Josh Pyke - London Koko - 27/9/2006
3/5
By: Chris O'Toole
At some point in 2007, the weight of humanity will have shifted from a rural landscape to an urban on, from the village to the city. The great population migration that began with the Industrial Revolution during the eighteenth century will have reached its logical conclusion; more people will live in the city than in the countryside. Whilst this may not seem particularly evident, or relevant, during a gig by rising Australian singer-songwriter Josh Pyke, it is.
Let us consider the facts. Imagine, through the glaze of nostalgia, a bygone time when travelling troubadours moved from village to village singing folk hero stories door to door. These few carried with them timeless compositions handed down from father to son, sharing them with a fresh audience every night. People would gather from miles around to hear the most rudimentary sonata, or walk through the snow to a local tavern to hear the journeyman's strummed melancholy. Musicians were a prized commodity, a ray of light amongst the endless toil and effort of rural existence.
These days are gone, and probably not missed. Now we have magazines, television and the internet. The world is at our fingertips. Each artist is classified, dissected and analysed, either accepted or rejected, in a matter of moments. The choice is virtually limitless. We are each connoisseurs with studied tastes and immaculate playlists and our judgements have grown increasingly harsh and sophisticated. As a result the standards we now demand from our performers have been amplified to the point of irrationality.
In the former environment Josh Pyke would have stood like a champion. He would have been welcomed wherever he set his battered guitar case; feed, clothed and given a stage on which to perform. But now things are a little different. The field is full of aspiring acts vying for their share of the spotlight, and a singer-songwriter has to rise above the average for a place in our discerning hearts.
Josh Pyke certainly performed valiantly in search of this cherished place. Strolling on stage and into the glare of a massive glitter ball hanging in the sky above him, Pyke starts amicably enough. His brand of mildly confrontational folk sits well with the assembled cast of dilatants, jokers and music critics as one track after the other flows seamlessly across the floor of the Koko.
But as the show progressed it was hard to know what to say. Yes, all the bases were covered; a check shirt, acoustic guitar, a handful of mournful lyrics and bittersweet love songs, even the obligatory gaggle of smiling groupies. But Pyke was searching for empathy in a room full of expectation and amongst a dispassionate crowd. His energy soon evaporated in the cavernous space, his solo efforts dissipating against a wall of indifference. Couple this to the dangerously poor sound in the Koko, which would undermine the 1969 incarnation of the Rolling Stones with its listless echo and vapid acoustics, and Pyke was left with an even taller mountain to climb. Pulling out the tried and trusted harmonica salvaged a few more moments of entertainment and a rousing version of 'Middle of the Hill' stirred the crowd briefly for a finale, but largely the crowd was left under whelmed.
In many ways though the show was a success. A troubadour could never have expected to travel all the way from Australia to London on the back of these songs a hundred years ago, but Pyke has managed it. In that regard he is a triumph, but in order to move to high realms more surprise, variety or experimentation is required to rouse passion in a metropolitan audience.
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