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Accompanied by a laptop which sometimes makes the Windows ‘USB device connected’ noise, a mic that “sounds niiiiiiiice” and the kind of dance moves you would normally only see at a wedding reception with an extensive free bar, Calvin Johnson channels Augustus Pablo, Dr Seuss and Bill Murray to present his patented mixture of moody melodica, cornball rhymes and doe-eyed glances at the crowd.
The music itself consists of a sort of high-concept, lo-fi, mid-tempo drum-loop-based dub, interspersed with the occasional power ballad (‘Every Woman Is Beautiful’ sounds like Christina Aguilera slowed down 400% and gone all woozy, and is surprisingly epic) and between-song comedy ‘bits’, including one in which Johnson explains the origin of his ‘Selector Dub Narcotic’ moniker (the veracity of which is up for debate).
The deadpan delivery is as disarming as always, and strips the spectacle of Johnson’s gyrating, crooning and booming of all irony; his earnestness is endearing and infectious, to the extent that at a couple of points two or three members of the audience even remove their hands from their pockets and bob their heads for a couple of seconds. For an October Monday evening in Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, that’s practically full-on skanking.
Johnson himself is obviously aware of the reticent mores of the average indie crowd – as an elder statesman of the DIY scene he’s paid his dues on the underground circuit for so long TFL should give him an honorary staff sweater – and at one point he good-humouredly chides the audience for their lack of enthusiasm in applauding the support acts. But the affection in the room, in both directions, is almost as deep as Johnson’s voice. At times the performance might feel like shtick, but Johnson’s lack of cynicism is clear, as is his sense of joy in sound and movement. The man is unique, charming and sincere. And all he wants to do is dance.
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