Sean
Noonan (drums, percussion, vocals); Matthew Bourne (keyboards); Mick Bardon
(double bass).
Aaah! A city in mourning;
the first Tyne/Wear league derby since Adam was a lad and it’s the red stripes
with the bragging rights and the kids on the streets are saying that Nick
Woltemade is a Mackem sleeper agent. There’s a fairground on over the way from
the Globe which is a roundabout way of getting to the subject of tonight’s gig.
Firstly, big hats off to
Jazz NE for bringing this act up here. Noonan is unique. His drumming is
anywhere between furious pile driving and delicate skittish and he adds, as
probably the major string to his bow, a vocal turn, which occasionally lapses
into singing but is usually more declamatory. I am reminded of Alex Harvey who
also mixed melodramatic camp theatricality with this level of physicality.
Harvey as a singer, of course, had the benefits of mobility denied to the
drummer Noonan.
He performs with his full
body, standing for part of some tunes, gurning and exclaiming, playing the air
with his brushes. He is in constant motion, even when seated, always physical,
more a Keith Moon than a static Charlie Watts. He sits centrally in his
matching baggy blouson, tent sized shorts and apron in bold black, white and
gold hoops that emphasise his motion. His tunes cover all the routine matters
neglected by the Great American Songbook; drunken landladies, the birds that
steal the cream from the top of milk bottles, a film noir murder victim, a
dancing king inspired by moving air, the compass points at the crossroads and the
man who lives in the walls, all delivered like Tom Waits, or Brecht/Weill sprechsang,
only more so.
The music is all focused
on Noonan’s drumming and vocals. As if it were the weather, Noonan’s drumming
includes both hurricanes and the gentlest of breezes. The sheer brutality is, at
times, overwhelming, as is the intense moments when he no more than scratches
at cymbals and drum skins. He can play as delicately as Jack DeJohnette in his
most exploratory of moments, all jabs and feints, but he can also unleash all
sorts of storms.
Frequently, his high level of animation produces little sound,
as if his reach exceeds his grasp but it’s all part of the show. I wonder what
Noonan could come up with if he had a Taylor Swift size budget. He must dream
of a show that made a Pink Floyd gig look like a man in an outside loo with a
sparkler.
This is a remarkably, fully three dimensional show in a small room with limited lights, but the band are on it. It is all commitment, no matter the small audience. Noonan cannot be still and even when the band take their final bows he breaks into a series of high kicks, left and right and back again. Everything he does is for show and this is why you have to see this stuff live. Dave Sayer
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