Y’know, is there any more pointless attribute for a musician to have than cool? Think about it, a musician can be as talented as anyone around, as nice as anyone could possibly want and a performer par excellence. If they’re not *cool*, however, then there’s still going to be a bunch of witless fools sneering at their every move and feeling a sense of smug self-righteousness about it, as if they’re providing a pop-cultural service by kicking against artists whose crimes are nothing worse than not making them feel like a member of some club that no-one else can join. Make no mistake, dear reader, James Morrison is not cool. His sound is one that’s extremely accessible, nothing to scare the horses, and easier to find on the top forty than in Sister Ray Records. If that alone is going to count someone out of catching him live, then it’s their loss, cos they’ll be missing something very special indeed. The Rugby, Warwickshire native cut his teeth busking on street corners about two blocks south of the middle of nowhere and playing pubs where people were more likely to request Hotel California than listen to any of his actual songs. This trial by fire means that with nearly a decade of touring experience behind him, Morrison is a natural frontman. He stalks the stage switching between his frontman duties and playing the guitar he made his name on, all the while singing with his astonishing voice. It’s as low key and laid back as a set of songs inspired by losing one’s father can get, and Morrison is an inspired host, taking us through a soul inflected journey through his recent life and experiences, while never failing to send us back into the night with a smile on our faces. It’s not hip, it’s not fashionable, but it’s damn good music that deserves to be experienced live.
The Strokes
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