Альбом. "ЭМІГРАНТЫ" (2023) / Лявон Вольскі.

Часам я забываю пра Лявона Вольскага. Уключаю адзін з яго апошніх альбомаў, грузных і непаваротлівых, і хутка забываю. Бываюць там і натхнёныя песні кшталту "Палону" і "Майго кахання", але збольшага я сумую па лёгкасці. Быццам бы слухаючы тыя альбомы, я адчуваю не толькі музыку, але таксама і намаганні і творчыя пакуты, праз якія яны нараджаліся. Хутка я губляю інтарэс, пакуль аднойчы не чую тую добра знаёмую мелодыю, простую і бясспрэчную, якая нібыта гучыць па-за часам. Гэтым разам я пачуў "Калыханку", разрыдаўся і, вядома, вырашыў дачакацца новага альбома.

Ёсць дзве сутнасці Лявона Вольскага, гуллівая і сур'ёзная, лёгкая і цяжкая (а таксама "цяжкая"). Яны амаль ніколі не існуюць асобна (хіба што за выключэннем Крамбамбулі, але і там селядцы неяк ужываліся з абсэнтам), і за ўвесь гэты час я ўжо паспеў зразумець, што лепшы Вольскі - гэта роўнае спалучэнне дзвюх гэтых сутнасцей. Калі ёсць гэты парытэт, то адчуваецца менш перакосу, і неяк лягчэй прымірыцца з непаслядоўнай якасцю яго песень. Эмігранты, якія выйшлі ў сярэдзіне верасня, - гэта своеасаблівае вяртанне да канцэптуальнай эстэтыкі Народнага альбома. А яшчэ: запал, эклектыка, шаленства і некалькі выдатных песень.

На жаль, кожнае слова і кожны акорд альбома, усё шаленства і ўвесь той запал... усё прасякнута болем і смуткам. Эмігранты - гэта, канешне, пра нас. Пра тых, хто з'ехаў, і нават пра тых, хто застаўся. Бо так ці інакш, усе мы ў эміграцыі. Краіна скрадзеная, краіна, як пелі адойчы Ulis, у кратах. Мяркую, што чалавек, які слухае кранальны тэкст "Калядаў у Менску" у Варшаве ці ў Нью-Ёрку, адчувае прыкладна тое ж самае, што і чалавек, які слухае гэты тэкст у сённяшняй сталіцы Беларусі. Усе яны хочуць вярнуцца ў Менск на наступныя Каляды. Эмігранты - гэта канцэптуальнае выказванне пра страту і немагчымасць вярнуцца.

Альбом складаецца з дваццаці адной песні і пятнаццаці кароткіх дыялогаў/замалёвак пра жыццё ў эміграцыі, што робіць уражанне сапраўднага падарожжа. Падарожжа гэта няпростае, бо тут і пошукі кватэры, і бясконцыя пераезды, і незагойныя раны, і прыступы настальгіі. Вольскі стварае ўражлівы і часам захапляльны габелен з берлінаў, каліфорній і польскіх касцёлаў, і ўсё гэта пранізана нястрыманай і разбэшчанай музычнай эклектыкай. Ёсць ска, ёсць поп-панк, ёсць бардаўскія балады, ёсць дваравыя песні, ёсць жартаўлівыя мелодыі, якія ўступаюць у крывавы двубой з тваім разуменнем добрага густу.  

Шмат што ў альбоме падаецца мне другасным і слабым, шмат што проста прабягае міма. Мяне зусім не цікавіць той Вольскі, які запісвае песні кшталту "Не сумнявайся", але, як я пісаў вышэй, гэта своасаблівая плата за тое, каб пачуць "Беларускую траўму", "Куды і калі" ці тыя самыя "Каляды ў Менску". Бо хоць Вольскаму і бракую крыху творчага фільтра, калі ён трапляе, то трапляе так, як ніводзін іншы музыка ў Беларусі.  

