There is more Rice in music at the moment than there is in China. Damian Rice, Tim Rice, Tim Rice-Oxley: the list of similarly-named public-school whingers is longer and less exciting than the New Year’s Honours list. Just when we thought that the market in Rices is surely oversubscribed, though, along comes JOHNATHAN RICE. Despite not being able to spell ‘Jonathan’ correctly (possibly due to him being Scandinavian and most probably, therefore, sauna-addled), he seems to be popular: the historic 100 Club is nicely crowded without being uncomfortable.
On he ambled at half-past nine, looking – well – nice. That’s about it. Not inspiring, not exciting, not ram-your-head-through-a-glass-panel invigorating. Herein lies the problem. As the 100 Club hosted gigs by the Rolling Stones during their hazy heyday, the venue’s standards have been set improbably high. Although no-one expects bands to breach the Stones’ level, a bit of effort (as displayed by the Paddingtons at this very venue not too long ago) goes a long way. Sadly, Johnathan Rice seems to disagree. His songs, though well-crafted, are long and drone-y to the point of being interminable and would therefore benefit from a bit of onstage oomph. None of that on show at all, though. Indeed, quite the opposite proved to be true – hilariously, he shushed whispering audience members mid-song (during the rather self-indulgent Sharpshooter’s Blues) in a gesture that displayed a quite staggering ego of Gallagher-esque proportions. Crucially, however, Liam and Noel – as much as it pains me to admit it – have charisma and personality and tunes in bucketloads whereas Rice, bless him, doesn’t.
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The problem is, it’s hard to tell whether this insouciance is deliberate or not. It could be interpreted that he loves his music so much that even the slightest murmur acts as a personal affront; in that case, though, why put on a show that invites background noise? Even notable dullards like Keane at least try to liven things up when treading the boards, but Rice seems oblivious. He starts with No Love, a solo effort built around an acoustic guitar riff that wouldn’t seem out of place on an U.N.K.L.E. song but which is overpowered by the sheer lack of spark in Rice’s voice. Two other musicians join him periodically throughout the gig to beef up the sound; it works in part, but only adds a transient depth that flickers momentarily. The only exception to this is the slide guitarist, whose deft additions have occasional prolonged periods of excellence. It is criminal that he’s as ostracised on stage as the new one in the Sugababes.
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