123. Richard Hawley

Hammersmith Apollo

23 February 2016

On the strength of a crushingly good record store set and being utterly charmed after meeting Richard Hawley in the same venue, it didn’t take much further thought to haul myself to Hammersmith for his headline show of the Hollow Meadows UK tour.

From the off, Hawley is all warmth and twinkly eyed mischief, opening with a “Don’t worry, we are from the North” jibe at us southerners. It lands to a roar of approval and a volley of cheeky heckles back.

Here’s a man riding high on two critically acclaimed albums, now pulling bigger crowds, bigger rooms, and, judging by the crowd, a bigger flock of middle-aged marketing execs who’ve all apparently coordinated their wardrobes to match his. There’s slicked-back hair, denim jackets, horn-rimmed glasses; the faithful gathered to worship at the altar of Sheffield’s denim-Jesus.

And yet, for all the avuncular charm and dry northern humour, Hawley’s songwriting walks on the shadier side of the street. You get lulled into that velvety baritone like a warm bath, only to realise that this is very dark subject matter indeed.

It’s a show that keeps you constantly shifting, as Hawley pivots from intimate, stripped-back acoustic confessions bathed in moody spotlight, like some Leonard Cohen confessional, to full-bore, Springsteen-style heartland rock. One minute you’re in a late-night bar with a whisky, the next you’re punching the air.

Every time he dips into the gloomier end of his songbook, he defuses the tension with a self-deprecating quip about how he’s about to depress the living hell out of us.

It’s a balancing act very few can pull off, heavyweight, soulful rock ’n’ roll that still feels like it’s being played by a bunch of good mates in the pub. It’s as close as you’ll get to those mythic mid-seventies gigs you wish you’d been alive to see. Serious music, serious craft, delivered by men who don’t take themselves too seriously.