John Otway
Be warned - there's something so unremittingly joyous in the chaos and cacophony of his gigs that once you jump down the rabbit hole it's nigh on impossible to clamber out again
Pavlis
Wittily titled The Set Remains the Same, John Otway's new live album neatly epitomises his unique USP. Not only do the songs performed remain largely unchanged year on year, but so does the banter in between. I've seen him in the bar at Tivetshall's Railway Tavern, in the Corn Hall in Diss, at countless Glastonbury's, and even at the London Palladium. I've seen him upstage Wilko Johnson with a coat hanger, discuss failure at The Edinburgh Fringe, and have his performance translated into German by Attita the stockbroker, while on crutches. Quite why I keep coming back for more - why anyone does - is a mystery, not least to Otway himself, but a combination of cosy familiarity and irresistible charm makes his gigs not just a pleasure, but something akin to an obligation.
The evening at the Arts Centre opened with his first hit record and, backed by his band, Really Free was really good. It was immediately followed, as night follows day, by the B side, which he reminded us sold just as many copies. Delilah then reared its head, complete with a spoon bending routine that remains unfathomable to me, no matter how many times I've seen it. Thereafter, we got some proper tunes, largely drawn from his time with Wild Willy Barratt, but also culled from Montserrat, the last studio album. Somewhere Else To Go, Oh My Body, and I'm Cured demonstrated a largely undervalued talent for affecting lyrics, while button popping, We Rock, teetered dangerously close to barnstorming, grandstanding classic rock.
After the break, which Otway insisted we all deserved, his second hit proved a highlight, as the band pounded their way through Bunsen Burner, the sparkle of the disco ball above our heads nicely complementing a twinkle in his eye. The crowd-pleasing audience participation of House of the Rising Sun proved just about everyone attending knew what was expected of them, while Otway’s version Crazy Horses convincingly demonstrated that the Osmonds should have featured a Theremin on the original. It was, however, Seagulls on Speed that demonstrated how good a band he has around him, quite capable of knocking out a damn good tune if they put their minds to it.
The evening concluded in an unusually understated fashion, with the elegiac Josphine and Best Dream reminders, once again, that he's a much better lyricist than the blur of good-natured lunacy so effectively obscures. It made me wonder how heartfelt were the sentiments behind the encore, when he reflected, somewhat poignantly, that I don't know what I'm doing, but I shouldn't be doing this.
Nonetheless, if you ever wondered from whom Nuha Ruby Ra nicked her two-microphone technique, then wonder no more. If you ever wondered how Madonna inspired Otway, or how long it's takes to learn how to play the Theremin, or noticed that a suitcase and a trunk are two things, then I would encourage you to go see Otway once. Be warned though, as there's something so unremittingly joyous in the chaos and cacophony of his gigs that once you jump down the rabbit hole it's nigh on impossible to clamber out again.