Вяртаючыся ж да "Калыханкі", то мне падаецца, што гэта яго новыя простыя словы. І тым і гэтым разам яны былі напісаныя іншым чалавекам (Міхалам Анемпадыставым і Аляксандрам Лукашуком), але робяцца сапраўды няўміручымі дзякуючы кранальнай, бездакорнай мелодыі Вольскага. Такой, што ўвесь час пытаешся ў самога сябе: няўжо ніхто дагэтуль не напісаў яе?..

PJ Harvey in Warsaw, 25.10

It is worth remembering your first experience of a music club. Mine was about 20 years ago, and the Soho club named after a Van Morrison song is now long defunct. There is a possessed vocalist of an electronic trio screaming something about wooden toys. There is an indie band I came to see creating such an ungodly racket that I can hardly tell the drums from the bass guitar. I walk out of the club late at night, bruised and traumatised, gasping for air. A first experience like that was bound to haunt me again and again... Which is why there would be greatness and great beauty, but mostly there would be an atmosphere of restlessness and distortion. Chaos, basically.

With PJ Harvey, it is different from the very beginning. First, there is no random playlist before the concert, featuring "Sweet Child Of Mine" and "Stayin' Alive". Instead, there is that subtle crackling sound meant to create a mood. Second, the moment she enters the stage everything else shrivels and dies and a certain chamber atmosphere is established in the club. It will be sustained until the end, regardless of whether she will be playing "Dress", "White Chalk" or something from her latest album. 

Each song is like a theatrical performance. She does a pantomime, she moves around the stage with dignity and precision, and I am in tears before she even starts singing. The set is divided into two parts. Part one is the first album in its entirety, with songs separated by the sounds of birds chirping, branches crackling, bells chiming and children screaming in the distance. Also, there is Polly walking to different parts of the stage, looking pensively, staring intently, getting into the mood of the next song. A lot of thought went into this show, and it pays off: the album comes alive in the chamber atmosphere of Palladium, gains in weight and loses none of its unnerving beauty and uneasy dreaminess. Her vocals are powerful, and even the quieter songs exude great charisma.

Then there is a brief intermission when the other band members do an effective rendition of "The Colour of the Earth" (with the claps so irresistible the audience joins in). Following that, there are the jingoistic horns and the strumming rush of "The Glorious Land" which is one of the most emotional moments of the already emotional show. "Angelene", "Man-Size", "To Bring You My Love" - with a catalogue as vast and diverse as that, choosing what to play could not be easy. Oddly, there is nothing from the acclaimed Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea... But since to me that album has always meant a sudden loss of identity, I do not complain. 

She knows exactly what she is doing, and you accept the show on her terms. PJ Harvey's world inhabits the Polish club, like it inhabits her albums (whichever genre and style she chooses to go for) and any live performance she has ever done. For once, the distortion is controlled, the chaos is tamed and the noise turns, well, noiseless. "White Chalk" she does as an encore leaves me breathless, and then it is all over. We are back to the crackling noise coming from the giant speakers.

Polish notes (September-October '23)

There is a place in Warsaw that genuinely scares me. It is located behind Ujazdowski park, between the Embassy of France and the Embassy of Germany. It is not even a place, really, just a spot. An object. An installation. A telephone booth. It is white in colour and in order to reach it you need to walk on the wooden footpath platform that leads you over the green lawn. The actual door to the booth is quite rigid and it takes an effort to get it open. Once inside, there is a heavy thud and an odd feeling of anxiety that intensifies as you pick up the receiver and hear the whooshing sound of wind. Then you notice a memorial book, and some strange dots of instinct and imagination start to connect. I have once dreamed this place up, I have seen it in several of my nightmares. The idea comes from Japan, from a man who had built a phone booth just like that in order to talk to his dead cousin. It is with a heavy heart that I put down the receiver and leave the telephone booth. Not because there is no one. But, rather, because there are too many, and the wind is not loud enough.

