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Jarvis Cocker at Camden Roundhouse 16/12/2006

Gigs // Jim // 18th December 2006

It’s strange being in The Linden Café on a Saturday morning without a nasty hangover, I’d equate it to having a go in a left hand drive car; initially hard to get the hang of but you suspect that the rest of the world is right and it might be the best way to do things.

The bastard ticket machine at Leamington station sells me a single when I wanted a return, at the same price. There isn’t time to complain, so I settle for swearing loudly near a mother and her young son, fortunately she is sympathetic and I don’t feel too ashamed.

Really easy trip down to London opposite some bird with an awful lot of luggage and a make up fixation, while reading about chess nutter Bobby Fisher, demanding type of chap it seems.

For at least the next week or so, Claire lives in Kilburn but she is kind enough to come and meet me at the station. An act of kindness that she will only try and make me feel guilty about five or six times on the way to the pub.

Two pints in and any chance of us going to the cinema as planned is dashed by the lure of more beer. We go for an epic burger in Claire’s favourite local, a very nice pub with the biggest space I have ever seen behind a bar and a barmaid who may or may not be pregnant. She brings the food over and asks if we want anything else. I ask for a shovel.

It’s a short walk to Camden… probably, I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that hairdressers are better than newsagents when you need to know exactly where the fuck you are going. My comedy request for a quick trim is turned down sharpish though.

Still fairly early when we get to the Roundhouse so we go in a fairly plush looking pub over the road, which fills up once the locals see that we are there. Should I abandon lager for spirits and mixers? Not just yet.

Into the venue and have a quick look around, ooh all very nice, I’m glad I didn’t get tickets in the boring looking balcony section. A sophisticated crowd are filling the place up. This audience have two really great things going for them; Firstly I don’t feel very old in here and, secondly, not many of them are taller than me, which is going to make things easier later on.

The cloakroom at the Roundhouse is hilarious, eight people are employed to guard about thirty coat-hangers and point in a pointed manner at a sign that says “The Cloakroom Is Full”. Not any sense of humour about the whole operation really.

Support band The Hours are due on shortly, I’ve no idea about them and neither has the girl behind the bar, I discover after some routine barmaid enquiries. They shamble on and start out OK if unspectacular, things stay the same; Standard, sombre indie-rock with a piano in it. Bit dull for my tastes, asked what I think, the most constructive answer I can come up with is: “There’s a market for it”.

They finish off and we gradually amble about halfway to the front, how short is this crowd? It’s ace. A selection of eccentric Christmas covers float around the place and then the band take to the stage and kick off. Claire predicted that things would start with Fat Children, so it’s a gold star for her as they launch into it and Jarvis swoops on to declare, “Last night I had a little altercation…” to a fairly rapturous, if static reception.

First song finishes and everyone is smiling, even me. I quickly remember that I am supposed to be miserable and switch to a bit of an ambivalent sneer. Don’t Let Him Waste Your Time stomps off the stage after a bit of introductory banter from the effortlessly charismatic and witty Jarv, regarding the madness of a smoking ban in a building famous for the edgy end of the artistic spectrum.

He dons an acoustic guitar for the strum along of Heavy Weather before the first of a series of little chats/rants, which as you would expect are all very dry and amusing. A minor exception being where Jarvis is role-playing the time that he got his head kicked in. Watching the lanky Parisian pretending to put the boot in while screaming in time with each swing of his foot “TAKE. THAT. YOU. FOOKIN. CUNT” almost leans over into the world of performance art, there are a few worried glances here and there.

A new song called One Man Show is introduced with a tale of how as a single man he once received his first Christmas card of the festive season from the local curry house, I look at the floor and feel suitably empathic. The song itself is a total belter that should have been on the album.

The subversive balladry of Disneytime, From Auschwitz to Ipswich and I Will Kill Again are all very nice if not the happiest songs in the world. Baby’s Coming Back To Me is regretfully as dull as the record, things are retrieved by Jarvis’ errr, uncomplicated glockenspiel skills and the presence of what could be Tony Hart, or his ghost.

Jarvis is beginning to rock out a bit, he stages a death defying jump between the speakers at the front of the stage and is starting to get a bit sweaty and worked up, he sweeps his hair back to reveal what appears to be a forehead large enough to sell advertising space on. The classic moves are all coming out now; the pointing, the peeking through the fingers and the jerky one armed dancing that gives him the look of an asymmetric epileptic. With Cocker on this sort of form, if Michael Jackson were here - he’d shit himself.

A big, big rendition of Black Magic sees Jarvis going a bit mental on top of one of the speaker stacks and yelling like his life depended on it. The geezer in front of me wakes up and starts shaking his head around, a sweaty ponytail in the mouth for me. Super.

It’s only a short wait for the encore, which starts with what I thought would have been the closer, Running The World. Which is up there with The Man Don’t Give A Fuck and Killing In The Name in terms of sing-a-long, sweary, political anthems. It says a lot for Jarvis’ charm and influence that he can coerce a large proportion of the reserved and cosmopolitan audience into yelling, “Cunts are still running the world” over and over.

Next up is a bit of a history lesson, today is the anniversary of the next song being recorded “in this very room”. The song is Silver Machine by Hawkwind, I wasn’t expecting this – fortunately Lemmy doesn’t put in a guest appearance.

Despite over-running a bit Jarv gives us a final, sublime Quantum Theory, which he gets everyone to whisper along with at the end. That’s our lot and it’s time to spend a quarter of an hour trying to get outside.

We quickly agree that it was fantastic and I start telling myself to get over my shockingly childish fear of flying so I can go to the gig in Amsterdam. Damn you again, aviaphobia.

Claire takes me to a pub called Father Ted’s in Kilburn, which is a great opportunity to have a few more drinks and practice my spot on Oirish accent. It is also an opportunity for a drunk geezer to practice his left hook demonstration while I am taking a slash, we part on friendly terms. They are showing Mimic on a stolen plasma TV while an enthusiastic troubadour belts out Buddy Holly covers in the corner. He finishes up and How Soon Is Now suddenly blasts out of the jukebox to my immense surprise.

Time to go but have we had enough to drink? Well, when I blink my eyelids are still moving at the same time so no, probably not. Claire is getting admiring glances from the captain of the ladies darts team while I have a chat with the incredibly helpful barman in order to secure some take-out beer and what promises to be a fantastic, extended hangover. Can’t wait.

Don' Let These Links Waste Your Time...

JarvSpace

His MySpace page again

Jarvis Cocker Wikipedia Entry

It's the "Jarvis Cocker Wikipedia Entry"

Camden Roundhouse

Nice venue with a shorter than average clientele

Tony Hart

Still kicking it appears, I might book him for the christmas party at work