LIVE MUSIC REVIEW: Deep Purple

This article is copyright of The Scotsman and used with their permission for this purpose only.

Deep Purple

OVO Hydro, Glasgow

***

Unlike many of their rock monster contemporaries, Deep Purple – one of the founding fathers of heavy metal – rarely lumber. Their rock ‘n’ roll is hard and fast, just as it should be. You could even argue that from a certain angle they had/have more in common sonically with the punks who supposedly wiped out the dinosaurs in the late 1970s.

But let’s not get carried away; as evinced by this scrupulously engineered barrage of voluminous heavyocity, Deep Purple are the quintessential prog-adjacent hard rock band.

After only three songs we were treated to a long unaccompanied guitar solo from newish recruit Simon McBride. It felt like a showcase to waylay any fears their fans may have – don’t worry, this kid (he’s 45) can play. And he can, although I was inevitably reminded of Nigel Tufnel. But that’s only to be expected, these guys helped to create the arena rock clichés after all.

Longstanding keyboardist Don Airey performed two extended showboating solos, one of which incorporated snatches of classical, boogie woogie, Scotland the Brave and a pleasing barrage of squiggle and skronk teased from a beautiful analogue synth.

At one point, while mid-flow, a roadie dressed as a waiter handed him a glass of red wine to toast the crowd with; a corny piece of rock theatre that only a band such as Deep Purple can get away with.

Ian Gillan’s banshee voice has weathered well. A little strained at times, perhaps, but he still has a stronger set of pipes than anyone resembling an exact gene splice between Sir Ian McKellen and Terry Jones has any right to.

The unassuming star of the show, though, was founding member Ian Paice on drums. A rocking Womble, he can still conjure up the thunder of the Gods.

LIVE MUSIC REVIEW: Nathan Evans & Saint Phnx

This article is copyright of The Scotsman and used with their permission for this purpose only.

Nathan Evans & Saint Phnx

SWG3, Glasgow

***

Nathan Evans, a postal worker and budding singer-songwriter from Airdrie, became a worldwide viral sensation in 2020 when he released a TikTok video of him performing the traditional New Zealand sea shanty Wellerman.

Many theories have been posited as to why this happened, chief among them being that its earthy spume-flecked romanticism chimed with millions of people looking for an escape from the restrictions and uncertainty of lockdown. And that’s probably true, but I personally think it became a ‘novelty hit’ because it was catchy, charming and good.

That’s Evans’ slim oeuvre in a nutshell. Now a full-time professional musician, he writes unpretentious, steadfastly sincere and accessible singalong songs in the country/folk-pop vein which strike a chord with listeners who don’t want anything more than that. Sometimes you don’t really need anything more than that.

This sold-out gig, during which Evans performed alongside Scottish sibling duo Saint Phnx, was a celebratory affair - the summation so far of a feel-good grassroots success story.

Our personable underdog hero grabbed the moment for all it was worth, at one point stepping down from the stage to sing a commendably personal song about anxiety and depression from a spot in the middle of the crowd.

Is Evans a major talent? Nope, but at his best he knows how to write simple, effective Caledonian hoedown numbers. Highland Girl, for instance, has a sweetly daft and corny "la-de-deedly-la-de-da" chorus hook. This canny lad knows what he's doing.

An encore version of John Denver's Take Me Home, Country Roads was a cheerful acknowledgement of his benign modus operandi. It's the populist blueprint for pretty much everything he's written to date.

He may well be on his way to becoming some kind of national treasure.

BOOK REVIEW: Street-Level Superstar: A Year with Lawrence, by Will Hodgkinson

This review was originally published in The Big Issue in September 2024.

Street-Level Superstar: A Year with Lawrence, Will Hodgkinson, out now, Nine Eight Books, £16.49

The mononymous Lawrence is the very definition of a cult musician. He first rose to underground fame in the ‘80s as the enigmatic leader of delicate indie art-poppers Felt, before setting off on an unparalleled glam/novelty pop odyssey with Denim, Go Kart Mozart and Mozart Estate.

A talented artist with a singular vision, his dreams of stardom have been constantly thwarted by a complex combination of bad luck, stubborn self-sabotage and the inescapable fact that Lawrence – great though he is – is just too ‘weird’ for mainstream consumption. He’d doubtless disagree, but the masses don’t deserve him.

Music journalist Will Hodgkinson’s highly entertaining account of Lawrence’s unusual life and career is so much more than a mere rock biography. It’s a fascinating, funny and occasionally sad character study written with tremendous affection and empathy, an insightful tribute to a sometimes selfish and exasperating eccentric who nevertheless remains strangely lovable.

Hodkinson’s year with Lawrence involves them wandering around various London boroughs, liminal spaces and unlovely suburbs – in essence, a topographic journey around Lawrence’s mind.

He’s always imposed a strict set of rules upon his life and art – which are basically the same thing – but it’s still surprising to learn that he’s never bothered with the internet and doesn’t have a bank card. His only concession to modernity is a very old, basic Nokia mobile phone. He purposefully makes life difficult for himself.

He’s also been celibate for over twenty years, having eventually realised that he’s incapable of having a conventional romantic relationship (interviews with two of his ex-girlfriends confirm this; he sounds impossible, an absolute nightmare).

An emaciated figure who never seems to eat anything apart from his favourite brand of Poundland liquorice, Lawrence is aware that most people assume he’s a homeless drug addict. And for a while he actually was. But he never feels sorry for himself, he’s not bitter.

That resilience is key to the book’s appeal. Lawrence doesn’t come across as pitiable, he’s a deadpan funny and intelligent man who has chosen to exist on his own uncompromising terms – although, as Hodgkinson notes with typical acuity, maybe he didn’t really have a choice in that matter.

Either way, I suspect Lawrence is secretly pleased with this touching monument to his contrarian legacy. You'll worry for him, though.