Around two years ago, Arab Strap’s Aidan Moffat told this reviewer that the finest gig he’d ever seen was by an American musician named Devendra Banhart. At the time, I literally couldn’t spell Devendra Banhart (and duly asked Moffat for assistance in doing so), but I’m unlikely to forget the San Franciscan’s name in a hurry after this most extraordinary of performances.
To quote John Self in Martin Amis’ Money, this mother was the daddy of them all. Imagine if, instead of Jeff Goldblum and the titular insect in Cronenberg’s The Fly, it had been Marc Bolan and Syd Barrett who climbed inside those two teleporters. The resulting Frankenstein-ian creation – whilst finding itself in a sartorial no-man’s-land of genuinely harrowing proportions – might well possess the spellbinding melodic flair, charismatic stage presence and awesome stylistic range that are the hallmarks of the Banhart live experience.
Whilst the stripped-back, gorgeously rendered curios of Nino Rojo are accorded a predictably rapturous reception, what is most revelatory about the evening is just how up-tempo, celebratory and danceable Banhart and his cohorts prove to be. This wonderfully funky, ramshackle sensibility even filters down to the group’s fashion sensibilities and stage décor: Banhart – the personification of elegantly wasted bohemian chic – wears a pair of slippers for the duration of the performance; the guitarist to his right has a pantyhose tied to his mic-stand; and the drummer intermittently dons a ridiculous blue plastic beard.
Moving masterfully from pulsating party rhythms to plaintive gems like ‘Little Yellow Spider’, which contemplate man’s place in a pantheistic universe (pass the joint), tonight Banhart is a man in possession of the Midas touch. (Even the time-honoured let-an-audience-member-perform routine throws up an absolute gem in the shape of Kevin McNamara, who plays with the style and composure of a veteran). For me, though, the undoubted highlight of the evening is an unspeakably beautiful and tender rendition of Lauryn Hill’s ‘Doo Wop (That Thing)’ – as fine a piece of extemporised ingenuity as I have witnessed since Brian Murphy ghosted in behind the Meath defence in the dying minutes of the 1998 Leinster Final and slammed the ball home to seal the title for Kildare.
He departs with a final slice of achingly beautiful acoustica, performed solo, and in the aftermath of Banhart’s performance it has to be said that Paddy Casey, Damien Rice et al remind one more and more of Pat Rabbitte – spirited triers who come as close to glory as a contour shave but end up with egg on the chin.
Shine on you crazy diamond.