Thursday, 13 February 2014

John's Children, 229 The Venue, London, 9th February - 'live' review by Shindig!


There’s nothing worse than looking at a 68-year old man and realising he has twice your energy and half your waistline. But, seeing as the sexagenarian in question is none other than Andy Ellison, he can be forgiven. Especially as it’s been some time since he fronted a band worthy of the name John’s Children and played the UK with it, meaning the joyous anticipation of his return is palpable. Attendees of the London psych scene whisper in reverential tones about those first reunion gigs ten or so years ago, particularly at St John’s Tavern. Since then, bassist Martin Gordon has released a string of fascinating (and criminally overlooked) solo albums, and tragically, the frenzied blur of percussive power that was Chris Townson has passed away. But tonight the three lean, relatively young Finnish musicians (Johan’s Children, maybe?) that flank Ellison slot so neatly into their respective roles it’s at times almost as if we’re watching the ragged chaos of the original lineup. Which, I believe, is exactly the idea.

Dressed in regulation white jeans and patterned t-shirts (although Ellison initially bursts forth in a dashing striped naval jacket), and sporting a variety of hairstyles from Brian Jones bowl to porkpied skin ‘ed, they clang and bang through the still-strident songs as if 1966 were only five years ago. ‘Sarah Crazy Child’ and ‘Mustang Ford’ set the template of slashing, scything guitars, flailing drums and reverb-drenched, androgynous vocals. No wonder the original band is cited as the formative influence on both glam and punk. No wonder they scared The Who shitless. The vintage poster to my left advertises their gig in Beaconsfield, Bucks, 1968, with Simon Dupree opening and the Amboy Dukes closing… one can only imagine.

For me, though, they’re at their best when quirky, offbeat and jittery in the way only inherently English bands are (though others have tried). ‘Smashed Blocked’ veers as it always did between throbbing garage and sluggish proto-doom, but with key changes pre-empting the outre essence of Syd, Bowie and all that was to follow. ‘Just What You Want Just What You’ll Get’ remains a twisty-turny thing of strangeness, guaranteed to confuse, and ‘Not The Sort Of Girl’ throws the concept of rhythm out of the window altogether. Yet on the other side of the fence from the strawberry toytown of archetypal UK psych lies the languid, sleazy ‘Hippy Gumbo’, which demonstrates Ellison and his cohorts’ abilities at tackling a quite different aesthetic, and sees Danie Cox (frontwoman of opening act Featherz) attempting some incredible audience acrobatics, and transforms the room temporarily into a whisky-filled shady nightspot of megalithic sleaze proportions.

The sleazy rawk n rawl continues with ‘Hot Rod Mama’ and a reworked ‘Sally Was An Angel’, allegedly from a forthcoming studio album, but this music has always been more about the brain than the hips, thighs or buttocks, and it’s not long before the hallucinogenic vibe of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Scene’ blows the minds of all present (ages ranging 20 to 70, although maybe in not as large numbers as one might have expected). Not that that makes any difference, mark you, to Ellison, one of the wildest nutters to ever tread a stage. From as early as three songs in he’s leaping from drum riser to PA to dancefloor before your eyes have time to focus, tearing his shirt off and attacking the front row with towels, and clambering either atop the guitarist’s shoulders or under his trousers. At one point he even walks out of the room altogether (his mike lead is EXTREMELY long) and sings lead vocals from inside the bog. And all this without ever losing breath or dropping a bum note. Seriously, it puts generations of younger frontmen to shame. The other three Children are no slouch either, particularly the Marriott-haired guitarist who shares a few lead vocals with Andy, and thus gets the honour of doing the ‘Marc parts’, such as the high-pitched whinnying chorus of the pulverising ‘Desdemona’.

As per usual, my favourite number ‘Been A Long Time’ is sadly absent, but an unexpected – and rather chilling – acoustic cover of Sinatra’s ‘A Very Good Year’ more than makes up for it, as does the final kick-up the-arse encore of ‘Perfumed Garden Of Gulliver Smith’ and the perfect pop-punk of the old Radio Stars number ‘No Russians In Russia’, which sees even DJ Andy Lewis pogoing with abandon. I’ve seen a few veterans in my time and frankly, often they struggle to keep their energy levels up, but on this evidence, Ellison – and this new brood of Children – could easily be at it for another decade. Could a man of 78 still have so much power? We’ll have to wait and see- but remember, people said the same in 2004 when he was 58…

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