"Bristol, it's fucking hot up here"
I don't know about you, but I never expected the sweet-voiced writer of so many heart-achingly honest popsongs to resort to expletives quite so early in the show. But everyone appreciates the informality, and under the hanging seventies-style lamps of his set and with thick persian rugs underfoot, you could see why, by the end, James Morrison's tshirt had a crest of darker grey pooled on either side, and he was visibly gasping for breath in between songs. The strutting must have had something to do with it, too- the skulking from end to end of the stage in tight jeans and leather jacket while his masterful guitarist picked out a solo or an extended introduction to a song. The swings back and forth while hitting the strings of his own acoustic guitar, or the draws of emotion from his neck during the moodier numbers.
Morrison drew a strange mixture of people last night, from people out with their friends like me to those who appeared to have bought the tickets as a mothering sunday present or a wedding anniversary. Middle-aged couples were everywhere, and I was surprised to see a group of twenty-something lads who, between trips to the bar, were singing along to every word. Everyone remained enthralled by the whole production- lights switched and changed constantly to add to the pure emotion and the changing moods of the twenty-four-year-old, from moody blue to a passionate purple and an energetic green for the numbers that made the crowd ahead bob and sway.
My friend bought a (drastically over-priced) programme, containing lyrics, doodles, notes and a little biography of Morrison, which claimed that he remains down-to-earth and largely unaffected by the celebrity lifestyle. I was dubious. But there were some trace signs of truth in the statement- though he came on in front of a huge banner declaring his own name, this was soon pulled aside to reveal something that looked like someone had hung up a torn fishing net on their living room wall. This combined with the decor made it feel like Our James had invited a few hundred of his mates round to his Colston-Hall-sized front room for a singalong.
He chatted to us, too, and told us he'd taken a walk around Bristol in the day, trying to see the sights (such as they are in Bristol) and get a feel for the place. He said there were a lot of sad faces, and this next song was for them, a song about forgiveness- the cathartic and desperately hopeful This Boy brought a cheer from the crowd and made my ears prick up and my heart strings tender. Such is the appeal of Mr Morrison- he has the rare ability to put feelings into words, so that when you listen to his songs you can automatically connect and relate, and you think 'That's IT! That's what it's like!' Now take that feeling and multiply by five, and you have James Morrison Live.
More than anything, this young singer-songwriter stands out among others because of his relative newness on the music scene and the life of touring, so that the songs he sings remain relevant to him. His new album is entitled 'Songs For You, Truths For Me', and the truth of every song shone out in the passion wtith which he sung them. One in particular, You Don't Want To Love Me, about hanging onto and fighting for a dying relationship, had him kneeling on the stage and praying into the microphone before clambering back up and racing to the other side of the audience. It made you want to fight. It made you want to be in love so that you could have something to fight for.
A lot of boxes were ticked that night. Morrison loved his audience, his band and his music, and himself to some extent, but not too much. All of these are important in a good gig, especially the band and the music- Morrison would often step aside and let the aforementioned guitarist rip forth on a solo which would inevitably render the song far better than the album version, and the fact that each song was extended, added to, tweaked in some way or another, showed that this was no X-Factor factory-line talent. (Unlike his support act, a passable Indie-Rock band named Vagabond, dressed in the uniform of skinnyjeans, checked shirt and strange hair. One was even wearing a man-cardigan. Do not get me started.) But no. This was real. A mashup of Nothing Ever Hurt Like You and Otis Redding's Uptight (Everything's Alright) which no one could ever have expected showed true techinical capability, and an improvised section of scat call-and-response in the middle of Call the Police saw the band moving from out-and-out rock and roll to calm, jazzy rhythm and back again.
I always hate encores- they're predictbale and unnecessary, except to boost the ever-expanding egos of the band in question. With bigger acts you can be expected to stand and stomp and cheer and clap your hands raw for a good ten minutes before anyone even dares switch the stage lights back on. Morrison and his band disappeared for a few minutes, then came back for the gospel-like Precious Love and anthemic Wonderful World. It really was hot in there, and that encore left me feeling dizzy and really glad I wasn't the one driving home.
If you like James Morrison, go see him live and you will love him. Here is a man who does what he loves, loves what he does and does it incredibly well. If you want a taster of what being in love is like, go see James Morrison. From the cheesy to the tragic and the sublime to the hopeful, he will sing you through every emotion he has in stock, and all from the comfort of his living room.