In Mochnackiego St., in the centre of Old Ochota, lies the best cafe in Warsaw. It is called La Buvette and it was opened a few years ago by a French immigrant from Alsace. The man looks like a less glamorous Johnny Depp and you can often see him in the cafe cutting bread or talking to someone about Strasbourg. The menu is brief but to the point: French wine, warm tartines (for which we are willing to come every day), cheese, baguettes and ham. The place offers authentic snails and even desserts, but that is not why you are here in late September. You come because the evenings are already cool, but you still want to sit on the small terrace surrounded by historical architecture of Kolonia Lubeckiego. Because all you want to do in autumn is to defy autumn. La Buvette is one of the best kept secrets of Warsaw, and the ideal place to do it.  

Saska Kępa is special. While I will never prefer it to Kolonia Lubeckiego, it is an absolute thrill to come here on a warm Sunday in early October. Interestingly, there is little to no striking architecture here. As you walk away from the National Stadium and Rondo Washyngtona and enter Francuska St. with its small cafes, hanging umbrellas and broad terraces, you notice square-shaped houses that strongly resemble one another. They should look dull but they don't. Infused with the bohemian past of the area, they appear substantial rather than bland. Besides, there is a man nearby carrying a huge painting. A plaque with the name of a local artist. Two young men shooting black and white photos. There are streets stretching in different directions away from Francuska St., and they reveal local wonders. Saska Kępa looks like a world unto itself - but a generous world, ready to host you on any given Sunday in the middle of Indian Summer.

While I missed the Warsaw Film Festival due to a sudden vacation, there was still time for the ultimate cinema experience of watching the three and a half hours of Scorsese's latest film. Four, in fact, as apparently there is nothing that can make Polish cinemas cut back on trailers and advertisements. Still, the film could go on for a couple of more hours for all I care as the quiet acting of Lily Gladstone gripped me like nothing else in recent memory.  

On Halloween, there is a knock on the door, and it catches me off-guard. Because I am not thinking about the kids. I am not thinking about anything as I open the door and see the six of them - in elaborate make-up, dressed as witches. "Cukierek albo psikus!" And oh my God, I'm not prepared. I have nothing, and they are waiting with a sinister kind of patience. I tell them to hang on for a minute, return to the apartment and grope for cupboards seeking desperately - seeking anything that remotely resembles sweets. Nothing! Will apples do? Black tea? Avocado? In the end, there is a cautious sigh of relief as my fingers detect a cardboard box at the back of a top shelf. Belarusian sweets, two years old, abandoned and probably stale. But they are my only hope - and soon I reemerge from behind the door and hand them over to the little witches. There is an uncomfortable pause. Apparently, they had been expecting something else. Still, they take the box, mutter their collective gratitude and vanish on the dark landing. Halloween is big in Poland. I have to remember it next year.

The Central Station in Warsaw is a lonesome place. Or it can be when the evening settles down, crowds disappear and you wait for someone. My old professor of English Literature emerges from behind a faceless railway bakery and we embrace and try to cram a million words into a brief meeting. There is so much to say, in English, in Belarusian, in Russian and even in Polish, before his train to Poznań and before the station is switched off (because it has to be switched off, at some point), that we often say nothing. "Do not come back to Belarus", he insists before we say our goodbyes. "Do not even think about coming back". The Central Station, meanwhile, is empty but never entirely dark.

October Round-Up

This month, The Rolling Stones have released their latest 'best since Some Girls' album. Except it is different this time, because with Jagger and Richards getting close to the age of a resilient Galápagos tortoise and with the final song being a cover of Muddy Waters' "Rolling Stone Blues", Hackney Diamonds must really be their last LP. Much has been made of the awful cover as well as Andrew Watt's crass production (this Quietus article is masterful), but listen to the actual songs. Even the much-maligned "Angry" single has a decent vocal hookline. Elsewhere, the Charles Watts featuring "Mess It Up" and the obligatory Keith Richards ballad ("Tell Me Straight") are the highlights. Not their best since Some Girls, obviously, but fuck the naysayers - this is a good album.

