Natalie Williams (vocals); Daniel Pearce (vocals, percussion); Robin Mullarkey (bass); Ben Jones (guitar); Martyn Kaine (drums); Phil Peskett (keys); Mark Brown (sax); Ben Edwards (trumpet)
There’s something quietly familiar in the way many of us arrive at jazz — not as a first language, but as something discovered over time. It rarely begins here. More often, it starts elsewhere — in pop, in rock, in soul — before something shifts. The edges soften, the space between notes begins to matter, and gradually, almost without noticing, the music asks more of you… and gives more in return.
It’s a journey that feels particularly
aligned with the writing of Sting. His songs have always carried that
elasticity — harmonically rich, rhythmically fluid — but often framed just
outside the jazz world. Place them in a setting like this, however, and
something clicks into place. They don’t feel reworked; they feel understood —
almost as if they’ve been waiting for this context all along. As Natalie
Williams herself remarked, this music might be considered a guilty pleasure —
though there’s nothing guilty about loving Sting.
Opening with If I Ever Lose My Faith in You,
the tone was set early — spacious, assured, and unhurried. From there, Seven Days introduced a subtle rhythmic
elasticity, hinting at the jazz sensibility that would underpin the entire
evening.
La
Belle Dame Sans Regret,
from Mercury Falling, provided one of
the evening’s early high points. Slowed and stretched, it became something more
reflective, Williams holding the lyric with quiet authority while Mullarkey’s
bass and Peskett’s keys created a warm, unintrusive backdrop — the kind of
support that allows a song to fully unfold. As the track drew to a close,
Pearce revealed his percussive instincts, opening things out as the band were
given space to expand through a series of beautifully judged solos. In closing,
Williams noted that she had never ad-libbed in French before — a moment of
lightness that only deepened the connection with the room.
Walking
on the Moon followed
with a looseness that suited the ensemble perfectly, its space and repetition
opening the door for subtle interplay — Jones’ guitar textures and Pearce’s
rhythmic contributions quietly shaping the feel without ever overstepping. And
at the heart of it, Mullarkey once again stepped up to the plate, driving the
band forward throughout the performance.
I
Was Brought to My Senses
remains clearly a Williams favourite, and it showed. There was a deep
familiarity in her delivery, but nothing routine. Peskett guided the
arrangement from a spacious, almost introspective opening into something
brighter and more urgent, while Brown and Edwards added colour with a restraint
that spoke to the band’s collective discipline. The piece closed with a
standout drum solo from Kaine — controlled, musical, and perfectly judged.
The set continued to unfold with
intelligence. As the band moved into the opening notes of Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic, a muted cheer rippled through
the room — recognition, rather than surprise — and Pearce delivered the vocal
with quiet confidence. The energy lifted, but never tipped over; instead, the
set gently opened out.
Introducing Fragile, Williams observed how apt the song feels in an
increasingly uncertain world — a sentiment hard to ignore in the daily churn of
headlines that greet us each morning. What followed was handled with restraint
and sensitivity, with Mullarkey and Peskett framing Williams’ vocal
beautifully, holding the space with quiet authority. Jones added a further
layer of texture, before Edwards — muted, the tone softened and intimate —
delivered a wonderfully judged solo, a standout moment in the set, the room
settling into a hush as the audience leaned forward into it. Shape of My Heart followed, drawing
things inward again — a space where phrasing and restraint carried more weight
than anything overt.
Englishman
in New York from Nothing Like The Sun proved an inspired
inclusion. While an obvious crowd favourite, its jazz foundations were brought
to the surface, making it feel entirely at home within the set. At this point,
Daniel Pearce invited a little audience participation — and Ronnie’s didn’t
disappoint — the room responding with just the right balance of enthusiasm and
restraint. It’s easy to reach for a song like Moon Over Bourbon Street from The
Dream of the Blue Turtles in a set like this, but this felt like the more
revealing choice — and ultimately the more rewarding one.
Later, Every Breath You Take demonstrated the band’s ability to handle
well-known material without falling into familiarity. This was not
reproduction, but reimagination — shaped by nuance, space, and a clear sense of
collective intent, with Ben Jones’ beautifully rolling guitar running
throughout the track, subtly reshaping its familiar contours. It’s a song that
has long transcended genre — reimagined and reintroduced to new audiences, notably
through Puff Daddy, Faith Evans and their I’ll
Be Missing You — and here, once again, it found a different voice.
So
Lonely, Roxanne, and Bring on the Night shifted the energy once more, allowing the
ensemble to lean into groove and dynamic contrast. So Lonely in particular saw the band take a familiar the Police
classic and gently reshape it, drawing on its reggae-inflected bassline, with
Mullarkey holding things down as Jones’ guitar clipped in and out, adding
texture and movement, before a wonderfully judged solo opened things out. The
song then lifted in tempo, the energy building naturally, before the audience
were drawn in once more for one final moment of participation. Under the red
lights that are such a familiar part of the main room, Roxanne felt entirely at home — the setting and the song quietly
aligning. Bring on the Night, in the
hands of Phil Peskett, became something approaching classic Ronnie Scott’s jazz
— a real test that he met with assurance — and in this penultimate moment the
room responded in kind, the audience on their feet and, in a rare Ronnie’s
sight, dancing in the aisles. With Daniel Pearce on percussion, it took on
something of a carnival feel.
The encore — Message in a Bottle — was a fitting close. Familiar, yes, but
delivered with the same clarity and purpose that defined the evening. There was
little to add at this point — the crowd on their feet, dancing, singing along,
moments of emotion surfacing unprompted. This was, above all, an evening about
being entertained, and few will have left anything other than happy.
What lingered most, though, was the
cohesion. This was a band that listened — shaping the music collectively rather
than individually, always in service of the song. There’s a sense now that Soul
Family have become part of the Ronnie Scott’s story, building something quietly
consistent over time, and with it a following that continues to grow. On a
night like this, with the room full and the response so immediate, it’s easy to
see why these performances have become some of the most sought-after tickets in
Ronnie Scott’s calendar.
And perhaps that brings us back to where we began. Jazz, for many, isn’t where the journey starts — but it is often where it settles. In performances like this, you’re reminded why. Glenn Wright
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