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Anybody wondering how to be a rock star despite being a provincial nobody, who hasn't quite grown into their body, let alone their mind, should watch Jarvis Cocker. The permanent outsider's classy performance is a quirky blueprint for a seminal set (though most acts could probably manage without the overhead projector).
It begins with Jeffrey Lewis opening proceedings in his inimitable fashion, with tape recorder and Jarvis' OHP in tow. A tribute to The Fall is wry, while a tale of a nun-murdering monster captures his taste for vague weirdness aptly. The spark he can sometimes balance in his croaky delivery and offbeat observations isn't quite lit and many of his smarter songs are dismissed without his backing band to lend a hand. However, his dry wit, chatty, scatty nature and endearing youthfulness – despite the growing bald patch - sets up affairs well, managing to be as thoughtful as it is gregarious.
Then, following a memory-jogging DJ set from Rough Trade, whose 30th birthday the night celebrates, Jarvis takes to the stage. As his band start up, the bespectacled singer strides into view, majestic with cane in hand and a new beard on display. Then, he wanders off again. As the fervour builds, he loiters calmly, before his familiar gargle signals the set's start. It's an entrance of pomp and authority and is soon backed up by a jumping rendition of Caucasian Blues. This announces the corporeal sexual theme that lingers in the margins of his songs, often bursting from the undercurrents in his theatrical dance moves and into the mainstream in female-inspired songs like Angela and Big Julie.
An acoustic guitar is strapped over his shoulder for a strangely soporific rendition of Tonight, its quiet harmony drawing the audience in. However, Jarvis' taste for loud, obnoxious noise hasn't mellowed with age. A later track titled A Fucking Song is debuted and is simple and silly, but adds a new texture to proceedings. Most of the songs are smothered in Jarvis trademarks, from the barely sonorous, harsh whispers that pierce the end of lines, to the introverted lyricism balanced only by his outlandish stage presence.
It isn't an insult to the quality of his solo material that many highlights come between songs. His parched humour, coupled with OHP explanations ranging from the merits of the Westfield Centre to the importance of wearing long socks, never fails to raise an eyebrow or smile. The sloping drawl of his speech contrasts with the sniping rhymes his dialect conjures, as 'fingers' pairs with 'hinges' and 'confess' partners 'depth'. A new song featuring the refrain 'I never said I was deep, but I'm profoundly shallow' captures his slanting intellect well, while his sexier, bandier Basil Fawlty manner of shuffling around invigorates during weaker tracks.
Two encores are finished with a DJ-backed disco number, but the interesting ending arrives slightly earlier with Cunts Are Still Running The World, it's chorus screamed back at Cocker in a peculiar show of unity. It's far more entertaining than it is offensive and picks at the atypical valour of this quirky northerner. Oh, and nobody shouted for Common People all night.
