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Rob Dickinson
The early show consisted of what myself and some of the show promoters hanging around before hand had dubbed Rob Squared. The doors opening were very slightly shoved back due to a late arrival by the headliner, but the show itself started fairly promptly. Rob Wilson put in a classically-engaging effort with his Joseph Arthur-esque voice and instrument looping to give himself a full band over which to carry on his tunes. You may have seen coverage on Wilson in our first issue, a performance which at the time did, and still does blow me away. Being able to manage so many noises and integrate them fluidly into one another takes an astounding sense of rhythm and coordination. While a lot of people were still arriving at the show and many carrying on conversations rather than closely watching Wilson perform, he plowed through that standard audience disaffectedness and ended up catching the attention of a number of folks in the room.
Being simply two acoustic solo sets, the stage changeover didn’t take all that long, however, anticipation was built by a delay in Rob Dickinson actually hitting the stage. He had a certain time he intended to go on, and he stuck to that. By this time, the room was just about full, shuffling closer to the stage as the moments ticked by. One enterprising group of folks had long since set up a little pow-wow with chairs and ottomans directly front and centre.. I mean literally an inch from the stage. As the audience squeezed in, they moved the chairs away to the side, but maintained their prime position. Smart folks.
For those not in the know (but I presume if you’ve gotten this far, you know), Rob Dickinson was formerly the intriguing front man of The Catherine Wheel, a band that charged through most of the 90’s with unfortunately little fanfare for being a group with such intensity and diversity. Beyond the thrilling, soaring, fuzzy ambience of the music itself was the rich voice of Dickinson. Five years after the last quietly released Catherine Wheel album, Wishville, and a string of touring to drum up the lukewarm attention to said album (including a poorly-suited stop in Vancouver on the Summersault Tour, that big beast of a stadium show that Our Lady Peace put together some time ago - on the second stage with a bunch of people who were waiting for every band except the Catherine Wheel, who 90% of the folks seemed to not have the vaguest notion of, and under an airdome that created a gloomy-daylight atmosphere. Man, I hated that festival.), Dickinson reappeared with a solo album called Fresh Wine For The Horses. He is still collaborating with many of the same people who’d been involved with CW, but the sound of this album is a large departure from what we’re used to. They’d never been a static band in regards to style but they always had an unmistakable sound. And big part of that sound was of course, that smoking’ hot, alluring voice. Anyhow, with the new material, we see a somewhat softer, gentler sounding Rob Dickinson. It seems that shredding angst that coloured the 90’s in general and leaked into CW has somewhat been washed away here. Not that it makes for a bland or emotionless or even completely chipper album, but rather, one that’s softer in tone.
Tonight though, we were to hear that voice unfettered but for a simple acoustic guitar. Having had his gear stolen in Portland just a couple days earlier, he was using a shiny borrowed guitar, as well as a distortion pedal that he ended up using tactfully for moments that he needed that extra little crunch. Knowing though that his audience was largely composed of Catherine Wheel fans who’d never been able to get so close to the man before and had missed his presence dearly over the last few years, he opened in the greatest possible way to grab the ears and hearts of anyone in the room who had missed his quiet approach to the stage.
He opened with “Heal.” A gorgeous song in its own right to anyone who’s ever heard it, but here, delicately stripped down pure, it was phenomenal. I certainly understand that, yes, I’ve enjoyed his band for a number of years, and was ecstatic about seeing him play in such an intimate room, but I also had slight reservations ahead of time about just how solid the show would be. Did the music depend on that ambience? Through CW, the swiminess, and Dickinson’s solo material, the vibrant strings? Would the slower-paced and mature songs off of Fresh Wine For The Horses stand up in such a bare state? I wondered if my love for the music would overshadow my objective thoughts on the show - definitely knowing the songs helped the excitement factor of hearing them presented in a new way, but I think all the songs, both the Catherine Wheel selections and the solo ones, benefited from this approach. Now that voice could stand out, now the emotions could carry the songs, and they became stronger as a result, not weaker. The sheer talent of this man’s singing stood alone and were more impressive than I could have envisioned beforehand.
