When mentioning the location at which I would be witnessing the musings of our unofficial musical poet laureate to my less interested friends, I was greeted with oafish surprise and even in some cases condescending laughs. This was in no way directed at the man himself, he is universally respected by those that have even the smallest dribble of knowledge of his work and his stature. Instead it was the decision to play at HQ, a venue that is (successfully) trying to buff away the tarnish to their reputation as a respectable location, that brought responses steeped in confusion. Currently they are trying to become a more active live music venue mixing free\cheap shows of Australian or local acts with higher profile mid-venue attracting international tourists. Paul Kelly’s recent patronage of its stage is the next step in universalising the place. This is no one-way deal either. Kelly may have played to the youngest crowd he has for many a year. This affords the opportunity to test your chops with a new target in mind.

It was the displacement of a pub hero, “wrenched” from places like the Gov or occasionally the austere Her Majesty’s that framed the night. Initially it seemed that this was to be a dodgy decision. Thankfully the supremely sublime back catalogue of the man and his literate musings that so very much touch the Australian middle class heart (and mind) grabbed hold and transported an enamoured crowd. Those that didn’t know the words but thought they did, those that progressively got completely wasted and those diehards that won’t dance because they’re concentrating too much all joined in the sway, slowly building as the hits poured forth (of which there was quite a number, if this tour has a purpose it is to promote the extended version of the classic Songs From The South – œbest of’ compilation). Curious side note: My plus one companion on the night mentioned Kelly’s Adelaide birth, origin and childhood to a number of punters and strangers only to be shocked to find out that none of whom he asked knew of this.

Deciding on commencing with the rap-cum-rock shouter Nothing On My Mind seemed to signal intent. It appeared as if it was to set the stage for a bit of Kelly’s modern day fuzzy guitar and nihilistic lyrics dominating the night, probably for the benefit of the age group of those that watched on. But straight on after that classic riff broke out and a double shot of Before Too Long and Dumb Things cranked the singalongs early. This softened the crowd up as they sunk into pint 4 or 5 for the night (if they’re conservative) and placed them firmly in Paul’s hands. The singalongs where well spaced out, spread across the night going from the bordering on hard rock of Sweet Guy to the sweet pop of Careless to the indomitable storytelling genius of Everything Turning To White which took the character sketch in first person and gave the wife part to the powerful if not particularly nuanced Vicka Bull one of the Bull sisters, most famous on our shores for her membership in the Black Sorrows. She got her turn to lead vocal on a couple of other songs during the night but it is testament to the genius of Paul Kelly that these songs fade into the back of my mind and provided no highlight. Less than curious side note: Former Even guitarist Ashley Naylor was superb. Understated, smooth, with technique seemingly born to be utilised by Paul Kelly. Imagine David Gilmour really stoned, appearing drained of enthusiasm, but still sounding quite perfect.

There was more of the best. A screaming version of Smoke’s Our Sunshine gave us a taste of the range of the man’s song writing and genre bending while Love Never Runs On Time no doubt a personal favourite of the man himself hammered home his travelogue, loser love credentials. It was conversely placed aside Too Her Door the singalong to end all singalongs and the best song about divorce to come out of this country, and with extreme bias, maybe the world. The crowd was putty by now and Paul could play what he wanted and he let the tears flow and drunk emotions roam free with the astonishingly touching prison letter home How To Make Gravy. A phenomenal way to end the pre-encore festivities, he had played the crowd perfectly. They were baying for more, and out he came alone, acoustic in hand to play the Triple J society favourite Every Fucking City. The wry humour and deadbeat sentiment speaks too easily to the post slacker generation, and that was who was there, and they responded oh so kindly. Seemingly coming to a thrilling end there was one more dose of awesome post first encore. On the entreaties of the pissed majority who had by now reached a fit of pique and had broken into a violent scream for more the band came back for one more singalong. Leaps and Bounds punctuated the gig perfectly as I found myself amongst a recklessly loud group of people singing “I remember” (I myself had drunken myself to a state of pogo dancing to an early eighties Aussie pop rock, strange). Well I ain’t gonna forget… Well I remember it this morning so that means I’ve got over the first significant hurdle of memory.

I’ve seen Paul Kelly live a number of times and every show has reached at least a baseline of great enjoyment. He’s a songsmith, a champion of the word, and he manages to touch something uniquely Australian without being significantly parochial or bursting at the seams with nationalistic hubris. My experience of Kelly is one of intense sentimentality but also of hyper-keen respect for his abilities and the choices he makes on how to utilise them. On this particular night he didn’t necessarily distil these elements into pure ear candy or scintillating reinvention, but he made no missteps and let his songs take centre stage. And if that is all Paul Kelly ever does he’ll be doing something truly special every time he performs… even at HQ.