142. Gary Clarke Jr.

O2 Academy Brixton

29 June 2016

You know you're in for something when the crowd's already sweating before the lights go down. Brixton’s air was thicker than Clapton’s ego when out strides Gary Clark Jr., looking like Hendrix’s ghost had wandered into a GQ shoot.

From the first riff, it’s clear: this isn’t some polite blues recital. This is soul, grit, and funk, dragged from the Delta to the dancefloor via a pedalboard the size of Cornwall. He opens with “Bright Lights”, and it hits like a sermon for sinners. Every solo feels like it could knock your nan’s false teeth out.

The man doesn't so much play the guitar as make love to it in front of five thousand people. It’s indecent. It’s glorious. “When My Train Pulls In” turns into a ten-minute howl of whammy bar abuse. Half the crowd are open-mouthed; the other half is presumably now pregnant.

Vocally, he’s got that smoked-out croon that makes you want to light a cigarette and stare into the middle distance. Style-wise, imagine if Prince joined Cream but refused to talk to anyone between songs.

Sure, there’s the odd moment of self-indulgent noodling, this is blues-rock, after all, but mostly it’s tight, slick and sexier than it has any right to be on a weeknight in South London. By the time he closes with “Numb”, we all are. Gary Clark Jr. brought the blues, hip and swagger from the swamp and this Texan six-string preacher just baptised Brixton in fuzz and fire.