well you can cream on me.”

             However, that altogether loose, even drowsy feel is put back in place with a decidedly tighter arrangement for the sinister “Midnight Ramble” — a song about the serial killer Albert DeSalvo, otherwise known as “The Boston Strangler” – which was duly acted out with more than a handful of theatrics on stage. “You Got The Silver,” meanwhile, is the first Stones song that Richards takes the lead vocal in (and with a hint of Dylan’s nasal sound, at that); it’s another pleasant rural ramble through the blues, and was even featured in the soundtrack for Antonioni’s “Zabriskie Point.”

             Twinkling out with some skimming Vibes, “Monkey Man” sounds as if it’s going to display some soulful Seventies funk before such a thing even existed, yet within seconds the sound is imploded with a weighty, scratching riff from Keith, and further pastiche of the Stones’ perceived image from Jagger: “I’m a flea-bit peanut monkey /
All my friends are junkies / That’s not really true,” and then later: “Well, I hope we’re not too messianic / Or a trifle too satanic / We love to play the blues.” Although the song’s not going to be considered as one of their very best, it’s infectious, giddy, and electric – with some brilliant slide guitar from Richards bringing it out to a close. The final “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” on the other hand, is one of their most recognisable, and understandably so: surreally starting off with the London Bach Choir, the song transforms into a fully loaded rock number, even featuring a French horn solo from Al Kooper, and its extended length goes some way to be uplifting despite digging at the roots of melancholia.

             Overall, this was the last Rolling Stones album of the Sixties, and followed directly on from the creative rejuvenation the band found by exploring tinges of country on “Beggar’s Banquet” the year before. “Let It Bleed” works with that same dynamic and a little more; the band hit upon a form of full-on excitement to say the least, and grab a hold of R&B, gospel, fun, and folk while they began a relationship with the horn section that they’d use for years to come.

Artist / Group:
The Rolling Stones
Album:
Let It Bleed
Label:
ABKCO
Released:
1969

Popularity: 1% [?]