Reykjavík Grapevine - 01.06.2012, Side 30

30
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 7 — 2012
“This is Bryan fucking
Ferry. Just look at him.
Go ahead, Google Image
Search him, right now. I’ll
wait.”
Music | Live review
SINDRI ELDON
pROMOTIONAL
Bryan Ferry performs at Harpa on May 27
Rock Me, Sexy Jesus?
Let me just say this right off the bat:
it’s not Bryan Ferry’s fault he’s old,
and I am in no way insinuating he
should retire. He’s made a half-doz-
en terrific albums since Roxy Music
called it a day in the mid-eighties
(their 2001 comeback doesn’t fuck-
ing count because they still haven’t
fucking done anything). If anything,
his most recent studio album,
2010’s ‘Olympia,’ sounds better
than most of the stuff he’s put out
since 1985’s seminal ‘Boys & Girls,’
and includes some very rewarding
collaborations with the likes of Jon-
ny Greenwood, Scissor Sisters and
Dave Stewart. As a songwriter, he’s
still at the top of his game, draping
beautiful atmospheres over mini-
mal compositions, and he still has
an ear for some devilishly catchy
hooks.
Now. All that said, he’s still an old
fucker, and live, he just doesn’t quite
sound like the Bryan Ferry anymore.
His fluttering, warbling vibrato has all
but disappeared, and his breathy, car-
nal whisper is a shallow husk of what
it used to be. Onstage, he occasionally
jilts and sways and makes gestures as
vague as a politician’s, but for the most
part, simply stands and sings. His voice
is an odd mixture of hoarseness and
warmth, like John Hurt with ice cream
in his throat.
Of course, that could just be the
pathetic fucking sound in Eldborg. The
treble skitters randomly across the
room, somehow managing to make
Ferry’s vocals and the guitars and the
saxophone sound dull, and yet mak-
ing his harmonica and backup singers
sound shrill and scraping. And I don’t
even want to talk about what happens
to the bass in that room.
But whatever. The infirmities of age
and the lameness of Eldborg aside, the
man and his band did put on two more-
than-decent shows of two sets each,
with beautiful atmospheres prevailing
in the first set (“Don’t Stop The Dance,”
“Alphaville,” “Reason Or Rhyme”) and
passion and nostalgia winning the day
in the second set (“More Than This,”
“Avalon,” “Love Is The Drug”). They
also reached ’70s-Roxy-levels of he-
donism and pomp, with “Like A Hurri-
cane’s” lengthy guitar solos and “Let’s
Stay Together’s” scantily clad dancing
girls.
His choice of songs was pretty dis-
appointing, though. There was way,
way too much Dylan going on—nearly
every other song was a Dylan cover—
with ‘All Along The Watchtower’ feeling
particularly hackneyed and unneces-
sary, and an encore of two more cov-
ers (Lennon’s “Jealous Guy” and Sam
& Dave’s “Hold On, I’m Coming”) was
a thoroughly unmemorable way to end
the night. Five of his greatest albums,
‘In Your Mind,’ ‘Boys & Girls,’ ‘Taxi,’
‘Mamouna’ and ‘Frantic,’ were repre-
sented by maybe four songs, if even
that. This, coupled with the backing
band’s general stiffness and business-
like delivery, left one feeling somewhat
wanting.
But, like I said, it was still a kick-
ass experience, even with all of the
aforementioned detractory attributes.
His guitarists, veteran sessionist Chris
Spedding and the 24-year-old Oliver
Thompson, did have occasional mo-
ments of ferocity, with Thompson’s
wall-of-noise guitar solo in the Sunday
night rendition of “Reason Or Rhyme”
being particularly memorable. Also, it’s
important to note that these were the
first two gigs of the tour; there may be
some stress and chemistry issues left
to work out in the band, and hopefully
they’ll drop some of the poorer num-
bers from the set list, or at least move
them around.
And I mean, come on. This is Bry-
an fucking Ferry. Just look at him. Go
ahead, Google Image Search him, right
now. I’ll wait. Find pics of him in glam-
drag on stage with Brian Eno, or in that
omnisexual white tux on the cover of
“Another Time, Another Place.” Or bet-
ter yet, YouTube him. YouTube old stuff
or new stuff, I don’t care. There’s some
Jools Holland stuff from like 2010, and
he’s still a sexy-ass bastard. The man
encapsulates cool at any age, with his
impossible combination of flair and
suaveness, perfectly fitting suits and
piercing gaze. You try going to his show
and having a bad time.