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Recently written off as a "soulless art hole" by a Gigwise writer, the ICA's cosy little performance room had its reputation fully restored after this night of stirring wordsmithery and instrumental innovation. Enthralling, passionate performances from two male singer-songwriter-soulbearers proved that the dark cavern, if unsuitable for brash, anthemic bands with fans in tight tees, perfectly suits the slower, subtler stuff.
Attired in his requisite trilby, a dapper David Ford is first up. After splitting his band Easyworld in 2004, Ford has tirelessly toured two albums, and now counts the likes of Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen among his fan club. Glory surely awaits, and deservedly so: his elegant songs knot fierce intensity with familiar insecurities, all delivered in a deliciously rich patter and offset by a cheery cacophony of cello, violin and trumpet.
Ford's mature, silky sound reminds of fine wine, and like such top tipple, his set seems to improve with time: perhaps due to his saving his better songs for the final furlongs. But throughout his stint on stage, the Eastbourne man’s voice oozes texture, reverting from agonised whispers to screaming pronouncements in the blink of an earnest eye. And the dimly lit dungeon suits him rotten: for Ford’s is the kind of sound where you can close your eyes and forget everyone around you. Especially so if the emotional episodes he recounts chime with personal chords, as often happens.
Ford's ability to apply pretty lyrics to strikingly mundane situations further isolates him from the Nutinis, Rices, McRaes and Morrisons of this world. In 'Song For The Road', he observes "sunsets fired to the heavens / on the hills over Sheffield". Few folk see the home of cutlery in such golden lights. In fan-favourite State of the Nation his grief is pleasingly topical: "How they love you so cold and vicious / with friends like these who needs politicians?"
The set climaxes with a rousing version of 'Cheer Up (You Miserable Fuck)', as the crowd sings along to the tune of another problematic relationship. His girlfriends might not be too fond of him, but Ford leaves the ICA public in a delighted swoon. A short pause and long instrumental intro later, Duke Special bounds on stage, dreadlocks swinging with hasty intent. Apologising for the lengthy prologue, he hurriedly dips into his quirky catalogue of slow ballads and lavish singalongs.
Dressed like a character from Sharpe, Duke is soon accompanied by all the regular suspects that make his live sets so unusual and maverick: musicians puting cheese graters, egg whisks and Shirdi drone boxes to rare use, alongside saxophones and guitars. Like delicious paella with unlikely ingredients, Duke's eclectic equipment conspires to forge fabulous, near-vaudeville results.
Duke's set breezes along happily for a while. On 'Everybody Wants A Little Something', rather morbid lyrics are offset by jocular, flowery melodies from his gramophone, with Duke sternly stating "I don't get those Pop Idol shows / everybody knows that good things take a little longer". The seasoned-looking Duke and his backers are proof of the pudding as they steam on, uniting indie, soul and folk to inspired effect.
Towards the end things get a tad boggy, with one too many velvety ballads and quiet reflections, even with the wallowing majesty of 'Last Night I Nearly Died (But Woke Up Just In Time)', where our drowsy hero flirts with schizophrenia. But any gathering cobwebs are blown away by the powerful 'Freewheel' and two triumphant encores, one featuring the returning Ford.
As the crowd's delighted whispers and charmed smiles spilled out into the warm night, there was little doubt that this art-hole has very much recovered its soul.
