Richard Ashcroft has been proving of late that good old rock-star eccentricity still has currency. Dropping questionable packages from his socks on Soccer AM and trying to break through the fake windows of the BBC Breakfast set, the ex-Verve singer and righteous rock’n’roll truth-teller weirded his fifth solo album, Natural Rebel, straight into the album chart’s top five.
The record – a routine Verve throwback weighed down with trad roots touches – could have done with dashes of such unpredictability, but he certainly brings it to this rescheduled show at the O2 Forum in Kentish Town, north London. Emerging in a huge sheepskin coat you could only describe as heroic and striking a “havin’ it” stance – he’s barely off his toes for two hours – Ashcroft attacks songs old and new with conviction.
He’s all pout and attitude, sometimes wielding an acoustic guitar like it’s an enchanted mythical weapon, sometimes instrument-free and hoodie up, clutching the mic as if Stormzy has taken a severe stylistic left turn.
If Nirvana’s modus operandi was quiet/loud, Ashcroft has trademarked plod/pomp. Mid-paced slouches such as Music Is Power, Break the Night With Colour and trainee showstopper That’s How Strong swell into stirring, soulful cacophonies, transcending formulaic structures thanks to his sheer belief in them.
It peaks on Money Money, a Stones rock rampage dedicated to “all the impostors taking my place”, which ends with Ashcroft babbling “I want my money”, actually believing he’ll somehow get his Bitter Sweet Symphony royalties back.
Only Natural Rebel’s most Chris Rea moment, Born to Be Strangers, can’t be lifted by Ashcroft’s certitude, as much as he zombie-dances though the blues solos. But it is ameliorated by the Jam-like jubilance of Surprised by the Joy, the stadium roar of Hold On (for “Parisians in diesel jackets”) and an encore of Legend.
Bitter Sweet Symphony has Ashcroft testifying on his knees, The Drugs Don’t Work – arguably the best ballad of the 1990s – is delivered solo, bursting into full band in its euphoric final throes, and even a crooned Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas gets decked with impassioned “come ons”.
The relevance of the indie rock maverick may be diminished, but Ashcroft proves its potency undimmed. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
