I didn't know what to expect. In fact, I'd no expectations: high, or low. You see, I'm not a Foldsoholic. Or I wasn't. Until just now, having seen the bespectacled, nerdish-looking (which, of course, tips him into supercool) BF, solo, at, of all places, the Concert Hall of the Opera House. But first things first; as a little suspense never hurt anyone, even though people complain it's killing.Support was Melbourne's Oh, Mercy!, suitably geeky-looking bedfellows and purveyors of melodic, melancholic pop with, methinks, threads of irony redolent of the eminently demountable aforementioned. They've been somewhat unhelpfully described as a youthful hybrid of Augie March and The Shins. Come to think of it, that's probably not too far from the mark, but the journalistic compulsion to set boundaries defies communicating anything that suggests the quite distinctive sound of this band. Still, they cite Augie March as an influence; along with The Go-Betweens, The Pogues, Television & Crowded House.
Probably my favourite song from their chilled set of mercifully compact tunes was one that's popped up on Triple J Unearthed: Seemed Like A Good Idea, which lead singer, Alex Gow, tongue-in-cheekily claimed is about marrying your cousin. That sense of humour should give you some idea of what to expect, as did the anecdote about having driven from Brisvegas this morning and, since they passed a mini-me Uluru (once owned by a Leyland brother, I think) on the way, signified two firsts: seeing that and the Sydney Opera House, where they'd never been, let alone played.
They won the Victorian section of the Big Day Out comp, and it's not hard to hear why. The sound has nostalgic undertones, echoing 50s bubblegum and simpler or, at least, more naive, times. They might be an electric band, but they've an acoustic aesthetic. The only shame of it was the drummer's dad, who was on sound, and whom the band proclaimed as up there, ensured many, if not most of the lyrics, were utterly indecipherable. Pity. I think there's something there. One to watch or, better yet, listen to, as they stand quite still. You don't have to settle for my word for it, either. Their hometown rag elevated their album to best of the month for August and no less venerable and astute a periodical than Rollin Stone gave them a 4-star ovation, proclaiming 'potentially, the freshest, smartest songwriting partnership since the Finn brothers'. JMag reckons they're your new fave band and the Herald-Sun, of all journals, has been eloquently praise-happy: 'they're delicately-textured songs, that invite comparisons with The Kinks, at their most introspective, but more potently the airy, folky music of Belle & Sebastian; exquisitely literate and lyrical, yet never pretentious; unconfronting, yet uniformly appealing.' Couldn't have put it half as well meself. And, personally, I'd flaunt their EP for the name, alone: In The Nude, For Love. What's more, they seem to have a guilty self-awareness of the same ilk Folds sings about, as evidenced in the title of their soon-to-be toured, debut long-player, Privileged Woes, which turned 10 (days old), just yesterday. Their new single, Get You Back, sports some Dylanesque harmonica; a catchy confessional ('I had too much to drink; I told her I really love her; she's gone back to her sister's arms; goddam, I truly miss her'). There's something genuinely heartrending in what, in less capable hands, would mulch to creamed corn. Sweet guitar speaks of a charming, childlike innocence and this is an irresistible song, a poignantly painful reminder of unrequited passion. (The record was put down in their spare room. And, in no small measure due to Myles Wootton, who was there to do it, and mixmaster Matt Voigt, of Cat Power fame, it sounds exquisite, with a xylophone tinkling over the top of a plodding rhythm track.)
Folds might've been 'raised up' in the 'milds' of North Carolina and spent a couple of years in Adelaide, but it hasn't tamed his unruly pianistic nature. He thumped and pounded the taxpayers' Steinway, often with elbows, as if it was a reviled Republican. He veers between Tchaikovsky, honky-tonk and blues, then tickles and tinkles it, ever-so-sweetly. He betrays no hint of nerves. I can't imagine him being any more casual in his own loungeroom. But that doesn't mean, by any stretch, he takes us for granted. He can play us as expertly and thrillingly as any box. He's quite the showman. it's as if the flamboyance of Sir Elton and chutzpah of Billy Joel have been hybridized and synthesized into a musically libidinous lovechild.
I don't believe I've ever seen the stately and reserved opera house as rockin' and raucous. This was a hardcore crowd, veritably screaming for the man. There were even a couple of placards that wouldn't have been out of place in the heyday of Countdown. 'Ben Folds My Laundry'. Hell, I wish I'd written it, even if I don't feel exactly that way about him.
Vocally and, sometimes, compositionally, he puts me in mind of a nascent Brian Wilson: quirky; kooky; spellbinding; enthralling. We were treated to a gladbag, sadbag and bursting-at-the-seams handbag full of interesting songs: some old, some new, some blue; none borrowed, unless you count Nick Hornby's lyrics; (Hornby, of course, being the English novelist and essayist who you might know best as writer of High Fidelity).
I don't know if freeform is the right word, but Folds has effectively reinvented the form of the song, corrupting and subverting the bourgeois conventions that so overwhelmingly and unimaginatively define it. He has a masterful command of harmony, rhythm, dynamics and melody, which he deploys to devastating effect.
He's also an acute and astute student and observer of the human condition. A good example can be found in his affectionate parody of conversation with his father, in a Denny's. From the nonsensically titled album, Supersunnyspeedgraphic, comes All U Can Eat: 'Son, look at the people in this restaurant; what do you think they weigh?' But the song has a telescopic, as well as microscopic viewpoint: 'And out the window to the parking lot, at their SUVs taking all the space; they give no fuck, they talk as loud as they want; they give no fuck, just as long as there's enough for them!' He has an eagle eye for the ridiculous; ludicrous; absurd; obscene.
But he sees much more; like the tragedy in everyday life, witnessed so movingly in 'You Don't Know Me': 'I wanna ask you, do you ever sit and wonder, it's so strange we could be together for so long, and never know, never care, what goes on in the other one's head?'
Don't get the idea Folds is dour, though. Nothing could be further from the truth. There's humour that's biting in the manner of Loudon Wainwright, as in the concert's opener, Free Coffee, from his latest album, Way To Normal. 'Now that I'm rich, I get free coffee (but when I was poor, I needed it more)'. Or in Bitch Went Nuts, from the same album. 'The answer you seek, my son, only poses more questions. Ask many women why relationship has failed. Each woman offer unique reason for demise. One woman may say, man could not commit. Or, man is douche, and is now free to make love to himself instead. Another woman may say, man had changed. Or even, man no longer satisfactory lover. But my son, ask many men same question all over the world, why has relationship failed? Each man, each time, will give same, simple answer. The bitch went nuts.' But, in fact, on the night, he gave us the fake version, comprising the most pathetic lyrics he could muster, cobbled together, mischievously, to fulfil a publishing contract. The irony is, it's just as entertaining and bent as the real thing.
Folds is prodigious. Seductive raconteur. Peerless pianist. Powerful singer; with what must be one of the most full-frontal falsettos on the planet. Superb songwriter and storyteller. Eclectic musicologist; embodying so much of the American canon in his own. A one-off. Original. And killer live performer. His legion of righteously enthusiastic fans know it. And I just joined 'em. Bigtime!
Sydney Opera House presents
Ben Folds
Solo Live
Venue: Concert Hall
Dates/Times: Monday 31 August and Tuesday 1 September at 8pm
Additional Sydney performance: Sunday 6 September at 9pm
Tickets: A Reserve $79 B Reserve $69
Bookings: (02) 9250 7777 | sydneyoperahouse.com
ALSO
Melbourne
Venue: Palais Theatre
Date/Time: Thursday September 3
