157. Richard Ashcroft
The O2 Arena
9 December 2016
There are frontmen, and then there’s Richard Ashcroft, the last of the swaggering spiritualists, the lank-limbed prophet of northern soul-rock melancholia, a man who looks like he could either bless you or headbutt you, depending on the mood.
It’s a cold December night in London, and Ashcroft’s playing the O2 Arena and he’s brought the coat. The long, black, priest-meets-rock-samurai overcoat that’s become as essential to Ashcroft’s stage presence as the shades, the strut, and the demeanour that tears pages straight from the books of Mick Jagger and Che Guevara resulting in a sort of Jesus of Fallowfield air about him.
He comes on like that norther town messiah, late for a sermon, arms outstretched, bathed in white light, face set in that eternal expression of mild disgust and cosmic understanding. The band kicks in, and suddenly it’s 1997 again. “Sonnet,” “The Drugs Don’t Work,” and “Lucky Man.” These songs arrive like freight trains of Britpop nostalgia, but they sound huge, even in the O2’s cavernous echo chamber, because Ashcroft has brought an orchestra with him.
His voice, remarkably, still has that cracked beauty: part angel, part banshee shouting at the moon. Every syllable is delivered with the sincerity of a man who once spent three full years believing Urban Hymns could heal the planet.
The newer material lands surprisingly well, less anthemic, more introspective, still riding that beautiful line between profundity and completely off his nut. Between songs, the stage patter is cryptic, meandering, equal parts street preacher and pub philosopher.
“They said music was dead,” he mutters at one point, waving a hand at the crowd like he’s blessing us. “But look at us now, man. Look at this energy. Look at these people. This is alive.” It may be pompous nonsense, but he’s not wrong.
Of course, it ends with “Bittersweet Symphony.” What else could it possibly end with? That string intro hits and the place goes bat-shit bonkers. Arms rise. Phones glow. Ashcroft doesn’t milk it. He just stands there, arms out, accepting the love like a prophet watching his flock finally get it. And maybe we do.
For a few fleeting minutes, in this strange arena on a winter’s night, we believe again: in the power of music; in the redemptive swagger of a Wigan lad with a messiah complex; and in the idea that rock’n’roll, if not quite the cure, is still the best damn medicine we’ve got.
A bombastic, beautiful night with Britain’s last great rock shaman. Shades on. A contender for the best gig of the year.