Live Music Review: Jen Cloher

Jen Cloher performed at The Lexington, London on 25^th September 2017

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en Cloher steps on stage and plucks a lone, melancholy guitar riff. As she begins to sing her soul-stirring lullaby, this seems like the exact antithesis of Cable Ties, our fantastically fervent post-punk opening act. Her bandmates join her with haunting, overlapping vocals as the song gradually swells to an aching crescendo. The intimate, sold-out audience realise that even her tender tunes are every bit as powerful as the most impassioned punk rock.

This opening number is Hold My Hand (from Cloher’s 2013 album In Blood Memory). It is a hard-hitting tale of two ageing lovers, recounting a conversation Cloher overheard between her parents. While Cloher cared for her Alzheimer’s disease suffering mother in the final years of her life, she heard her father movingly describe to his wife how they met, only for her to forget moments later. Cloher echoes her mother’s words as she movingly sings “how did we meet again?” This song sets a precedent that will continue into the evening. With a beguiling blend of heart-rending lyrics, powerful guitar and rock star swagger, we will watch on as the Australian singer-songwriter bares her innermost anxieties and passions on stage.

Jen Cloher – whose debut album, 2006’s Dead Wood Falls saw her nominated for Best Female Artist at the 2006 ARIA Music Awards – has enjoyed critical acclaim throughout her career. Yet only with the release of her latest record has she firmly established her international success. Surprisingly, this is her first ever European tour; and for this, we feel her gratitude and relief. “Most of us don’t make it this far” she tells the audience, adding “it only took me four fucking albums and 12 years!”

Jen Cloher at The Lexington

Naturally, a huge chunk of Cloher’s set is derived from this breakthrough self-titled album. Seeing its tracks performed before us with such vigour only verifies its status as an uncompromisingly candid masterpiece. Tonight, we are introduced to a lyricist informed equally by her disillusion with the music industry and a yearning ardour for Rock and Roll. We move into the burning homage to Rock music that is Kinda Biblical, “I don’t wanna / I don’t Think so” she growls, in a brazen reference to Sonic Youth’s Kool Thing. Although Cloher will venture through moments of folk bliss tonight, her songs have a simmering, unfeigned anger which wouldn’t be out of place on an early PJ Harvey album.

A prominent theme explored in Cloher’s new record is that of being overshadowed by her younger partner, the globally popular, indie sensation Courtney Barnett. Given this, one feels almost dirty for mentioning Barnett in a review of Cloher’s gig. But Barnett – who joins Cloher on stage as guitarist and backing singer – plays a role beyond the real-life love and jealousy she instils in her partner. Her slacker rock guitar shredding powerfully underlines the brutal honesty of Cloher’s song writing. This combination works fantastically in Shoegazers, a delightful exercise in hip-swinging cynicism, which has Cloher snarling the opening line “Indie rock is full of privileged white kids / I know because I’m one of them” over Barnett’s loose, bluesy guitar.

Courtney Barnett joining Cloher on stage

It is hardly surprising, that following the release of such an evocative album, the night is a politically charged one. With the Australian postal vote on same-sex marriage approaching, Cloher uses her music to voice the absurdity of this $122 million advisory ballot. “Take a plebiscite / To decide / If I can have a wife”, she sings in Analysis Paralysis; glancing longingly at her life partner beside her. The song culminates in a disjointed thrash of battling guitars – the evening truly feels like a cathartic release for Cloher.

The righteous vehemence comes to a head with Strong Woman, a track with such blistering feminism it resonates like a refined Bikini Kill song. It is only appropriate that the members of Cable Ties join Cloher on stage to scream along with the song’s rallying refrain; “This world it wasn’t made for woman / you know even before you’re bleeding / I’m sorry, can’t you hear me speaking? / How is it now, now that I’m screaming?” We are witnessing an exquisite songwriter unleash her frustration with explosive effect.

Returning for an encore, Cloher ends her set with Name in Lights – a song which traverses gracefully between the light and dark of poetic folk and primal rock and roll, culminating in a cacophony of sound that leaves us all entranced.

Cloher commands the stage, distilling her emotion, the rich imagery of the Australian zeitgeist and a life spent wallowing in art into a performance that is slick and effortlessly cool. It has been a privilege to watch a true master contribute to the great song writing tradition.

Cloher sings “We’re all from down under, where no-one hears out thunder” in Great Australian Bite – well, tonight we heard it loud and clear.

Theatre Review: The Father

Performed at the Duke of York's Theatre, London

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ld age is one of our most ubiquitous fears. The inevitability that our minds will one day deteriorate is enough to keep anyone awake at night. French playwright Florian Zeller attempted to capture this anxiety in his play Le Père ("The Father"), which went on to win France's highest theatrical honour, the Molière Award, in 2014. Now, Christopher Hampton’s superb translation brings The Father to the UK. Originally opening at the Theatre Royal in Bath, the production returned to the West End for a limited season at the Duke of York’s Theatre. Under James MacDonald’s direction, the play is every bit as unsettling as its subject matter.

Upon entering the auditorium, Miriam Buether’s true to life stage design creates a false sense of security – we are tricked into thinking this is going to be a standard stage drama. Towards the beginning of the play we start to get comfortable. But as more unfolds, we begin to understand that it is precisely this authenticity that the play derives its unease from.

The 70-year-old Kenneth Cranham is outstanding as Andre, an elderly man slowing descending into the grip of dementia. Cranham starred in the popular 1980s comedy TV series Shine on Harvey Moon, as well as having appearances in films such as Layer Cake (2004) and the 1968 musical screen adaptation of Oliver Twist. But he is no stranger to the stage, and has previously been nominated for a Laurence Oliver Award for his role as Inspector Goole in An Inspector Calls. But this time, he managed to win it.

At first, a dark humour is derived from this doddery old man losing his watch, but later we almost feel guilty for laughing. Due to its theme, the script can be emotionally demanding, but we are rewarded with a captivating insight into the realities of dementia. Yet the play manages to evade becoming a dry study of Alzheimer’s disease, instead exploring the more emotional concerns of isolation, grief and father-daughter relationships.

Amanda Drew, who is most well-known for her role as May Wright in EastEnders, plays Andre’s daughter Anne. Her love for her father is strained as she attempts to care for him as his situation slowly worsens. A story from her perspective would have been a compelling enough premise, but where the play really succeeds in disconcerting us is by placing us in the mind of Andre. Actors switch roles and vanish when they enter different rooms, scenes are repeated, but with subtle dialogue changes, and the timeline jumps around. These highly jarring narrative techniques initially make us think we are losing track of the story – but we soon realise that we too, along with Andre, are perplexed, losing all sense of time and place. Christopher Shutt’s sound design compounds this effect by the use of off-kilter piano music which plays during every scene change. Initially, the kitsch sound of pre-recorded music seems at odds with the production’s otherwise veristic style. But with each scene, the music becomes more skewed – popping and cutting out like a broken tape player – eerily paralleling Andre’s decline in brain function.

The interplay between Andre and his daughter is a tragic spectacle – the play is underlined by the quandary of helplessly standing by as a loved one reverts to a childlike state, necessitating constant care. This reversal of roles is one that the play affectively haunts us with. The Father shows remarkable restraint, a theme so provocative could have easily been presented as a dementia horror story. However, it moves us instead with its brutal honesty and pragmatic performances. The Father leaves us heart-broken – pondering the fragile nature of our own minds.