I have never liked dentist’s appointments. There is a certain fear of the unknown, an unpredictability of things to come, which lingers all the way from the plastic-plant festooned reception; through the waiting room in which future victims are sated with Eighties issues of Hello! Magazine detailing the weddings of obscure footballers; and up to the surgery which could easily double as the headquarters of the Spanish Inquisition. I just don’t like knowing what’s in store for me.
There was the same nagging trepidation as I waited for Jesse Malin to appear on stage at the Leeds Cockpit. Sure, the warm up act (a very likable man called Jeff Klein who played acoustic numbers about being caught masturbating) was agreeable enough, but this was no guarantee of the quality of the main act.
Malin has been dubbed Ryan Adams’ protégé, another man attempting to cattle-prod alt.country in to the mainstream. And with this display, he wasn’t far off. The music was only ‘alternative’ country in that it didn’t conform to the dire straw-chewin’ model – this was what Country music would have sounded like had it not been hijacked by hicks with webbed feet. He had more in common with the new wave of ‘garage rock’, and his band supported this image. They were all identikit Strokes-a-likes, apart from the drummer who “once drummed for Iggy Pop” and looked like Bono after a horrific car crash in a million years time. Malin himself was much of the same, clad in vintage tour clothing and with impeccably messy hair which probably took him hours to do.
Tunes-wise it was outstanding. Really outstanding. Malin had souped up his album, and the backing band was terrific. It started off with the man himself bouncing onstage and immediately launching into ‘Downliner’, a churning chunk of guitar backed by a spank-tastic bass rhythm. Things never slowed down from that point onwards. ‘Wendy’ – the third song into the set – was as chilled as it got, with Malin taking centre stage with his acoustic guitar supported by a laid back, understated accompaniment from his band.
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In between songs, Malin indulged in the first example of truly funny and thought-provoking dialogue with the audience that I have ever experienced first-hand. He was a master – anecdotes were touching (one dealt with his feelings as a New Yorker towards 9/11), political (many involving his dislike of George Dubya), or simply bizarre (how he once came to be in possession of one of Barbra Streisand’s sofas. This last one preceded a storming rendition of the best track on his album: ‘Brooklyn’. Again it was almost unrecognisable, being pumped full of guitars and pedals.
His new single ‘Queen of the Underworld’ was as close to the album version as any song, and perhaps suffered because of this – it simply sounded a bit too rehearsed and tame, incongruously so. A minor complaint, though. Things soon picked up again and reached a storming crescendo with the final song of the main set, ‘High’, which he dedicated to “doin’ what you want, without George Bush”. He really knew how to play to a British audience.
The encore of ‘Riding on the Subway’ was the definitive experience of the gig, with every member of the band contributing and Malin’s faultless voice the crowning glory. It was obscenely enjoyable, and there wasn’t a dentist’s drill in sight.
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