Up on stage there’s a raven-tressed girl, dressed in rock chic-black testing out a matching-coloured acoustic. “Maybe I should go off and you pretend you haven’t seen me so when you come on you give me a big cheer?” she jokes, and with crowd agreement she does so, receiving a good response that might prove premature since she’s yet to hit a note.
As she pulls back her head and a torrent of raging notes pour out from her throat, the gathered sighs of “wow!” echo around the downstairs venue. A few chords in, her foot tapping out loudly, she wants to see some hands in the air and the gathering starts clapping. Telling us she’s a ‘Voodoo Woman’, the lyrics lay the groundwork for the next half hour or so as we intimately get to know Kim Jennett.
What a voice, raw and guttural one minute, soaring high and melodious the next. It will be several numbers in when she offers an operatic scale partly in-joke but where we’ll also discover she’s a vocal coach, usually performs with a band, and, oh, by the way; appeared on The Voice TV show.
The following morning I’ll be scouring YouTube videos admiringly, noting songs she’ll perform tonight with different arrangements. While her acoustic sounds a little sharp to me at times, experts would differ because fresh from subbing for Mick Box in Uriah Heep, and due to go on stage later is guitarist Sam Wood, standing to the side of me and seemingly enjoying the show. ‘Let Me Be The One’ is being performed, with an upbeat swing that for want of a better description could be rock calypso and it’s soon after this where she begins to chinwag between songs and sipping on a glass of wine. ‘Love Like Suicide’, the murder ballad that follows being the barest docking-of-the-cap to the semi-goth sounds I’d mistakenly presumed we might be in for, while there’s her Queen Of Hell EP on sale at the merchandise stand for those who want to investigate further, and it includes her next number where the vocal gymnastics continue.
The first of a couple of covers is next, Audioslave’s ‘Like A Stone’, that she first heard while on a date in Mexico. She’ll also mention she lived in the USA for a while, but her accent’s from-up-north and no doubt proud of it, not least because she’ll be catching the train back to Warrington tonight. Back to self-penned numbers the next one has coming on like Halestorm and receiving a big roar of approval. When she then requests a call-and-response contribution from the crowd for a cover of Led Zeppelin’s ‘The Immigrant Song’ I’ve little doubt she’ll offer a victory run vocally, and neither does the audience embarrass itself, but it’s her arrangement I’m most taken with; forgoing its octave-hammering riff in favour of a broader folk ballad format with a gentle rutting sexual rhythm while there’s a more feminine cultural nuance to Plant’s supposedly tongue-in-cheek lyrics.
Her music and voice aside, Kim Jennett has charisma, oodles of it. But so too, now she realises she’s told us her life story, cracked some gags, and gained some fans but she’s now worried she might run over her allotted time (The Flapper being beside a residential area there are noise-related curfews). Assured she’s time for two more numbers, we’re offered a “quick version” of Slipknot’s ‘Duality’ and an awesome version of ‘Hell Is Wherever You Are’ from her EP and a “Thankyou – It’s been lovely!” as she packs up to leave, the lasting impression is that she’s like a new friend you hope to catch up with again soon – Fortunately, she’s more support slots lined up throughout the year, so do check her out; you’ll not be disappointed.
While Jennett can rabbit for England, when I caught Oli Brown & The Dead Collective at KK’s Steel Mill on their last tour round the UK, the singer/guitarist barely said a word. But then, the music said it all: Intense, shimmering, emotional, brave, and inspiring. Tonight, we get more of the same. Just better. Plus, Brown’s less introverted, communicating verbally more with his audience.
Across the back of the stage, The Dead Collective (for that’s how the trio’s now collectively being described) has retained their light show apparatus – A series of horizontal and parallel beams embossed with miniature lights that flash and change colour effectively with their music and as Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ that flitters away over the PA, a block of red light beams out towards the audience. As if caught in the eye of a hurricane a storm of cyber-sound issues forth and on they walk, Sam Wood taking up position to the rear right, Oli Brown forward and central, while Wayne Proctor’s side on and the left behind his drumkit. Dirty chords crash out alluringly, there’s the briefest thrashing of drums, and as a heavy groove sets in, they’re off and away on ‘Sinking Ship’ detouring only for a wiry solo amidst some harrowing yet tuneful screams.
‘Heard It All Before’ sees the guitarists facing each other as they pummel out the kind of coarse boogie usually only found on early Budgie or Groundhogs albums, each of them soloing alongside some heavy-duty drumming. Our attention captured by this barrage of sound, they swiftly change direction, eastern sounds dovetail between shuffling chords, and a sensual Kashmir-esque space blues becomes a minor epic with ‘Goliath’.