Another unexpected comeback album was released by Crime & The City Solution. The Killer has come ten years after the excellent American Twilight. It is not nearly as good, sadly, as the songwriting feels a little forced and disjointed. Still, there is always something intriguing about the edges of their dark, uncomfortable post-rock. As for The Menzingers, I am now convinced they will never be able to approach the songwriting peak that was On The Impossible Past (2012). Some Of It Was True is fine, I guess, but this is The Menzingers by numbers, and only "There's No Place In This World For Me" has any spark to it. 

October has seen the release of two songs called "Run Run Run". One was The Feelies' cover of the Lou Reed song and appeared on the album Some Kinda Love featuring live performances of The Velvet Underground classics. It is a delightful little exercise, and The Feelies do it with effortless energy. The other "Run Run Run" (God, is there a more abused song title in rock'n'roll?) came by way of The Libertines who are releasing their new album in March next year. I would not go as far as to say that Carl Barât has lost it (still, when was the last time he came up with an inspired tune?), but this first single has the driest chorus ever heard on a Libertines release. 

Occasionally I find the critical reverence for Sufjan Stevens a little grating, but Javelin is very lovely indeed. Monotonous, samey, a little predictable - but has the inherent charm that breaks the defences. "Will Anybody Ever Love Me?" is a strikingly beautiful ballad with a chord progression that is extremely recognisable yet still irresistible. However, a much more special album for me was Mary Lattimore's Goodbye, Hotel Arkada which revealed a new layer with each listen. The inventive minimalism of these soundscapes feels endlessly intriguing. 

Ttrruuces caught my attention in Berlin last month with their tunes and their on-stage confidence - but how do they fare in studio? Well, they are good, and Jjuuiices is a decent follow-up to their 2020 debut, but while it is diverse and catchy and brilliantly irreverent, the album is seriously lacking in signature songs like "The Disco", "Bad Kids" and "Sensations of Cool".

Finally, the biggest news of October came from Charles Bissell. Apparently, The Wrens are dead and the man's new project is called Car Colors. The new album is going to be released next year (inevitable now), and the first single is coming out on the 17th of November. Buckle up, the twenty year wait is almost over...  

Black Country, New Road in Warsaw, 23.10

At some point, "Like A Prayer" by Madonna stops playing and the stage grows dim. The audience, and there are many of us on a Monday night in Club Niebo in the centre of Warsaw, becomes very hushed and very vocal all at the some time. This is a classic moment, one we have witnessed a thousand times before. What we absolutely do not expect is to then hear the relentless Eastern riff of "Kashmir". The audience goes 'huh?' and then the music of Led Zeppelin erupts in those theatrical blasts which, among other things, mark the arrival of the musicians. It is a great moment, as clever and unpredictable as it is absolutely hysterical. 

                        photo by Amanda M Hatfield

This is not the only surprise of the show, either. Because as soon as the band rips into the inevitable "Up Song", the audience goes insane. All of a sudden, most of the people start jumping up and down with the sort of passionate vigour I last saw at a Menzingers gig in Dublin more than ten years ago. In fact, this will happen several times during the show, and at some point Charlie Wayne (the drummer) will admit that they had never seen this much movement at their concerts. Polish audience certainly have their own way of doing things. Last year, in Gdańsk, I witnessed them push Nick Cave into performing "The Weeping Song" for the first time during the tour. 

Or maybe it is Black Country, New Road themselves that make the audience go wild? One of the greatest, most powerful and inventive rock bands currently in business. Who lost their vocalist and lyricist last year soon after the release of Ants From Up There (an album destined to be considered a perennial classic in years to come) but who refused to give up. "Look at what we did together, BC,NR friends forever...". They mean it, too.

