Arriving fresh off the Revival Tour (bring it here next time!) Frank Turner, a leading light in the new generation of English acoustic guitar toting troubadours, was here to play his first gig in the land of the long white cloud.
With very little setup (a guitar and a mic don’t require a great deal of setting up after all), and a brief introduction, Frank kicked off with the lead track from his second album, Love, Ire & Song, followed swiftly by Try This At Home , the second track off his newest album Poetry of the Deed.
From there, with Frank as our garrulous tour guide, we were led through a selection of songs from all of his albums, a few covers (an accapella rendition of traditional folk staple Barbara Allen being a highlight) and even a couple of new songs (called Steve and Dave respectively).
While his last two albums have been mostly full band affairs the songs translated well into the stripped down context of the show, the band only being missed when we were informed that Sons of Liberty and Reasons Not to be an Idiot couldn’t be played without them. But, apart from those minor omissions, the set consisted of everything (I would imagine) the audience was there to hear
Thousands of miles from home in a room full of strangers Frank’s constant touring is evident in his comfort at being on stage and his ability to engage with the audience. From dragging an audience member and one of the opening acts on stage to play harmonica solos (he’d forgotten his neck brace), to sharing stories from his deep dark anarchist past, his charm and humour (and dimples) kept the audiences interest throughout the show
Smiles were aplenty throughout the night but it was only towards the end of the show that the crowd really found their voice. Photosynthesis found Frank encouraging a sing along, and it was all the prompting the audience needed. Hands raised and punching the air we bellowed along with Frank, lost in the spirit of the song and the moment; forgetting briefly that it was nearly midnight on a Tuesday and we had work early the next day, or that a two hour drive home still loomed. And while there weren’t as many of these beer in the air, arms round strangers, sing yourself hoarse type moments I’d hoped for the ones that did occur more than made up for it.
So, with the final lines of Ballad of Me and My Friends ringing in our ears, it was over; out into the cold Auckland night, smiling with the experience and memory of what one man, his passion, talent and guitar are capable of. Thanks, Frank.
Monday night. Not widely regarded as the best night of the week but, much like the Warriors, it can occasionally produce a stunner. And last Monday night was that proverbial stunner.
This was due mostly to a spoken word performance by one Mr Henry Rollins (although good company and a mean Mexican feed beforehand certainly didn’t hurt either). Here on the back of his Frequent Flyers tour, nearly two years to the day after he last graced these shores, Mr Rollins delivered a fantastic two and half hour set of spoken word mastery.
Blue collar and high school educated (even making jokes about going back to cleaning toilets when he finally runs out of words) Rollins is, by his own admission, an ordinary man. What make him extraordinary are his drive and his burning desire to know, see and do. Working a schedule that would exhaust a person half is age you have to wonder how long he can keep it up (and hope to God he finds a way to make sure he does!). You inevitably leave a Rollins show feeling both inspired and disheartened. Inspired because his ideas, enthusiasm and energy are contagious. Disheartened because tomorrow you know you’re getting up and trucking off to another day of routine while this 49 year old dynamo will be tearing life a new asshole.
If you’ve been to one of these performances before you know pretty much what to expect. Henry clad all in black and taking his attack stance (which looks like he still thinks he’s in Black Flag; ready and willing leap off the stage and attack the entire audience if they give him the slightest provocation), diatribes on war and intolerance, pot shots at well known republicans (along with some fairly hilarious impressions), travel anecdotes and touching human interest pieces.
In the hands of a less skilled speaker knowing what to expect could easily equate to boredom. Fortunately Mr Rollins is not a less skilled speaker, always finding ways to take these expected themes and personalise them, making them relevant to his audience.
Take war for example, he could easily speak on the wrongs of Iraq (and does) but heck, he’s down under, so he throws in a piece about ANZAC day. Intolerance, why not throw in something about a mongrel Aussie calling the First Lady a monkey? (This, sadly, isn’t even a blip on the radar of things she gets called in her own country). His monologues are always well researched and show some understanding of a country’s history, cultures and tradition. And it’s this sort of effort that makes the difference.
But it’s not all serious stuff. Rollins knows the value of humour and sprinkles his set liberally with it. Whether it’s a strange tour guide from Laos yelling mangled English phrases like “What’s your life!?” and “Make biologic on tree!” Or discussing his masturbation habits (in almost uncomfortable depth) he’s got the experience and stories to pull humour from almost any situation.
An overarching theme of the show, and one which really struck a chord was that we should view this decade as our child. It’s only ten at the moment and, while it has some bad habits and has been hanging with the wrong crowd, it’s young enough that with care and positive influence it can be helped to grow into something we’re proud of. Engaged effort on our part can rid it of bad habits (racism and intolerance, injustice and inequality, y’know, all the bad stuff) and make sure it’s exposed to people who are a positive influence (Obama (and shit, Henry too) being a good start).
So gone are the anger and cynicism of youth, replaced by a respect and the arms wide open world view of an elder statesman. Rather than have our differences keep us apart he wants to find out what we have in common and use those to bring us together. The passion remains, but, rather than punch you in the face, Rollins wants to assault your brain with his words. It seems strange to say it folks but Henry’s become a hippy. And damn if it isn’t good.
