There’s a long and illustrious tradition of literary, artistic or musical geniuses being difficult people. Whether it’s as a result of drug abuse, mental disorder or fame-induced megalomania, some people seem destined to team their potent talents with a profound antipathy towards those who admire them.
Nigel Kennedy, rock ‘n’ roll violinist, seems cut from this cloth. Born in 1956, he trained at the justifiably prestigious Yehudi Menuhin School in London, later moving to the Juilliard School in New York. Initially, he would play classical standards – Bach, Mendelssohn, Vivaldi – and introduce himself with a right, proper English accent. As a prodigious young man, his speech marked, perhaps innacurately, him as a member of Britain’s socio-economic elite.
And then, suddenly, his accent shifted, and his words were uttered with cockney zeal. He was punk rock, dressed up to the nines in dirty, ripped clothes. Sometimes sporting a mohawk and rejoicing in not shaving, it was clear he was trying to make a point about the classical music establishment. He was a rebel. A bad boy. He had no qualms about flitting from Bach’s Sarabande to Hendrix’s Hey Joe. He was unpredictable.
Unfortunately, for those watching his live shows, it’s all a bit of a wank, because he is also artifice manifest. This evening – slated as a jazz performance, highlighting Kennedy’s obvious eclectic virtuosity – he turns up to the Basement inexcusably late, walking on to the stage with a drunken swagger. He proffers a pseudo-apology: ‘good morning!’ The audience, mainly middle-aged folks seemingly hoping to be shocked by Kennedy’s naughty-boy routine, seems to find his dubious wit amusing.
He introduces his backing band – clearly very talented musicians – with an intensely annoying voice he’s decided to affect, his voice breaking like a pubescent schoolboy. He occasionally swigs from a bottle of James Boags. After a few minutes of unnecessary, embarrassing rambling, he begins to play. It’s beautiful. He’s clearly an extraordinarily gifted violinist, and his musical cohorts are nothing to be scoffed at. He plays a jazz number in four movements, confidently moving from Miles Davis-esque explorations to Chick Corea-esque spasmodic flirtations. It’s almost magical to watch a violinist at the peak of his game.
And then he ruins it all – again – by speaking. He rambles on incoherently again, muttering to himself. During one particularly memorable between-song soliloquy, he uses the word ‘motherfucker’ around 30 or 40 times. In around 2 minutes. ‘This song is written by a motherfucker, for a motherfucker. This guy’ – he points to his lead guitarist – ‘is a motherfucker! A motherfucker!’ No Nigel, point that finger at yourself.
Surreally, the audience laps it up. They love every second of it, giggling to themselves whenever he delivers a few more profanities. It’s embarrassing, like watching a bunch of teachers amused by a naughty schoolboy, giggling too hard to tell him to calm down. Kennedy is clearly too aware of his obvious talents and his self-constructed reputation. He feels no need to act with a modicum of decorum.
So then, after an hour and a half of beautiful music mixed by terrible displays of vulgarity, I leave. It’s a rare thing when I’ll leave a gig before it’s finished, especially when such impressive music is on offer. Kennedy’s attitude is that bad. Hopefully by the time he next visits Australian shores, someone has told him what a wanker he is, and he’ll have done something about it. Don’t bet on it though.
Luke
said ages ago