Music > Live Reviews

John Otway

Norwich Arts Centre

06/01/18

Singer, songwriter, and rock and roll’s greatest failure (self-proclaimed), the inestimable John Otway has been rolling around on the floor, headbutting microphones, and generally injuring himself in the service of his art for nearly half a century. With wit, self-deprecation and the occasional genuinely good song, he is in danger of becoming a national treasure. With a set list that has barely shifted in all those years, an accompanying party piece for nearly every song, and audience participation an integral component of the show, an evening in the company of Otway and his loyal followers is a little like attending the meeting of a benign cult – something that felt peculiarly appropriate within the deconsecrated shell of St Swithin's Church.

It quickly became apparent that most of the congregation had attended a service many, many times before, and not only knew what’s coming but expected it with a palpable sense of anticipation. Sure enough, after dispensing with Really Free, the first chart hit of the evening (along with the B-side “which sold just as many”) Otway launched into a forensic dissection of the Sweet’s hit Block Buster! while “playing” two guitars hinged together, and occasionally howling. If you’re familiar with this classic slice of seventies pop, his version is hilarious. For the younger members of the audience (in what was a pleasingly mixed crowd) this must have seemed, well, unhinged. More lunacy followed, as a foot pedal was utilised to simulate a phone breaking up, backing singers were introduced via a small hand held box, while pads distributed around Otway’s body turned him into a human drum machine.

Such relentless wackiness is not for everyone, and my previously uninitiated companion breathed a sigh of relief when Otway offered the sorbet of a Bob Dylan cover. His rather good impression of Dylan’s nasal delivery had said companion whisper in my ear that, finally, we were listening to proper music. Gently, I had to point out that Otway may have sounded like Dylan, but he was singing Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, upon which news my pal indignantly harrumphed off to the bar in a strop. Probably just as well, as he consequently missed Otway’s roadie Deadly do a spot on parody of one of Dylan’s horrible harmonica solos.

The chemistry between Otway and Deadly was lovely, and a great addition to this nominally solo show. When long term supporting guitarist Richard Holgarth departed for Eddie and the Hot Rods Otway had no one to bounce off and he was sorely missed. Deadly’s contribution is a little more oblique, consisting largely of plugging things in, pressing buttons and pulling faces, but he was rarely off stage, and the evident affection underlying their faux squabbling is a grin inducing pleasure to witness. With Deadly’s increasing involvement there were more covers to come – all of them set staples. The loopy Theremin was wheeled out for Crazy Horses, The House of the Rising Sun call and response is always a highlight – “that’s two things” - and no Otway concert would be complete without at least attempting a somersault from the top of a stepladder.

My only quibble is that all of this sound and fury left little room for his more sober material. Poetry and Jazz, Josephine and Cheryl's Goin' Home reveal a wistful longing for past love and bucolic days long gone. No one would seriously argue that Otway has been gifted with the finest singing voice, but he is a proper songwriter when he wants to be, yet we heard precious little from the new album Montserrat, despite it being the first in ten years. Apologetically explaining that “I don’t want you to leave”  we had only a handful of new tunes as evidence he can still knock out a good one if he puts his mind to it, and that was a pity.

Otway is charming company and his live shows are hugely entertaining but I do wish he’d have a little more confidence in the quality of his own writing. If he did, more of his audience might be content to have him set aside the shirt splitting routine, the knackered plastic doll tossing and the coathanger microphone – great fun though all of that is - and instead listen to a talent even Otway doesn’t seem willing to admit he has.