A smile beaming out from his mane of hair, Brown expresses his enthusiasm verbally, “Thankyou so much and for coming out tonight. Thankyou! I’m not one for talking, this is a song called ‘Father’!” Having just heard more than last time round, I expect nothing other than a ‘Thanks, goodnight’ later. Rather, transfixed in the moment, Proctor’s pronounced heavy off-beats command we listen as between Sabbath styled dirge, sharply hurled chords and a vocal delivery that veers between lullaby and rock god howling screams. The song receives their biggest applause thus far, and with arms outstretched expressively in the air, Brown emits another “Thank you.”
‘Everything You Want’ is up next and lives up to its title, its undulating groove as heavy as it is damn sexy, as evidenced by the effects it’s having on audience of mixed ages and sexes moving their bodies to the beat. There are brief moments of progressive movement, side shuffles of tonal discord, a piercing guitar solo – you’d swear there’s a bass guitar and is so it’s programmed as with bits of electronica elsewhere – and when it quickens with percussive drum rolls that’re the aural equivalent of being beaten by a Swedish masseur. All this and there’s even an anthemic chorus, that Brown even invited us to sing along to.
The eerie ambiance of ‘Haunted’ seems to be a call to arms for those with mobile phones to get them out and start recording. The song is intense. Between the three men on stage dynamics and subtleties accentuate differing aspects creating a wall of sound that envelopes, crushes, then gently releases you.
They themselves appear happy and secure in each other’s company. Brown often goes over to Wood playing facing each other, then the pair of them leaping about – Wood is like some modern throwback to 70s rock and when he throws shapes they look perfectly natural. Brown by comparison, appears an introvert revealing his inner most thoughts when stood beside his mic, only to hurl himself with complete abandonment when soloing. Nor are there roles as defined as I’d previously perceived, each doing what it takes to create the wall of sound we’re hearing tonight.
Musically it’s hard to pigeonhole just what is they’re doing. I’ve noticed heavier riffs tonight, but frankly at other times the sounds they produce are more akin to the early cosmos-explorations of Tangerine Dream fronted by a voice akin to Jeff Buckley, being performed by rock ‘n roll’s primary instruments. At other times, I’m thinking because of the guitar interplay Television. Damn it, if the three of them went to the barbers’ then comparisons to Radiohead as much as Florence Black or Those Damn Crowes could be made. Basically, the music they make is a modern headrush perfectly suited to young audiences should they but care to tune in.
As it is, this old git is having the time of his life. Oli Brown is too telling us, “You have no idea what it feels like up here on stage.” Go with it, I say, and they handsomely reward us with ‘Home Sweet Home’ – Notes elegantly crafted pour out slowly like a brook joining a river that becomes a waterfall as chords hit out and cymbals strike before Brown croons out a nostalgic tale of countryside yesteryears, his voice angelically soulful before rising towards anguished screams, but always coming back warm and invitingly with the cathartic release of the song’s chorus and when words fail he lets rip with an emotionally wrought solo, he and Wood facing off each other before Brown practically bends over backwards as the solo reaches its zenith and they’re back in for one last verse. While this all goes on, Proctor syncopates, shuffles, and keeps tightly directing the intensity back and forth as the band’s singular engine room. Me, I’m exhausted just watching but there are screams of applause as they hook in with jazzier guitar intonations for ‘Your Love’, Brown’ voice echoing through the room, articulating each word. One minute the music thumps, the next it’s quiet, there are various solos and in between guitar filigrees from both players, ending as Brown puts his hands to the mic, calling out another “Thank you” as they lead straight into ‘Estranged’ with white lights flashing away.
Wearing another large smile, Brown announces “We’ve two more songs for you,” thanking someone called Jones for helping secure radio airplay, as they lurch into recent single ‘Cracks’. During its opening, Brown plays the briefest of guitar phrases where – by coincidence rather than studied choice I suspect – he sounds remarkably like Steve Hackett during his Genesis vintage, but soon he is soaring away in his own customised style, his voice souring, the Collective’s vibe dreamy, sounds fragmenting In despair, soul empowering the next.
They finish with ‘Falling’, the trio continuing to find space within the mix for each component they bring to the work being of value, even though there’s a considerable amount of noise rock here, Brown and Wood headbanging as they play, Proctor’s precision never wavering. Again, and for a final time this evening, Oli Brown raises both his hands, a warrior in triumph, the words he utters ones repeated man times tonight, but far more than expected, “Thank you so fucking much. We’ll be back soon – Thank you so much.” Me, I hope to be there for their return.
