We are 13 years past the millennium, if you are a folky singer-songwriter, finger plucking your way into the hearts of women, you start at minus ten. And if you are ever to gain any credibility, you need to be able to bring something fresh to a table that has almost been hacked to kindling by the mediocrity of Mumford & Sons. With this in mind, Ben Howard cuts an interesting figure; there is a grommet look about him, he’s a surfer and suffice to say, he doesn’t get through his entire set without mentioning Torquay.
Opening with the title track of his debut album, Every Kingdom, it’s easy to understand the mass appeal of Ben’s sound, he borrows a touch of reverence from José González and his vocal signature is scarily close to an English carbon copy of Matt Corby. There is a drama to this man’s compositions that sets him apart from the marijuana-induced apathy of Jack Johnson.
The magic of the band behind Ben Howard begins and ends with India. Very few male solo artists are lucky enough to find a female voice that compliments their own as well as India Bourne’s divides Howard’s. Her harmonies throughout the set were beguiling, when not buried in the patchy mix. Grumble. Grumble. She also plays the cello. Game, set, match.
Old Pine is sublime and stands up as one of the better examples for his often-maligned genre. Unfortunately, there are few moments as good as this and songs such as Only Love and Keep Your Head Up slip into John Mayer territory, and not bluesy John Mayer – sappy John Mayer. It’s a workplace hazard, a tightrope men like Ben walk every day.
It’s also a shame that so many songs are formulaic. Black Flies, The Fear and The Wolves all begin unambitiously; slowly building in intensity until Ben lets out an impassioned howl that joins an instrumental cacophony. Honestly, it is as if the songs are tailor made for season finales of Grey’s Anatomy.
But all of this seems to work as the Grey’s Anatomy demographic is out in force. Shouts of “Marry me Ben!” from the crowd were deftly handled, “I think you got the wrong man!” As was his admission to the crowd that he has just finished a Sylvia Plath book. What could have been cringe inducing was again easily subverted by his northern English charm – “Well fuck, that’ll ruin your life.” The boy might be more self-aware than we give him credit for.
A cry from the crowd for his stunning and rarely played B-Side, Depth Over Distance is graciously acquiesced in the encore, a move that proved to be the single useful contribution from an otherwise obnoxiously mouthy crowd. And finishing with album closer, Promise, half an hour after the proposed set time, Ben is charming and sweet as he bid his adoring doe-eyed femmes and overly affectionate couples good night.
BY CHRISTOPHER LEWIS
LOVED: Awkward onstage banter and stories that went nowhere.
HATED: Inane exclamations from the crowd.
DRANK: Pungent Pinot Noir.
