Live Review: Jarvis at London Astoria - 17th February 2007

Author: Tom Mitchell

'The Judie Dench of indie rock', says Jarvis, spitting the words out with disgust. "I'm not a middle-aged woman. I might be middle-aged. But I'm not a woman." And his angular body contorts as he strokes his flat chest to illustrate his lack of breasts.

Midway through his set at the Astoria, Jarvis found time to criticise The Daily Telegraph's review of a recent gig. And it was the comparison that offended. Outraged, was Jarv. And I could see why. Dame Dench doesn't spend much of Notes From A Scandal jumping about the frame with the abandon of a cider-drinking teenager. And when onstage at the National, Judy's bum doesn't provoke caterwauling. Jarvis's did.

Still, like Judy, our Jarvis has been around ever since I remember being alive and his impact has been such that even my Dad (number of albums owned - 1 - Dark Side of the Moon on cracked vinyl) was able to offer some comments. 'Northern Guy - showed off his bum, right?' said my Dad. 'Is he still going?'

The years have flashed by in an instant; it's ten of them since his Brit Awards stagecrash bumshow (he was nominated this year, but lost out to James Morrison - 'I was robbed', he said). But the passing of time hasn't rotten his caustic wit, nor his ability to polish off a hummable tune. Saturday's set was kicked off by 'Fat Children' - a frantic couple of minutes of punk guitar attack, sung with a palpable relish by Jarvis as he karate-chopped his way about stage - a bit like Vegas Elvis, but thinner and with longer hands. And these hands are still quite magical. It may have been the Red Stripe, but many a time I caught myself staring at their cutting of air.

'Black Magic' was another beauty. Its stop-start avalanche of drum/keyboard/guitar is well suited to live performance, and far more entrancing than listening to the album in your lounge as you stare at the internet. T-Rex-esque, it was, with a raucous bass that wobbled your eyeballs. Fab. And it even pricked my rhythmic swaying into a semi-dance.

Jarvis is an entertainer and he operates in the immediate. In 'Tonight' he instructs the listener to seize the day. This sentiment falling out of the lips of any other entertainer might seem trite. But not with Jarvis. Instead of frowning, I drank more Red Stripe to honour him.

There was almost as much joy to be had listening to his banter between songs as the music itself. Which sounds as if to say the music was rubbish, but it wasn't. Jarvis was just dead funny. From his opening gag about Sophie Ellis Baxter being found dead in a French flat (It was murder on Zidane's floor) to his awarding the crowd 'most inappropriate timing of balloon release', he had the crowd (strangely mixed between tubby thirty-year olds with interesting glasses and teeny NME readers) hooting. And I'm sure not many other entertainers would have responded with such good grace to the aforementioned escape of balloons the melancholic 'I Will Kill Again', but Jarv did. He even sat during this song, so it must be a sad one.

The ex-Relaxed Muscle man is better when avoiding such balladry, however. This was highlighted by the final encore of 'Paranoid' by Black Sabbath. It was sung with the venom of a rock-n-roller who'd been there, bought the t-shirt, and flashed the bum-bum. The was an appropriately rocking gesture with which to finish the gig.

I left found myself on Charing Cross Road, not thinking about the disappointing sub-Kate Bush support act Bat for Lashes, but wondering aloud when Cocker's next gig might be. My final words to my friend were that I wasn't gay, but Jarvis was lovely and delightful.

Buy his album. Go see him. He's back..