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Dave Woodcock and the Dead Comedians/ Garron Frith/ Richard Kitson
Sheffield, Grapes
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Article
written by Ged M
Jan 21, 2008.
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Going to a gig is no big deal, especially in London on a Wednesday. Supporting the live music scene in another city when you’re staying there for work deserves the odd brownie point though, especially when the locals stay home (“we don’t go out midweek” said Julie in our Sheffield office about the deserted midweek streets, “we go out at’weekend”). Northern Puritans lose then and I win, since the line up is engaging and the price is a very reasonable £3 (and for that you even get free Wagon Wheels). Don’t people in Sheffield appreciate the music and culinary delights on their doorstep?
Richard Kitson opens the evening; he’s a blues guitarist who demonstrates his playing skill and a very obvious appreciation of the blues without any indulgence. OK, it’s a very familiar sound but that seems to be the point of the blues. Garron Frith, from Manchester, is still narked by the review of his album in the current Sandman which claims that it’s music for sad people to curl up with and comfort-eat a tub of Ben’n’Jerry’s. No, Little Miss Cloth-Ears. He’s a singer-songwriter and many of his songs are non-specific maudlin romances but he has a way with a melody that sounds a little bit like Glenn Tilbrook. I’d name some American influences but he anticipates my thoughts; “it’s hard to be Leonard Cohen or Jeff Buckley when you’re happily married with two kids” he says, before launching into his best song, this time specifically about his wife, which has some intricate, almost raga-ish, guitar picking.
Dave Woodcock and the Dead Comedians shows off Dave Woodcock’s songs in a band context, and very fine they are too. The title of one of his songs is the perfect prescription for his type of musician: cigarettes, drinks, junk food and booze. The ghosts of Johnny Cash, Hank Williams and Jeffrey Lee Pearce too gather as these lost cowboys play their darkly spiritual southern-style rock’n’roll. Woodcock’s part-Waits, part-Cash, all-growly vocals are supported by the intelligent, assured playing of his Dead Comedians, who throw in a little Creedence-style choogling to shake things up. It’s stirring stuff that ends at least three songs too soon and I’m only left wondering, as I cram yet another Wagon Wheel down my craw, why he’s not as well-known as Sheffield’s other singer-songwriter, Hawley, because he’s got a similar taste and a similar gift.
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