A soul tormented by scavenging demons, torrents of mind-numbing despair, feverish fear of the government and a brain ready to blow. All these feelings form the staple diet for many people on a Sunday evening, so who better to share such immobilising pains with at that time than the
overlord of melancholia, Matt Johnson, aka The The.
Having taken the same sort of time you would expect most humans to walk around the Earth a couple of times, Johnson finally delivered his first new album for seven years in early 2000. Regrasping the bluer than blue chalice he has clutched for 20 years, 'Naked Self' matched much of his frequently magnificent previous work, and, appropriately, tonight's show was something of a celebration for the addicted army of fans he still commands. It was also the culmination of a lengthy world tour.
Strangely, and despite the quantifiable thirst for older material, Johnson and his band - probably the strongest collective force he has fronted in his career - were actually more coherent, direct and visceral when recreating tracks from the latest record.
The first half of the show, in particular, was lit with a mighty sonic charge, as the band opened with a fiercesome 'Boiling Point', the muscular 'Swine Fever' and the ranting anti-corporate diatribe of 'Global Eyes'.
Johnson's distress at the world's terminal predicament - the fact that we appear hellbent on destroying it - is as lithe as ever, as evidenced by the latter track. Lines like "market forces the new dictator" harked back to other tomes of insight played this evening, such as 'Heartland', which, though written some 15 years ago by a 23-year-old, offers more worldly
wisdom than most bands manage in a career.
As engaging were the more reflective moments, when bombast was sidelined by subtlety, like on 'Whisperers' and 'Soul Catcher', and the creakingly ancient, but still awesome 'This Is The Day', one of the finest moments from Johnson's enviable musical canon.
Only towards the close did things become overtly messy and directionless, as clumsy reworkings of the likes of 'Dogs Of Lust' and 'Infected' were given a disturbing airing. A particular problem was drummer Earl Harvin, who is quite possibly the finest in the world, such is the violence with which he attacks his kit. However, such force was patently not required on the painfully introspective farewell 'Save Me'.
At the end, Johnson was greeted with a heroe's ovation, fitting for a man whose ability to reach out to people from the darkest recesses of human emotion and social dysfunction, suggest there is a rainbow above the clouds, and beyond the paralysing limits of the world he views so acutely. Long may he reign despair.
IMAGES: HAYLEY MADDEN
