Rickie Lee Jones @ HerMajesty's Theatre, Adelaide(01/06/10)

Wed 2nd Jun, 2010 in Gig Reviews

I took the opportunity to review Rickie Lee Jones, on something of a whim. The illustrious editor of this website had put out the call for a reviewer on numerous occasions and nobody took it up. In hindsight, this was hardly a surprise: the majority of people when I’ve enquired as to their opinion of the beat chanteuse replied with “I’ve heard the name, but who is she?” I’ll freely admit that this is, perhaps, indicative more of my wider social group’s failings rather than an indictment of Jones. But one thing is for sure; if they’d had the opportunity to see what I did, the majority of their minds would change. I went into the experience knowing only Rickie Lee Jones, her 1979 self-titled effort. This isn’t uncommon amongst the wider population: it was by far her most popular recording, and by illusion her most accessible. So, I took the chance: the album’s ‘legendary’ status and my respect for it, the idea of having a night in the beautiful Her Majesty’s Theatre, and the possibility that I may be delivered with some rewarding and distinctive musical stylings drawing me in.

But between taking the review spot and going to see her I did something very important: I listened to her two latest albums; 2007’s Sermon on Exposition Boulevard and 2009’s Balm In Gilead. In doing so, the entire idea of who I thought Jones was morphed in my mind. She went from a minor-key genre skipper with a beat-jazz fascination, capable of writing a meaningful lyric or two, to modern-day emotional exorcist. This is not a review of studio work but if you are searching for Liz Phair with intelligence and meaning, or Patti Smith with interesting work post hey-day or even a Joni Mitchell who has lost control of her voice, for the better, she offers it all. Doggedly determined to follow her muse wherever it recklessly travels, she can bring out the spiritual in what initially seems merely religious, and she can take the life out of dying. It’s your choice whether you see this as a lyrical, musical or vocal achievement. It could be any. More than just grabbing hold of my heart, this rushed album listening filled me with an inimitable, almost unbridled excitement toward a gig that I had no expectations of only 48 hours before.

In simplest terms, she delivered. Starting at 8pm SHARP (as described on the ticket, this information was appreciated too) she began alone, seated almost hiding behind a black grand piano, performing the tormenting The Magazine. This began a three song run of hushed versions of what were originally notably jazzy songs, turned and pressed into free-running, loose vocalese exercises that were as emotional and harrowing as they were revitalising.

This was typified by Self-Titled’s On Saturday Afternoon in 1963. On record this song is performed very much in the vein of the Waitsian beat-jazz which surrounded her at the time, but on this night it was a stunning, soulful ballad, giving her typical-of-the-time street-musings an added weight. Throughout this solo-piano burst she was accompanied by an ethereal and wobbling Bass guitar played with Violin Bow. It was a breathtaking start as she howled just enough, drawing power balanced by grit, from her limited range. The drummer came on next completing the trio and justifying the array of instruments on stage. That’s when the night started to rock a little as Jones’ underrated, almost unnoticed ability to write a soaring hook or bellowing chorus was put firmly on show. Only to bring it back around (with her movement to guitar) to her biting ability to throw sarcasm in with unmatched panache by playing A Lucky Guy form Pirates. Within a few songs she’d demonstrated her impressive and varied range and it was not going to stop. The pitch-perfect album-closer and slightly lyrically obtuse Atlas Marker kept the flow going as she moved into the countrified, chance to twang, It Must Be Love.

Throughout all this, her banter and her discussions were accidentally and charismatically measured to a tee. When she spoke it wasn’t fractured, but it was brief, it wasn’t explanatory to the point of disrupting the mysticism pervading the night, yet seemed to say so much. Her first sentence for the night explained that the songs would be about “Friends… friends that have gone.” Wow, that set the emotional course of the night. She vaguely discussed her youthful drug addiction and gave introductions to songs that added authority to her message, as personal as that message sometimes was.

The emotional and aural variety that was the cornerstone of the night’s success kept coming as she bellowed the nerve-pinching chorus of Remember Me from her latest album. A few more beautiful moments drifted by, propelled by simple guitar pedal work and somehow only half-electrified instrumentation. The simplicity was breath-taking too as at one point Jones quipped that the band should “start experimenting with some dangerous keys”. At one point, she discussed never having taken ecstasy before, as she introduced Firewalker a song based on her questioning what ecstasy was, only for her friend to retort “If you were driving this car, you’d fall in love with the steering wheel…” a perfect example of the understated humour scattered across the night.

The experience then changed. The finely structured songs left, to be replaced by the free-form, ambient, spiritual epic His Jewelled Floor. It’s muted almost whispered beauty was spine-tingling, a genuine cliche ‘goosebump’ moment. Mini-accordion, brushes, percussion touches, bass pedal plodding and bass pedal crunching peppered the song, almost just to remind us that Jones’ modern day musical ambition is as weighty as her lyrical aspirations. It could almost be described as iconoclasm at it’s most beautiful. But it was adversely affected by the only downer aspect of the night: a small random feedback sound first infiltrated the most aurally touching moment of the night – and continued through the next song. It clearly frustrated Jones (the band seemed chuffed just to be on stage) and you could see the tension within her rising. The sound remained for the low-key Bonfires and it was having a detrimental effect on the delicate vibe. But thankfully it disappeared for roughly the duration of the final song of the night. The truly brilliant ballad Away From The Sky. A song inspired by a dream she had shortly after John Lennon’s death, married to the character sketches of Dylan Thomas’ After the Fair. Its chorus touched the ceiling in seconds and had everyone around following. I was enraptured in the beauty of her words and her music. I wanted more.

But we didn’t get more. Clearly frustrated by the technical difficulties Jones left the stage only to come back within 10 seconds, bag on shoulder, jacket on, to wave goodbye to the highly appreciative crowd. People were clearly frustrated, some mortally disappointed, but I sat there and after a moment of emotional collection was completely content. My emotional expectations had been ravaged – for the better. I felt liked I’d discovered a genius for the first time and even if it was an accident finishing on that final moment of grace, made it all untouchable.

I can’t do much more then recommend Jones to everyone. If all you know her as is “the chick who wrote Chuck E.’s In Love” then get onto her work. Start with her later work, start with her early work, its much of a muchness. On this night in the confines of a wonderful performance space she captured me. Her weathered view, her twang of experience and her burning talent are something to behold. This kind of moment does not come around often.