128. Half Moon Run
Roundhouse
23 March 2016
It’s no mystery why my number of Roundhouse gigs has spiked recently. The simple truth is that, through a series of events that I will not recount, I ended up as a Fellow of the Roundhouse. This came with two things of note: access to the Members Bar; and access to the members’ pre-sale. In other words, I now get first dibs on tickets before the great unwashed even know a gig is happening.
And so it was that Half Moon Run ended up on my calendar, not because I’m a devoted follower, but because the pre-sale email hit my inbox and FOMO. I only knew their last album, Sun Leads Me On, but that’s never stopped me before. My gig-going habits are roughly the same as my record-buying ones: jump first, ask questions later. Sometimes it’s the album cover that hooks me, sometimes it’s a single song overheard on a record shop’s sound system, and sometimes it’s a half-remembered review from a music magazine read on a train.
It’s a method that’s led me to treasures I’d have otherwise missed: Kikagaku Moyo, Black Mountain, Ulver, Godspeed You! Black Emperor all came this way, and Half Moon Run were a similar case.
The evening began with dinner at a rib-and-burger joint that had tried to bolt on a “hidden” speakeasy, the kind of place where you’re led through a curtain with all the theatricality of entering a prohibition-era gin palace, only to find yourself at a single table on a landing, surrounded by velvet drapery and the faint smell of burnt pork.
Half Moon Run, thankfully, were the real deal. They poured out a folk-infused, jangling slab of uplifting indie rock that seemed genetically engineered to make you smile. Between songs, the banter was warm and unforced, the sort of easy charm that turns a good gig into a great one.
The moment that really stuck came at the end. For the final number, the band called their roadies and merch crew on stage, the unsung workhorses of the tour, handed them guitars, tambourines, and mics, and let them loose on Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released”. Turns out the lot of them could really play. It was messy, heartfelt, and joyous, the kind of moment that strips away the layers of stagecraft and makes you feel like you’re in the room with friends. A perfect closing note, and proof that sometimes, leaping into the unknown really does pay off.