Originally published in Now Then Magazine
Richard Dawson has snapped a guitar string. At some point during a thunderous rendition of ‘Jogging’, he strums his instrument with steel-snapping force, and the mild-mannered Northumbrian now hobbles offstage to collect a replacement. He is encumbered somewhat by his left foot, currently strapped into an orthopaedic boot after his Achilles tendon suffered a similar fate to tonight’s guitar string. The crowd at Crookes Social Club are given an unplanned mid-set interlude. It’s a momentary breather after an intense half hour with the avant-garde bard, accompanied only by his touring drummer Andrew Cheetham. The spell of his enrapturing live show is briefly broken – then swiftly recast as he launches into the knotty melodies of ‘The question’.
The set will ultimately close with ‘Horse and Rider’, a poetic evocation of a man and his horse rising early to journey out together through a post-apocalyptic landscape. Dawson restrings his guitar with all the speed, skill and care of a seasoned stablehand. For the last decade he has relied mostly on the same trusty steed, a 1960s Burns electric guitar. He insists on tuning entirely by ear, not only between, but often during his songs, a hand darting up between phrases to subtly tweak the pitch. When changing his tunings between songs, amidst anecdotes and on-stage patter, Dawson often lets out a groan of joy as the strings reach their new sonorous alignment. Man and horse, fused into one continuous being.
His voice too is a fine instrument, well-oiled with frequent sips of bottled water. His range and power are remarkable, switching from long drawn out notes of belting falsetto to conversational Geordie brogue. He knows just how and when to push his vocal lines so that they break and crackle with character, much like the sounds that come from his Fender guitar amp, which distorts into a glorious fuzz when strummed hard enough.
Last in his toolkit are the words themselves. With humour and pathos, Dawson leads us through a variety of worlds and characters. There are allotment enthusiasts, UFO sightings, and a lonely grandmother’s trip to Lidl as she ponders her life choices with quiet melancholy. ‘Black Dog in the sky’ howls to the heavens in existential angst, whilst ‘Jogging’ turns sharply political in its later verses. His register is at turns chatty and quotidian, at other times balladic and timeless, the lyrics as twisting and confrontational as the jagged harmonic turns and odd time signatures that accompany them.
When we get to the end of his closing song, Dawson belts out the final repeated refrain – “over unseen churning seas we go”. In the final stretches he leaves space for his drummer, who finishes the song with a drum solo played purely on the cymbals – a crashing, splashing echo of the final lyric. Dawson joins the rest of the room in meditative silence, riding the cresting wave, suspended in the immediacy of the moment. When the wave finally breaks we are left adrift – still entranced by this master of his trade.
Tom Ronan 