Ben Folds
It’s been twenty years since Ben Folds last came to Norwich, as a helpful man in the audience advised him, but back in the nineties he had the protective wall of a band around him. At the Theatre Royal, he was armed with only a piano, which begged the question – how was he going to perform a back catalogue known for its lush, complex arrangements?
What I expected was something akin to Randy Newman, and he certainly has the requisite wit for such a comparison, but actually this was far closer to the showmanship of Elton John, unafraid to reveal virtuosity but never drowning out the simple vocal melody to be accompanied. Lyrically, much of the evening revolved around songs inspired by his youth – a development, he assured the audience, that was as big a surprise to him as anyone. Certainly sentimental, and occasionally schmaltzy, there was nonetheless an elegiac wistfulness to his musings, some of which he candidly confessed were inventions. We heard about childhood, relationships that both flourish and fail, of a septuagenarian uncle called Bastard, and of rednecks with Presidential aspirations that foreshadowed Trump by twenty years. All of which is delivered with good humour and a lightness of touch.
Folds was also winningly self–aware. Half way through Steven’s Last Night In Town, he inexplicably jumped back from his stool, and armed with a pair of drumsticks he had secreted about his person, started bashing the hell out of a drum tucked behind the piano. One of his helpers came on stage, dragged the drum away, while Folds kept drumming. Several more helpers then appeared, built a full drum kit around him, as all the while, this infuriatingly talented man continued to play. As the drum kit got bigger, the solo got more complex, until something akin to a Carl Palmer master class was taking place. And then, just when it started to get indulgent, and the opportunity to be annoyed appeared to have arisen, he only went and said it was indulgent and annoying. “I wanted to be a drummer when I was younger,” he said, “but it didn’t work out.”
Neither was he precious. Along the way there were a few songs where the piano alone couldn’t cut it. Denuded of all those precious harmonies, the obvious fall back would have been backing tracks, or singers, or some sort of whizzy device that looped his voice. Instead, he got the audience involved, in the classiest singalong you’ve ever likely to witness. Breezingly suggesting that each audience member pick one a several parts – depending how high their voice was – he then attempted to conduct the masses as one impromptu choir. Surprisingly, some of those voices sounded pretty good, but the enterprise was inevitably torpedoed by the greater majority who, vocally flatfooted such as I, self-consciously warbled, as if in pain. No one seemed to mind, least of all Folds, and fun time was had by all. Yes, it was as hokey as it sounds, but it also made an already intimate performance even more so, which takes quite some doing in the barn of a venue that is the Theatre Royal.
Did I weary of all this relentless talent? Well, let’s just say that no one should be made to sit for over two hours, trapped in a seat mid-row, listening to anything, and there were times when only the most zealous of Fold fan wouldn’t have felt just a little restless. I don’t understand why he didn’t just dispense with the notional support of Matt Holubowski, who seems a terrifically nice bloke, but a very average singer, and a man painfully aware that his audience just wanted him gone so we could get on with the main business of the day. Split down the middle with a comfort break would have made 150 minutes of Folds so much more digestible for those of us that fell short of disciples worshiping at the temple.
And stripped of orchestration many of his songs did, frankly, start to sound the same – it was certainly possible to detect to a Folds pro-forma of sound and fury, frequently signifying nothing, overlaid with clever sounding lyrics, punctuated with the odd, sit-up and-listen profanity. But here’s the thing. Ben Folds is so nice, and so smart, that just when you think you might just be building a case against him he confounds you yet again. Having tested patience to breaking point with a grotesquely mawkish song about his daughter that had be gagging, he then goes and puts everything all right in the encore with a brilliant parody – get this – of a typical Ben Folds song. Featuring all the tics and whimsies he’s obviously aware of, this deeply moving, heartfelt song about the tumble driver in his Norwich Hotel not working properly was apparently knocked up that afternoon. Some people are so damn clever they just make you sick.
