John Otway and his Band
The appeal of John Otway remains largely inexplicable. He performs the same songs, interspersed with the same patter, and does so with a self-deprecating acknowledgement epitomised by one of the last songs of the night - I Don't Know What I'm Doing, but I Shouldn't Be Doing This. Yet there's something so unremittingly joyous in the chaos and cacophony of an Otway gig, that once you join the cult, it's nigh on impossible to let go. He may not be the Messiah, but he is a very silly boy.
John Otway
As Elizabeth Barrett Browning didn't once say, "How many times have I seen John Otway, let me count the ways." The first time was in The Cooker, a long since defunct adjunct to Brixton's Fridge, and I've been seduced by his peculiarly British kind of eccentric madness ever since. 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. But here's the thing. I don't suppose that track record comes close to the obsessive fan base that sneaked him into seventh place (one ahead of Bob Dylan, incidentally) in a poll of the greatest songs of all time, and then gerrymandered his second hit record in time for his birthday.
The evening at the Arts Centre kicked off with his first hit record, and with a full band backing him, Really Free was, dare I say it, really good. It was quickly followed by the B side, visually enhanced by powerful special effects Otway style - essentially the bloke behind the merch stand lobbing paper flowers onto the stage. It was the first of many lo-fi gags that were somehow all the funnier for being a bit rubbish. At one point, packets of Weetabix were involved, but my favourite was the aforementioned coat hanger, bent so as to accommodate a microphone round the neck, allowing Otway to bounce around the stage like a cat in search of a litter tray.
Along the way we got some proper tunes, largely drawn from his time with Wild Willy Barratt, but also culled from Montserrat, his "latest" album. Having previously heard Somewhere Else To Go, Josephine, and I'm Cured, I know they demonstrate a largely hidden talent for affecting lyrics, so it was a shame they were drowned out by the band. He was on much safer ground with Delilah (performed with a spoon) and the grandstanding, button popping, We Rock, but I do wonder if he could sometimes take himself a little more seriously.
After a break, the second hit proved a highlight, as the band pounded their way through Bunsen Burner, after which the crowd-pleasing House of the Rising Sun proved just about everyone attending knew what was expected of them. Crazy Horses saw the welcome addition of Otway on Therein and Murray on Stylophone, though it was Seagulls on Speed that demonstrated how good a band he has around him, if only they would stop mucking about. Muck about, though, they did - if you ever wondered from whom Nuha Ruby Ra nicked her two-microphone technique, then wonder no more. But for all the genuinely good songs compromised as a result, there's no denying the evening zipped by in a blur of good-natured lunacy, in which we all knew the score, delighting in the cosy familiarity of an evening that felt like the gathering of the clan. Otway put it best when, at the start of the gig, he mentioned he had been chatting to a most extraordinary person - someone who had never seen him before. Can you imagine, he speculated, that after 3186 performances, there is anyone left who can see me for the first time?
I struggle to recall how it was for me that first time, but I'm envious of anyone hearing, for the first time, how long it took him to learn the Theremin (10 minutes), that a suitcase and a trunk are two things, or that the B side of Really Free sold as many copies as A side. The appeal of John Otway remains, as I have no doubt ably illustrated, largely inexplicable. He performs the same songs, interspersed with the same patter, and does so with a self-deprecating acknowledgement epitomised by one of the last songs of the night - I Don't Know What I'm Doing, but I Shouldn't Be Doing This, which perfectly summed up the mystery of choosing to see him, yet again, for the umpteenth time. Yet there's something so unremittingly joyous in the chaos and cacophony of an Otway gig, that once you join the cult, it's nigh on impossible to let go. If you'll allow me another misquote, he may not be the Messiah, but he is a very silly boy.
