Antony & The Johnsons live at Vicar St

It’s post-Mercury alright. Any notions that Antony And The Johnsons might somehow retain their underground aura are put well and truly to bed. Tonight the general age profile at Vicar Street puts one in mind of a tea-party thrown in honour of Daniel O’Donnell. These are the folks who heard I Am A Bird Now at suburban dinner parties. And they’re completely unschooled in modern rock concert etiquette.
No, we don’t clap ourselves when we recognise the opening bars of the single. We’re far too cool for that sort of thing nowadays. Inevitably – for shame – longer standing fans and well-wishers descend to the same oikish level. Hurrah for me! I’m whooping and hollering because I know he’s about to play ‘I Fell In Love With A Dead Boy’ from the Durtro CD.
Fey, as opposed to camp, in a great lumbering frame, there’s absolutely nothing conclusive about Mr.Hegarty. He seems to exist just outside everything; neither masculine nor feminine, of mixed nationality, he occupies such an uncertain space, you wouldn’t blink were he to suddenly transform into a butterfly. Or a starfish for that matter.
His songs speak with the wistfulness of an eternal outsider and the hopeless romance such an acute condition engenders. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve got this all twisted around. Despite Hegarty’s personal appearance, which one would hesitate to describe as ‘groomed’, it never feels like you’re in the presence of someone who used to be class weirdo. He is, throughout, pleasant company, seemingly untroubled by anything at all.
I hardly need to say that the performance was impeccable and beautiful and melancholic. The arrangements familiar from the recordings – elegant, uncluttered, designed purely in service of his otherworldly voice and stormy piano work – are perfectly replicated. As a medium for others, Hegarty proves exceptional, investing Moondog’s ‘Always A Loneliness’ with a sublime spookiness. Looking around at the resolutely middle class crowd, you realise how poetic it is that they dig it. That they’re listening to Moondog. That they hear darksome, sadomasochistic ballads like ‘Cripple And Starfish’ and find them beautiful. That there’s aching gender confusion coming from the stereo beside the cocktail cabinet. Antony Hegarty wears the mass adulation well. He belongs here. For one night only bandwagons are cool. Don’t ever quote me.