220. Nathaniel Rateliff
Hammersmith Apollo
22 June 2024
So my daughter just hit the big one-eight, and wouldn't you know it? After a lifetime of dogged adherence to apple juice and peach iced tea, they’re suddenly transformed into a connoisseur of complex cocktails with a slightly worrying gusto. We find ourselves at a seafood spot improbably plonked down by the Hammersmith gyratory; a place where it is clear that the seafood, like us, also arrived by motorised vehicle, not boat.
Suitably fortified, we’re off to the gig, seated in the vertigo-inducing row near the balcony edge. The support act, William the Conqueror, rolls out and does that rare support-act miracle of warming up the crowd with some foot-stomping mid-western rock that has everyone nodding along.
Then the headliner, Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats, step out and it's a journey through their greatest hits mixed with a sprinkling of his latest stuff from South of Here. Judging by the spike in cheering every time Nathaniel drops an oldie, it’s safe to say half the crowd hasn’t bothered to stream his new tracks.
The between-song banter isn’t exactly sparkling, he’s trying, bless him, but charisma’s not his strong suit. Still, he gets points for honesty. In between songs, he’s spinning yarns about addiction and his past struggles, and there’s a kind of collective goodwill in the room for his newfound sobriety. But you can’t help guiltily wondering if the darker days produced some of his best tracks.
But the vibes are upbeat, and we’re all on our feet, clapping, whooping, and doing our best impression of rhythmically challenged backup dancers who were there because they won a competition. The band? They’re giving it their all; think bargain-bin E-Street Band but with enough heart to pull it off.
When he busts out Dancing in the Dark, we all have a brief moment of revelation: Springsteen’s fingerprints are all over this. Doesn’t matter, they’re slam-dunking the tunes, throwing every last ounce of energy at the music like they’re wrestling it into submission. By the time the encore rolls around and Son of a Bitch blasts through the speakers, the crowd erupts, the entire place is on its feet, and any pretences of restraint are long gone.
An impromptu lobby meet up with a heavily pregnant work colleague is a delight as we swap show stories whilst nervous-looking ushers worry that they might be called into action for an ambulance to the maternity ward. We spill out into the night, humming the encore, grinning like idiots, and feeling like we’ve just been to a proper Americana-rock revival.