So after the lengthy “Heal” was done captivating the crowd - and indeed, he now had a stranglehold on them - he began to bring out his solo tunes, kicking things off with “Storm.” This was not, however, before he gave a glimpse of his good humour by giving us a small description of the song he was about to play, but then paused as he said, “This next song is… I should get my list out.” He quipped about his professionalism as he pulled a folded set list out of his pocket and laid it on the table beside him along with a collection of harmonicas and beverages. He gave us a couple more tunes from Fresh Wine For The Horses, including the soaring and whimsical first single, “My Name Is Love,” before starting up with another vintage favourite to many whoops and cheers, “Ma Solituda.” Near the tail-end of that song, Dickinson let loose with a perfect loud yell that was almost painfully piercing. Just an unprecedented measure of vocal talent and control, from the softest sad whispers to these drifty trills, accented by rough, shivery roars, with every amazing sound being accompanied by a physical change in the man. Tendons in his neck strained, veins, sweat beading on his brow, dripping down his nose and off the bottom of the microphone he kept so close to his lips. After using various parts of his shirt for a while to mop his face off, one courteous fan brought him a handful of paper towels, which he graciously accepted. He intently keeps his eyes closed much of the time, losing himself in the song, grimacing with effort as he charged through the guitar work. In the meantime, there’s a guy standing in the front row who looks like he’s about to lose his mind. I kind of know how he feels.
More of Dickinson’s comedy routine came out before he played “Handsome.” He explained, “Imagine this song with a huge disco beat [here he demonstrates a disco beat vocally], in the mold of Cher. Cher’s going to be singing this song on her next album, only she doesn’t know it yet.” He also went on a big tangent about the six “fucking hideous” weeks he spent mixing and recording in Vancouver some years ago, where he worked at Bryan Adams’ Warehouse Studios, and met Adams as well as his “beautiful, stunning girlfriend.” Said girlfriend ended up doing the female vocal line on the band’s track “Delicious.” And acknowledging his soft tones, he asked if there were any sensitive folks in the house tonight. “Sensitive rocks! In such a loud, hard way. People in the booths, this is for you.” The slight was gentle and subtle, a follow-up to his earlier comment about how the louder he sings, the louder the people in the room talk. He just wanted undivided attention from his audience. A shallow “ooooooooh…” was emitted from the attentive portion of the crowd who had caught the small stab. “Eat My Dust You Insensitive Fuck” was the tune, off of the Catherine Wheel album, Happy Days, which remains my favourite album of theirs. And certainly that song is the epitome of contradictions, the sweetest lilting melody encompassing that line. It’s right up there in the ranks of seemingly-misplaced f-words with the likes of James Blunt’s she could see from my face I was fucking high, and Matthew Jay’s three more inches of hair is a whole fucking world of rebellion.
Throughout the set, Dickinson continually complained about his stand-in guitar not staying tune, and was convinced that the guitar tuner at his feet was lying to him. “Feedback, come envelop me in your arms!“ he proclaimed, holding his guitar aloft above a monitor. “The tuner lies to me through its lights! Oh what sorcery it brings. Hey, is anyone into Eddie Izzard?” How random! There was a point to that which he then decided not to divulge. Instead, he continued playing songs, tapping one boot sharply on the stage floor, a sound which was quite loud amongst his guitar. That distortion pedal of his is insane though, most prevalent on “Black Metallic,” largely considered the Catherine Wheel’s breakthrough hit, which Dickinson chose to powerfully end his set. It’s the first tune I heard from them, part of a compilation I bought on a whim from a used record shop down the street from my high school when I was in grade 11, just because I recognized the names of some of the bands on the back (Pixies, Charlatans, etc.) in my early rock-n-roll days and thought it would suit my education well to get to know those bands. So, stripped down, “Black Metallic” creates a new aura, drifting from a breathy hush to insane cacophony and back again, and right in the middle of it, Dickinson cranked on that distortion pedal and really had his way with that guitar. He looked like he’d nearly fall off his stool backwards to it and as though something might pop straight out of his head he was strumming so violently. But the song, after that vicious interlude, quiets down so swiftly it’s as though you’ve just lost your hearing. Sensually, Dickinson leans in to the microphone and breathes your skin is black metallic over and over again until the end. A nod, a wave, and thank you, and he catapulted off the stage into a sea of applauding people, where I suppose he intended to run away for a bit until goaded back for an encore. However, the crush of people was so thick he simply couldn’t get past them, so he happily hovered off to the side for a moment, looking overjoyed, while people cheered and whooped and congratulated him.
