It’s enough to make a crowd feel old (which, to be fair, we predominantly are). Not only has HUGH CORNWELL has been a solo artist for longer than he was a Strangler, but what is more, apart from his thinning hair, the black-clad, lean-framed Cornwell appears startlingly similar in appearance to his Stranglers prime. But then again he never looked especially youthful even in the beginning – something about him always suggested an older, distinctly weathered soul lurking sardonically within.
A sizeable crowd are in place early for what will be the first of the evening’s two sets, in which Cornwell revisits his 1997 album Guilty in its entirety. It was, and indeed is, a confident collection of mature melodic rock which cemented the singer’s reputation as a viable solo artist. Backed by long-standing drummer Chris Bell and Tom Jones doppelganger Steve Fishman on bass, the trio bring the fifteen year-old album to pulsing life.
Cornwell always fancied himself as a singer-songwriter more in the tradition of his friend Richard Thompson rather than merely the wonderfully sneering deliverer of punk classics like Peaches, but elements of Beefheartian quirk are still present in Nerves of Steel and there’s a withering backward glance at his erstwhile colleagues-in-black in Long Dead Train. A decade and a half on, it’s a record which has stood the test of time.
A break follows, during which the ebullient duo Brothers Of Brazil take the stage with labrador-like enthusiasm. A spike-haired drummer and a dapper-suited acoustic guitarist of considerable skill fire off a tightly choreographed collection of ‘punkanova’. Confident and invigorating, the pair perform with great warmth, and receive great warmth from the crowd in return.
Cornwell and his band return for what, like it or not - and one suspects he still rather begrudges the situation - is the main event, the Stranglers set. Fishman grinds out the familiar opening bass rhythm of Toiler on the Sea, but it quickly runs aground and is called to a halt by the irked frontman. In ways which I’d argue are much missed in today’s tweet-saturated times, Cornwell isn’t cuddly and he doesn’t want to be everybody’s friend – there remains a spikiness to his personality which lends an edge to proceedings.
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Playing without a keyboardist forces the trio to compensate musically, generally via Cornwell’s spiralling guitar solos (far better on the ears than this sounds in words). The riff-heavy Toiler succeeds as does rhythmic juggernaut School Mam. A laid-back The Raven though, does not, not least by having Fishman sing lead. Cornwell is possibly the finest, most characterful voice to have emerged from the punk rock era (no mean feat when up against such fine vocalists as Dave Vanian and John Lydon), and featuring a song, particularly one as venerated as The Raven, without Cornwell’s voice seems mild folly.
I Feel Like A Wog is transformed almost beyond recognition – only the engine-chug of the bass line is retained as Cornwell fires off a jazz-style vocal over skittering drums. It’s a bold and successful interpretation, as close to King Crimson’s Neurotica than the original. Walk on By – possibly the best cover version ever recorded – is stretched out even beyond the lengthy confines of the original, a solo acoustic rendition of Midnight Summer Dream simply charms, before the obligatory No More Heroes closes the evening.
Less than a month ago the Stranglers were in town in formidable form, laying down a rich selection of authentically performed classics. Cornwell takes more risks with the older material, occasionally missing the mark but mainly the gambles pay off. His dogged wrestling with his legacy makes for ever-compelling viewing and long may it continue.
Hugh Cornwell online
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