CONCERT REVIEW: The Mekons
- Wilson Neate
The Mekons opened their account at the Bowery Ballroom with a rousing rendition of "I'm Not Here (1967)," the title of which proved oddly prescient as vocalist Sally Timms certainly wasn't quite all there last night. After the first song an ailing Timms described, in detail, how (and how much) she'd just vomited. She went on to inform the crowd that, since there was a real danger of her doing so again in the near future, she might have to leave the stage at any moment.
Jon Langford -- looking like an alternative James Doohan (circa 1990) with an ill-advised mustache -- wasn't having any of it, sympathetically encouraging her to just throw up on the crowd and not bother with the bathroom. Not only would the lucky punters at the front lap it up (metaphorically speaking), he argued, they'd also eagerly preserve Mekons chunder in vials as the perfect souvenir of an evening of chunk/punk rock.
Despite being a little older and -- with the exception of Tommy Greenhalgh -- larger in the trouser department, the Mekons proved that while it might have been a little unwell last night, punk is certainly not dead. With the classic line-up almost completely reassembled -- Langford, Timms and Greenhalgh being joined by Steve Goulding on drums and Rico Bell on accordion and harmonica -- the Mekons served up their singular brand of thinking/drinking person's folk/punk.
Even between songs, the Mekons are always entertaining. While Bell's dashing orange-and-white polka-dot blouse seemed to indicate that he was on a bold one-man crusade for the reintroduction of the gypsy or perhaps pirate look, Langford informed us that Rico's attire was in fact punishment for alcohol-related infractions committed the previous evening in Cambridge, Mass. Although Langford was the first to admit that his own shirt was equally hideous, and pajama-like to boot, he declined to disclose the details of his own peccadilloes.
A strident version of "Heaven and Back" saw Greenhalgh taking care of primary vocal duties and engaging in some of the first Elvis kicks of the evening. Then, although "Gin Palace" from Honky Tonkin' took us back to the unsavory decade horribilis of Thatcher's casino economy, its waltzy, sea-shanty, bar-room flavor soon washed the bitter taste out of our mouths.
Not surprisingly, a fair bit of last night's material was drawn from the new album Journey to the End of the Night (Quarterstick), the title of which sends a rather erudite shout out to Celine and his 1932 novel of Bardamu's odyssey from WWI European battlefields, to West Africa, on to New York and Detroit and finally back to a French lunatic asylum. But there's more than a superficial reference at stake here on the new outing.
The hallmarks of Celine's aesthetic -- lyricism, black humor, irreverence and idealism -- are the very tropes that characterize the Mekons' approach on Journey. Dark and elusive, bleak yet ultimately hopeful and shot through with jagged moments of humor, this album leads the listener on a subjective, nocturnal journey through the urban ruins of capitalism.
If the title sets a tone of literary tourism, then "Myth" runs with the idea. Backed with some fine harmonies and violin, Tommy Greenhalgh takes us on a doleful cultural excursion of sorts, appearing to map classical mythology and the travails of Heracles onto the contemporary cityscape of New York.
On "Out in the Night," Langford sings a brooding, woeful ballad; "The Last Weeks of the War" is a similarly melancholy number on which he and Timms square off, albeit in a subdued fashion. Like many of the tracks on the album, this distinctly unhappy, downbeat and fragile song is subtly held together by Susie Honeyman's beautifully lilting, country-tinged violin (unfortunately absent from last night's performance).
"Tina" is the first of three tracks on this album that are characterized by a distinctly '80s white UK/punk/pop reggae guitar-signature, and it finds Langford disillusioned, at the end of his political and ideological tether and yet still ultimately optimistic. In a similar vein musically, "Ordinary Night" has Greenhalgh at the vocal helm again. On "Neglect" -- probably the most successful of the trilogy -- Bell's accordion adds a welcome layer beyond the vaguely anachronistic skank-lite sound. Interestingly, the live performance of the latter two really foregrounded the songs' comic side that remains understated on record.
"Powers and Horror," a virtually a cappella number with a smattering of piano and accordion, deepens the intertextuality of the album by alluding to Julia Kristeva's Powers of Horror, itself a dense reflection on Celine's work. But lest that sound weighty and pretentious, in performance this is another track that the Mekons manage to re-signify with a marked degree of humor. On Journey, it's lyrically abstruse and rather grim but live, the Mekons' barbershop quartet -- hands clasped and looking decidedly ironic -- brings a disarming element of levity to the track.
"Cast No Shadows" is a pumping sing-a-long with great guitar and filled with yet more dark nocturnal imagery. Lyrically, it charts a pessimistic unending trek but vocally, its sound is completely uplifting, courtesy largely of Sally Timms.
Among the new tracks that the Mekons unfortunately glossed over last night was "City of London," another dark one made extra-special by Timms' breathy intimate vocals that graft various levels of loss, demise and death onto the geography of London and, indeed, onto the Empire itself. Also conspicuous by its absence was the more familiarly Mekons' number "Last Night on Earth" which, against the grain of its miserable lyrics that chronicle things falling apart as the witching hour draws close, paradoxically manages to pull off a cheery sing along.
But meanwhile back at the Bowery Ballroom...the Mekons also served up fine versions of "Orpheus," "Poxy Lips" and "When Darkness Falls." The latter was a particular winner. Langford ironically dedicated it to the very same "Big A&M Herb," immortalized by the greatest living Englishman Mark E. Smith, and Sally Timms proceeded to sing rather beautifully about wishing horrible physical torments on someone.
Having been the consummate trooper, however, a poorly Timms finally gave up the ghost toward the end of the evening and made for the bathroom. This was Langford's cue to inform the crowd that the boys (and bassist Sarah Corina) would now take advantage of her absence, rub liniment into their legs and play some rugby. Luckily, Langford didn't make good on that threat but, rather, the Mekons played a ripping version of "Fancy" by the Kinks.
They finished things off with a great set of encores. For a frenetic version of "Where Were You," they inevitably enlisted the assistance of roadie Mitch (complete with appropriate yellow hair). There was more Elvis kicking, writhing on the floor and an enforced stage dive for Mitch, courtesy of a shove in the back from Langford. Equally excellent versions of "Memphis Egypt," "Prince of Darkness," and "Lost Highway" provided the final touches.
A great time was had by all. Downbeat country-folk balladry, upbeat punk rock, driving guitars and classic Mekons wit and charm. How much longer can they keep this up?