After a few seconds he leapt back onto the stage and said, “The couldn’t be better inspiration to do an encore. Someone just came up to me like this [pats himself on the arm] and said ‘that was pretty good.’ Pretty good!? Fuck it I’ll do another! This is where I do my Iron Maiden covers [again, if you’re unaware, Bruce Dickinson of Iron Maiden and Rob Dickinson are related. Interesting, isn‘t it?]. My fingers fly across the fret board,” he growled. This was all while he was setting up for his final song of the night before making way for the late show : “Future Boy.” Despite the crowd urging him to play more, his time was up, curfew was reached, and he retired to the merch booth to sign autographs and pose for photos with his adoring fans.
The crowd was slow in swapping over. In fact, I’m not really certain how many people in the room at this point were stragglers from Dickinson’s set, and how many were trickling in for People In Planes and TV Heart Attack. The late show evidently was an honest-to-goodness showcase, with Cord of course giving away 30 passes (congratulations, by the way, to all the winners), and TV Heart Attack alone having a guest list of about sixty people. This is not a very large room, folks, that’s just about half capacity right there. This show, which was supposed to begin around 10pm, ended up being pushed back somewhat to give People In Planes a more appropriate set time for a Friday night. While waiting, Dickinson and country mates People In Planes got acquainted. I drank wine. And I admit, I drank a lot of wine. Once I have one… done for. Anyhow, the room was darn full for People In Planes, who kicked things off with “For Miles Around.” Such a fantastic song, inspiring and uplifting. The band was energetic, almost too much so to pack onto the little Media Club stage, and while the audience was watching closely, they kept at a bit of a distance to the band itself. It seemed a bit of a curiosity factor more than anything else, which I suppose is the point of a North American showcase for an up-and-coming UK band. Hair flipping wildly, vocals plowing through the room far more loudly than we’d heard in hours, people seemed to really catch on. I think next time they come through here, hopefully by then with a released full-length album under their belts, they’ll have no problem filling a room much larger than this one.
Following that and some more wine and Dickinson’s departure from the venue, TV Heart Attack took the stage. Never mind that we at some point acquired Danko Jones in the audience from the massive stadium show he’d played pretty much across the street earlier that day. TV Heart Attack has been in this town for just about a year, And before that were an entirely different incarnation called Speed To Kill. You’ve heard about STK before on these pages, but TVHA is another level above. Coming further into their own, infusing intense themes and lyrics with keys and guitars that aren’t too new-wave or too hardcore, they can only gain ground in this city. It’s been long-deserved, and lead man Jason Corbett has always had a solid base of fans and friends in Vancouver. They’re another collective that’s likely suffered simply from being in a town like Vancouver with limited options for decent venues and a tendency to be slightly ignored just because of being alone in western-western Canada.
But watching this band kick it on stage for just a few minutes makes a pretty huge statement - they definitely have the ability to kick your ass 400 times over before they finish the first song. High energy, tough vocals, big guitars, tambourines and keyboards, arms and instruments in the air, TV Heart Attack pulls the crowd in. You just simply can’t not have a good time watching them, you feel compelled to move. It’s the sort of show that makes you try to mumble the lyrics even though you don’t know them because you just want to be part of the infectiousness. I was unfortunately required to pull out of this show a bit early and trudge my way home through the chilly evening, stopping on the way for alcohol respite in the form of pizza covered in potatoes and spicy peppers. And wouldn’t you know who would be inside purchasing some ‘za, but mister Rob Dickinson, down from his nearby hotel. He was astounded at the city’s ridiculously cheap food. Yeah that’s right, you’ll never go hungry in Vancouver. And on a night like this one, there was plenty of musical sustenance to be had.
ElsewhereRob Dickinson websiteRob Wilson website People In Planes website TV Heart Attack website By Andy Scheffler |
