So, here’s a little delayed review of Malcolm Middleton’s second gig at the Hopetoun a couple of weeks ago.
I went to this show not knowing exactly what to expect. I’ve never listened to Arab Strap, and I’d never heard any of Malcolm Middleton’s solo work. But after reading some descriptions (and with little else to do) I decided to indulge my curiosities and grab a ticket.
First things first. The Hopetoun Hotel is located in Surry Hills, just outside the CBD of Sydney. From the outside, it looks like the sort of place where you’d expect to see crappy pub bands over a few beers. And from the inside… it looks that way still. It’s a venue that has its charms, in a dark, gritty sort of way, and quite a few decent international bands have graced the small stage that sits in front of makeshift black curtains to keep the light out (in fact, Beach House will be playing there in a few months). In light of the Hopetoun’s pub-like aesthetics, Malcolm Middleton, with his borderline surly, yet utterly endearing demeanour, seemed at home.
The night began with a young Sydney act, Papa Vs. Pretty. Playing with a lot of energy, and a kind of jagged post-punk edge that certainly wasn’t hinted at by their palpably youthful appearance (seriously, they had to have been no older than 18), Papa Vs. Pretty forcefully snatched the attention of the small crowd that had arrived early, and, impressively so, held onto that attention to the point that an encore was served up to the happily surprised punters. An encore by an opening support band of fresh-faced youngsters? Yes, indeed. Funnily enough, however, I was later told that they had played their own version of Joy Division’s hallmark track ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. To this moment, I cannot remember hearing it. Not entirely sure where my head was at that point.
Sui Zhen, the night’s second act, brought an interesting change of pace. With cutesy quirks that could only prove endearing, Sui Zhen, with her band, operates with the aim of entrancing an audience with a voice that carries a sort of naive, but knowing, optimism, and with music that slides and sways in a rhythmic swirl. Unfortunately, despite the attempts at prettiness and primitive cuteness, the set seemed to deteriorate after a few songs, with a slightly intoxicated crowd growing restless at the strolling pace that had been subtly put in place.
What was agreeable about both support acts, however, was that there was nothing overly drawn out; nothing too contrived; nothing to really get the audience praying for the headliner. There are few worse things when it comes to live music than a support band that just won’t get off the stage.
The perhaps unfortunately-named Malcolm Middleton reached the stage with such casualness that half of the crowd seemed unsure of whether this was the guy who they had paid to see. On a stool, and with a glass of water and a beer by his side, Middleton launched into the set with what he described self-mockingly as his four most depressing songs, silencing the now packed crowd. A clear professional in the crafting of heart-achingly sad songs of loneliness, lost love, drunkenness, and a diminishing supply of cigarettes, Middleton’s subtle expertise is illustrated by the way in which he manages, with his strong Scottish accent and no-bullshit appearance, to reduce a crowd of adults caught up in the fast-paced throes of modernity to their most primitive emotions and instincts. The hush that fell across the Hopetoun was almost funereal, a kind of strange compliment to a man who, if you believed his music, is perennially trapped in misery.
This silence, at least in the first half of the set, was broken pleasantly by Middleton’s self-deprecating style of humour. ‘I was funnier last night, I swear’, he said between songs, juxtaposing and, in a funny way, confounding an audience unsure of which Malcolm Middleton to view as real – the one represented in his stripped down tales of utter sadness, or the one who, with his tongue firmly in cheek, asked a female audience member who had been resting her feet on the stage, ‘Are you an actress?’ to which she replied ‘No’, to which Middleton then said with all the contrived superiority and spite in his voice that would convince you of his complete seriousness ‘Well would you mind getting your feet off the fucking stage?’ With such intimate banter throughout the performance, it was impossible not to fall in love with this Scot who had travelled half-way across the world to play his songs for us.
Sadly, however, the venue’s dynamics became apparent toward the end of the set, with the audience in the rear parts of the room generating a great deal of chatter that could no doubt have been heard by Middleton. In some cases this would not be such a bad thing, but when music so sincere and modest is emanating from a man of such understated talent, it’s a terrible shame, particularly when it comes at the cost of the intimate aura that had been present earlier in the set.
Middleton, nonetheless, finished his set obligingly. It was a true pleasure to watch an established musician genuinely give his best in order to repay the fans that had come to watch. Free of any pretension, he departed the stage, beer in hand, leaving a large crowd happy and miserable at the same time, but ultimately completely satisfied. This was a show that reminded me of the joy of the surprise in music. To go to this show on a whim, and for it to last in my mind as one of the best I have seen in recent times, is wonderfully pleasurable. Not only this, but to watch a musician so bereft of unneeded tackiness and full of sincerity and talent fulfills a fragile longing in the heart and mind of any music fan that the musicians they admire are human after all. There can be little doubt in my mind that Malcolm Middleton, with his heart aching and on his sleeve, is so much more human than many of us could ever be.