The songs they do in Warsaw are the same songs they have been doing live since last year. They do not touch the two acclaimed LPs from 2021 and 2022 and instead, rely on songs composed after the sudden departure of Isaac Wood. Basically, what we are getting is this year's Live at Bush Hall with three new songs plus a short improvisation between the "Dancers" and the reprise of "Up Song". But these are incredible songs played with the kind of gusto and charm the band is known for. The musicianship is breathtaking, and the interplay of the violin, the saxophone, the drums, the pianos and the guitars is this never-ending orgasm of crescendos and creative twists. They know what catharsis means. Their songs are nervy but full of substance. 

Of the older material (well, relatively - Live at Bush Hall was released in February this year), I would say the extended piano-based "Turbines / Pigs" is a highlight, beautifully exploring as it does rises and falls, multiple melodies and moods. Of the newer material, both "For The Cold Country" and "Nancy Tries To Take The Night" sound like some of their best and most adventurous work yet. 'Your new album will be fire!' screams someone from the crowd, loudly and with a deliberately bad English accent. They smile, awkwardly, but there is no escaping the fact that it will be exactly that. Because they have the taste and the chops. 

What makes Black Country, New Road so special? What is the source of all this greatness, precisely? Many things. It is the musicianship. The cooky lyrics that have this odd way of speaking to you. The emotional substance (the bassist Tyler Hyde goes teary-eyed as the Polish crowd starts chanting 'BC,NR!' towards the end of the concert). But mostly, and I feel very strongly about this, it is the actual songs. Complex yet appealing. Ecstatic one moment, subdued the next. Adventurous and laden with hooks. After all, how can you leave the show without singing that line of "Dancers"? Or even the long and twisted chorus of "Across the Pond Friend" where the complexity is dwarfed so beautifully by charm?

They leave the stage to the sounds of "Kashmir", and we go full circle. This is a very special band.

Кніга. "РАЙЦЭНТР" (2020) / Таня Скарынкіна.

З таго самага моманту, калі я даведаўся пра існаванне гэтай кнігі, я шукаў магчымасць яе знайсці. На паперы, у электроннай версіі, як заўгодна. Але тут, у Варшаве, яе не было. Не было, здавалася, ва ўсёй Польшчы. Тым не менш, я працягваў шукаць. Дзеля гэтай кнігі я паехаў, напрыклад, на кніжную выставу ў Беласток. Быў цёплы канец красавіка, Беласток звыкла нагадваў Гродна, і я ведаў, што мне пашанцуе. "Таня?" запытаў я. "Скарынкіна?" Але ж, вядома, ніякага "Райцэнтра" тут не было. Былі Бахарэвіч і Вежнавец, Пясецкі і Кульбак. Падавалася, што Таня Скарынкіна - гэта цалкам выдуманы персанаж. Як, дарэчы, і яе кніга. 

Тым часам, ідэя-фікс перарасла ў апантанасць, і ва ўсёй беларускай літаратуры мяне вабіў ужо адзін толькі твор. Было б цікава вывучыць прыроду гэтых дакучлівых ідэй, гэтай прымхлівай апантанасці, бо яна здараецца са мной усё часцей. Праблема вырашылася хутка і банальна, як заўсёды. У нейкі момант я зайшоў у інтэрнэт і пабачыў, што "Райцэнтр" Тані Скарынкінай можна набыць каля нашага дома ў Менску. Што і зрабіла мая сястра на наступны ж дзень. А ўжо праз тыдзень я трымаў у руках запаветную кнігу ў невыразнай сіняй вокладцы.  

