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MARILLION
Forum, Kentish Town, London, 14 December 2011
I'm not
exaggerating: there are times when it's possible to believe Steve
Hogarth is the greatest live frontman around.
At the
very least, he must be the greatest still working in the UK today, and
while Marillion's music may be predominantly of a slow, sombre,
reflective and dreamlike nature, there's nothing laid back about the
diminutive Yorkshireman's stage conduct.
He leaps,
he shudders, he whirls round and around in fiery balls of energy, he
clambers atop speakers and leaps off them in wide arcs his legs look
incapable of, he switches from piano to guitar to electronic cricket bat
(!!) as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he almost
beheads bassist Pete Trevawas with a flung walking-stick (a by-now
stalwart prop used during the epic "Invisible Man") before turning round
to natter to the audience in an affable Northern brogue more typical of
a barman or gas fitter. Schizophrenic? He's bleeding Quadrophenic….
Then there are his actual vocals. This man doesn't merely sing, he
screams, shrieks, wails, cries, moans, yells and emotes (the almost
feature-length "This Strange Engine" treating us to samples of all the
above), whilst still managing to remain at all times perfectly in tune.
Sure, he's
sober, clean and straight these days, but whereas that can have a
mellowing effect on some people (Monster Magnet's Dave Wyndorf springing
immediately to mind) it seems to have re-invested H with an even greater
sense of impassioned lunacy - sometimes incongruous in the setting of
such beautiful mood music, but that's precisely why it works.
He
may sound a bit like Mark Hollis, but he's sure as hell more interesting
to watch - even if it's obvious that he's fully aware how much everyone,
particularly the female contingent (which Marillion never really had
much of in Fish's era anyway) loves him, and has similar feelings about
himself.
The other
band members are also masters of their craft, although Steve Rothery has
always been one of rock's more shy, retiring guitar heroes and if
anything is even more so in 2011.
Nevertheless, his wonderfully fluid, piercing breaks, most notably on
"The Great Escape" "Easter" "Fantastic Place" and "Neverland"- the song
which now defines modern-day Marillion and which can never fail to
reduce an audience to shivering tatters - are still capable of evoking
every emotion from sadness to euphoria in three minutes.
As
Townshend is to Daltrey, as Barre is to Anderson, so Rothery is to
Hogarth: the perfect dynamic pairing of frontman and axeman both with a
'cry' in their sound and still, after all these years, rage in their
insides.
Between
these five musicians, a unique musical concoction is created, so
unclassifiable that words like 'prog' almost seem irrelevant.
Stage
right, Pete Trevawas, provides not only the four strings that hold it
all together, but the focus of the 'hard rocking' contingent, while up
the back, Ian Mosley's drumming is still the percussive powerhouse it
always was, except now at far more languid tempos ("Somewhere Else" and
the doom-laden "King" in particular), and Mark Kelly, surely the true
architect of the band's sound for nearly 30 years, demonstrates, like
Rick Wakeman before him, that it's possible to be a widdly keyboard
boffin in a progressive rock band and maintain a daft, pranksome sense
of humour.
Between
these five musicians, a unique musical concoction is created, so
unclassifiable that words like 'prog' almost seem irrelevant.
Marillion remain that most misunderstood of British bands, capable of
turning out the type of epic mood music Radiohead, Muse, Elbow and their
ilk earn huge plaudits from (let's face it, all three bands rip the
Bucks boys off shamelessly but refuse to acknowledge it) whilst
simultaneously seeming doomed to never receive due credit for it in
their own country, and it's still bloody annoying.
Truly,
they are one of the great British rock bands, as good as Floyd, Genesis,
The Who or anyone they ever took inspiration from - The Blue Nile being
another, if less obvious, name that springs to mind at intervals - the
only unfortunate factor being that outside of their immediate and
fanatical fan base (many of whom populate this sold out theatre) nobody
knows it.
Forever
besmirched by a dodgy sword-and-sorcery name, as well as the Fish
connection and cheesy 80s ballads like 'Kayleigh', which have as much to
do with their sound today as Lerwick has to do with Cowes (even if they
do relent and allow the audience one singalong nostalgia moment with
'Sugar Mice') Marillion remain that most misunderstood of British bands,
capable of turning out the type of epic mood music Radiohead, Muse,
Elbow and their ilk earn huge plaudits from (let's face it, all three
bands rip the Bucks boys off shamelessly but refuse to acknowledge it)
whilst simultaneously seeming doomed to never receive due credit for it
in their own country, and it's still bloody annoying.
I'd like
to hope that one day history will prove them right, but for the
meantime, they'll have to content themselves with the knowledge that a
hundred thousand systems analysts called Clive and their wives all love
them. And me.
Yet, lest
you find this review unnecessarily biased, I should point out that it's
not all perfection onstage tonight - at least two unbelievably bad MOR
hit singles, "Cover My Eyes" and "You're Gone", the latter of which has
always uncomfortably resembled Go West jamming with the Lighthouse
Family, are aired, and while I adore the likes of the aforementioned
"Invisible Man" and "…Engine" it would be great to hear something else
for once.
But for
anyone unsatisfied, there's always the thunderous finale of "Three
Minute Boy"- a journey and a half in anyone's book.
Starting
with an amateur stab at "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" before
admitting "I don't know the rest", Hogarth proceeds to berate the
audience for their crap singalong abilities before the band sojourn
effortlessly through Lennonesque pop melancholy, dreamy blues rock,
haunting gospel - inflected intoning and a Mosley-propelled thrash metal
coda, leaving jaws agape on the floor at what their owners have just
witnessed.
And
thankfully, they leave it there this time - no silly Dean Martin covers
or Irish jigs in Santa costumes this year, just one of the most powerful
endings to a show you're likely to witness.
Where they
go from here in the studio is anyone's guess (although hopefully not
further down the road of Eckhart Tolle-inspired psychobabble) but live,
Marillion, despite their obvious faults, are more of an unstoppable
force than ever. If you miss them in 2012, it really is your loss.
Review by
Darius Drewe Shimon
Photo
by Andrew Lock
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