Touring’s not what it used to be. When I were a lad, even big bands would do 30 or 40 shows around the UK to promote their new albums, stopping in places such as Chippenham Goldiggers, Hanley Victoria Hall, Ipswich Gaumont, Preston Lockley Grand Hall that would only see a major act today if they happened to need a local motorway services.
Those days are gone. If you’re a superstar, you’ll do a handful of arenas in a few big cities. And if you are not a superstar, you might not even tour your new album at all, at least not in the old sense. Rather than playing 20 different clubs, it’s more financially prudent to play a handful of promotional events in record stores, either signing your album and playing a few songs in the shop (what’s called ‘an instore’), or playing a short show in a nearby venue, for which the price of admission includes a copy of the new album (‘an outstore’).
Why? Because it compels all attendees to do something not so many people do any longer: buy a record. And these sales translate into bargaining power: ‘Look, my guy did 10,000 albums this summer – put him higher up that festival bill and pay him more.’ I simplify vastly, but that’s the gist of it. To tour your new album immediately is economically unwise.
Bob Mould – of the hugely influential hardcore punk band Hüsker Dü and Sugar and for many decades a solo artist – was appearing in Denmark Street’s the Lower Third. Though the gig was for the benefit of those who had bought his new album Here We Go Crazy, the loudest cheers were reserved for songs written 40 years ago – ‘Celebrated Summer’, ‘Makes No Sense At All’. It was bracing and electric, though with Mould appearing solo and not making any compromises in his own playing – thrashing at his instrument and stomping around the stage – the lack of any bass and drums sometimes made the actual melody hard to work out, given the trebly sheet-metal sound of Mould’s guitar.
But you know why people love these outstore shows? Because you get the best songs wrapped up in 45 minutes, and you’re on your way home well before chucking-out time with an album in your hand. In other words, ideal for us oldies.
That said, I had been surprised by how many younger people were at Mould’s show. I was even more surprised to walk into the ICA to find I was among the oldest people there to see 61-year-old Eddie Chacon. You have almost certainly heard Chacon’s voice: he was the Eddie of the soul duo Charles and Eddie, who had a huge hit in 1992 called ‘Would I Lie To You?’. He has spent 15 years away from music before being tempted back to make an album for Stone’s Throw Records in 2020, and now he’s the unexpected toast of the trendy set.
The music he plays is a minimalist, almost frigid version of soul and R&B, made up of his falsetto, a burbling bass, drums, and Fender Rhodes electric piano, with a couple of horn players adding colour and shade. But as with Mould, I wanted a little more structure; when the horns weren’t playing, it was fundamentally a man singing on top of a rhythm section: atmospheric and sensitive, but lacking. Appreciating it fully demanded an appreciation of the sound. And while some consider the Fender Rhodes as the dernier cri in retro sophistication, it strikes me as the last note in insincerity, offering a saccharine coating to the keys.
But it was compelling nonetheless. The stage was set up in the centre of the room, giving it an air of a happening, and the very young crowd was rapt. I kept thinking of Elmore Leonard. Chacon seems like an archetypal Leonard character: an elderly Hispanic man from LA, in leather jacket, trucker hat, shades and baggy pants, shuffling around a stage, somehow plucked from obscurity and granted a return, while young women gazed upon him adoringly. It really is very hard to begrudge him this second chance. And he seems very happy indeed with his lot.
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