I don't know about you, but I never expected the sweet-voiced writer of so many heart-achingly honest popsongs to resort to expletives quite so early in the show. But everyone appreciates the informality, and under the hanging seventies-style lamps of his set and with thick persian rugs underfoot, you could see why, by the end, James Morrison's tshirt had a crest of darker grey pooled on either side, and he was visibly gasping for breath in between songs. The strutting must have had something to do with it, too- the skulking from end to end of the stage in tight jeans and leather jacket while his masterful guitarist picked out a solo or an extended introduction to a song. The swings back and forth while hitting the strings of his own acoustic guitar, or the draws of emotion from his neck during the moodier numbers.
Morrison drew a strange mixture of people last night, from people out with their friends like me to those who appeared to have bought the tickets as a mothering sunday present or a wedding anniversary. Middle-aged couples were everywhere, and I was surprised to see a group of twenty-something lads who, between trips to the bar, were singing along to every word. Everyone remained enthralled by the whole production- lights switched and changed constantly to add to the pure emotion and the changing moods of the twenty-four-year-old, from moody blue to a passionate purple and an energetic green for the numbers that made the crowd ahead bob and sway.
My friend bought a (drastically over-priced) programme, containing lyrics, doodles, notes and a little biography of Morrison, which claimed that he remains down-to-earth and largely unaffected by the celebrity lifestyle. I was dubious. But there were some trace signs of truth in the statement- though he came on in front of a huge banner declaring his own name, this was soon pulled aside to reveal something that looked like someone had hung up a torn fishing net on their living room wall. This combined with the decor made it feel like Our James had invited a few hundred of his mates round to his Colston-Hall-sized front room for a singalong.
He chatted to us, too, and told us he'd taken a walk around Bristol in the day, trying to see the sights (such as they are in Bristol) and get a feel for the place. He said there were a lot of sad faces, and this next song was for them, a song about forgiveness- the cathartic and desperately hopeful This Boy brought a cheer from the crowd and made my ears prick up and my heart strings tender. Such is the appeal of Mr Morrison- he has the rare ability to put feelings into words, so that when you listen to his songs you can automatically connect and relate, and you think 'That's IT! That's what it's like!' Now take that feeling and multiply by five, and you have James Morrison Live.
More than anything, this young singer-songwriter stands out among others because of his relative newness on the music scene and the life of touring, so that the songs he sings remain relevant to him. His new album is entitled 'Songs For You, Truths For Me', and the truth of every song shone out in the passion wtith which he sung them. One in particular, You Don't Want To Love Me, about hanging onto and fighting for a dying relationship, had him kneeling on the stage and praying into the microphone before clambering back up and racing to the other side of the audience. It made you want to fight. It made you want to be in love so that you could have something to fight for.
A lot of boxes were ticked that night. Morrison loved his audience, his band and his music, and himself to some extent, but not too much. All of these are important in a good gig, especially the band and the music- Morrison would often step aside and let the aforementioned guitarist rip forth on a solo which would inevitably render the song far better than the album version, and the fact that each song was extended, added to, tweaked in some way or another, showed that this was no X-Factor factory-line talent. (Unlike his support act, a passable Indie-Rock band named Vagabond, dressed in the uniform of skinnyjeans, checked shirt and strange hair. One was even wearing a man-cardigan. Do not get me started.) But no. This was real. A mashup of Nothing Ever Hurt Like You and Otis Redding's Uptight (Everything's Alright) which no one could ever have expected showed true techinical capability, and an improvised section of scat call-and-response in the middle of Call the Police saw the band moving from out-and-out rock and roll to calm, jazzy rhythm and back again.
I always hate encores- they're predictbale and unnecessary, except to boost the ever-expanding egos of the band in question. With bigger acts you can be expected to stand and stomp and cheer and clap your hands raw for a good ten minutes before anyone even dares switch the stage lights back on. Morrison and his band disappeared for a few minutes, then came back for the gospel-like Precious Love and anthemic Wonderful World. It really was hot in there, and that encore left me feeling dizzy and really glad I wasn't the one driving home.
If you like James Morrison, go see him live and you will love him. Here is a man who does what he loves, loves what he does and does it incredibly well. If you want a taster of what being in love is like, go see James Morrison. From the cheesy to the tragic and the sublime to the hopeful, he will sing you through every emotion he has in stock, and all from the comfort of his living room.
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