133. Father John Misty
Roundhouse
19 May 2016
Josh Tillman, once the drummer in Fleet Foxes, now reborn as Father John Misty, is a walking contradiction. The songs are lush, wistful, even fragile, but the lyrics drip with the venom of a man who seems like he’s just broken up three relationships before lunch. You’re never quite sure if it’s performance art or simply the diary of an unrepentant bastard sung aloud over pretty chords.
On stage he cuts the figure of a wandering messiah: lank hair, beard that suggests a long-term relationship with artisan mezcal, a name that sounds equal parts apocalyptic preacher and cult leader. His presence teeters between charismatic and unbearable, like Jim Morrison re-imagined by Jared Leto.
To give him credit, I Love You, Honeybear was a superb record, his croon rich as lavender honey, his lyrics dark enough to make you wince before the melody swoops in to balm the bruise.
Visually, the show has heft. For once the lighting design didn’t look like it was left to a bored roadie, and at one point a ticker-tape bomb detonated, showering glitter down as he barrelled into Patti Smith’s “Because the Night”. Camden hadn’t looked this decorated since the last time someone vomited up three pints of snakebite outside Underworld.
But here’s the rub: I’m fairly sure he’s actually a bit of a git. Somewhere between the mock-prophet schtick and the arch between-song patter, it stopped feeling like art and started smelling like ego. In my notes that night I wrote “budget Jim Morrison.” On reflection, that could have been a little mean, but we couldn’t escape the feeling that his demeanour was, well, off-putting.
Afterwards we sloped off to The Black Heart for medicinal cocktails, where my friend clocked a colossal goth at the bar, caked in face paint straight off a Misfits lunchbox. My pal, never one to leave well enough alone, leaned in with his best Aussie drawl: “Does your mum know you wear make-up, mate?” The goth, to his credit, didn’t flinch and shoots back with a scowl: “I’m in a band.” My mate grins at him, “Yeah, I figured.” Turns out Father John Misty wasn’t the only piece of affected theatre in Camden that night.