The Fulford Arms
January 26, 2019
Thomas Truax is an American one-man-band, a New Yorker residing in London, an oddball crooner, a nervy troubadour, and an inventor of visually and sonically imaginative musical instruments. Over the last decade, he's been a regular tourer around the UK and beyond, carving out a circuit of individualist venues to suit his individualist songs. Truax usually wears a suit, coming across as a huckster, selling his latest restorative potion, snakeoil for his audiences to swig. Except that the tunes presented have their own studied naivety, on the same rails with a sinister off-kilter eeriness. Most of Truax's catalogue is available via his own Psycho Teddy Records.
The Fulford Arms is a dedicated music haunt, offering gigs every night it's open, a public house with no back room or upstairs gallery: the night's crowd has no possible escape from the acts on show, so folks usually roll up because they want to hear bands play.
Truax has a lot of equipment that appears as though it's been lurking in a creepy antique shop, except that it's also futuristic-looking, even if it's the future as found in 1950s (or earlier) pulp magazines, or pulp movies. It had been a while since Truax's last run of dates, and this show was close to the beginning of a fresh tour. He had a few teething troubles with some of the steampunk mechanics, and was a touch out of shape with his real-time, live onstage tinkering. As a solo performer, it's quite a feat to get all that cranky equipment running in well-oiled fashion. This actually magnified the quirky qualities of Truax's presentation, pushing him towards some resourceful banter with the reasonable-sized gathering, who were mostly seated at tables this time around. Everyone is getting steadily older.
Truax sings each song, sometimes with a trusty acoustic guitar, but often with his Mother Superior, Hornicator and Stringaling instruments, which involve rickety wheel-spoke percussion and tubular vocal perversion with vibrating string attachment. Highlights included a.) when Truax actually fell over, tripping off the mist-shrouded low stage, flat on the floorboards. At first it looked like a serious landing, and then we all guffawed, and b.) when he sung "Full Moon Over Wowtown," his old favourite from way back in 2002, completely acoustic, leading a charge upstairs into the 'dressing room,' and then somehow emerging on the front Fulford Road, with the crowd gathered around him for this extended rendition. It's his most catchy number, of course!
Pocklington Arts Centre
January 29, 2019 Chris Smither
is another kind of American troubadour, of the more traditional sort, planted in the blues form, but devoted to penning original material, ears also open to country, jazz and rock'n'roll. Pocklington is a village to the east of York, its Arts Centre booking a host of significant acts that invariably sell-out its intimate theatre.
Smither was on tour with opening act The Suitcase Junket, otherwise known as Matt Lorenz, yet another American one-man-band. Again, the blues is his backdrop, but Lorenz also injects an unhealthy amount of his own doctorings, including some dastardly distorted slide guitar and a spooky manifestation of the Mongolian khoomei
, or throat-singing technique. His suitcase keeps the load contained, having a percussive use beyond its intended purpose, and he sits on said container, surrounded by a small array of metal pans and hi-hat. Lorenz also sports a profoundly extended and twizzled, waxed moustache, but this has no sonic role, as far as we can discern.
Lorenz sang into his axe's soundbox aperture, a hollerin' introduction, with tonally matching feedback ring, well-handled by the venue's new slimline pa speakers, tiny yet powerful. He whistled, like the wind blowing around an empty bathtub. When he gradually introduced the throat overtones, the whistling existed on another level, matching surprisingly well with the blues. The Junket's only problem is the trad-rawk inflection of some songs, but the next number always seemed to arrive from down a more avant-songster road, confounding expectations, rectifying any doubt with a strong burst of bottleneck fuzz, reminiscent of Homesick James in his dirty prime.