"Райцэнтр" быў надрукаваны ў выдавецтве Пфляўмбаўм у 2020 годзе. Кніга атрымала другую прэмію Ежы Гедройца, саступіўшы непазбежнай аповесці Евы Вежнавец (пра якую гаворка ішла ў студзені), але абышоўшы выдатнага "Локісава" Артура Клінава і "Жэтон не метро" Андрэя Федарэнкі. "Райцэнтр" - надзвычайна простая кніга. Па сутнасці, гэта зборнік эсэ/рэпартажаў пра родны горад аўтаркі. Ёсць тут, канешне, і Менск, і Варшава, і нават Партугалія, але так ці інакш сюжэты гэтых маленькіх твораў заўсёды вяртаюцца ў Смаргонь. З добрым гумарам, з чароўнай трасянкай - у горад, дзе хочацца быць.

Бо шмат што можна знайсці ў невялікім горадзе на захадзе Беларусі. Па сутнасці, у ім нічога не адбываецца, але Таня Скарынкіна паўстае чалавекам, які можа напісаць верш пра будзённы позірк у краме і правесці ланцужок ад суседа па Вілейскай вуліцы да Холдэна Колфілда. Праз старыя фота, успаміны, нататкі і дыктафон Скарынкіна стварае кантраст, перад якім немагчыма ўстаяць. Бо тут і выпадковая сустрэча з Мулявіным, і квартэра ад Шамякіна і падабенства паміж старым фотаздымкам і карцінай Ганса Гальбэйна. Тут - гэта ў яе дома, у Смаргоні. 

Прыкмета добрага пісьменніка - гэта не толькі ўменне заўважыць Бога на панурай вуліцы і на аўтобусным прыпынку. Прыкмета добрага пісьменніка - гэта яшчэ і здольнасць прыгожа пісаць пра ежу. Аўтарка робіць гэта ў эсэ "Абараны, балваны, сліжыкі, чарнушкі", якое прасякнута шчырай любоўю да традыцыйных беларускіх страў на Куццю. Адчуваецца пах і нават смак. Але ж амплітуда інтарэсаў даволі вялікая, і ёсць тут і кіно, і насякомыя, і пятлісты аповед пра прагу паліць. Дарэчы, такім паўстае кожнае эсэ "Райцэнтра", развілістым і разгалінаваным. Гісторыя, як тая плынь, шукае і знаходзіць новыя напрамкі, але заўсёды вяртаецца да свайго пачатку. Гэта, дарэчы, тая мастацкая таямніца, пра якую неаднаразова піша і сама аўтарка.

У нейкі момант пачынаеш заўважаць, як шмат Скарынкіна ахоплівае ў гэтай кнізе. З гісторыі, з традыцый, з простых жыццёвых акалічнасцей. Яе стыль просты, але дакладны і непасрэдны. Прыстунічаюць і нерв, і гумар, і пэўная эмацыйнасць. Так, як і у кожным аповедзе сяброў, суседзей і сваякоў, кожны з каторых з вялікай ахвотай распавядае пра маленькія і вялікія гісторыі свайго жыцця. Якія, можа, і не заўсёды адпавядаюць рэчаіснасці, але якія нічога ад гэтага не губляюць. Адчуваецца, што цікаўнасць Скарынкінай шчырая, яна ўмее слухаць і знаходзіць сувязь паміж новым і старым, сучасным і мінулым. Так, што сумная безэмацыйнасць водкладкі толькі падкрэслівае мастацкую вынаходлівасць зместу.  

"Не хапае кіношнасці ў правінцыйным жыцці", піша Таня Скарынкіна ў эсэ "Жыццё і смерць казурак". Сваімі адсылкамі і цытатамі, сувязямі і ланцужкамі, яна стварае дзіўны свет, які існуе на мяжы рэальнасці і міфа. І галоўнае ў ім тое, што ў гэтым свеце, гэтым райцэнтры, хочацца быць. Ён прыцягвае нечаканым кіношным святлом і гэтай самай чароўнай правінцыйнасцю. Напэўна, з гэтай прычыны я так хацеў яго знайсці - у тым месцы, дзе яго, здавалася б, і не павінна было існаваць. Але ён тут ёсць, і быў, напэўна, увесь час. Ну і потым... "Райцэнтр" - гэта яшчэ і калекцыя цікавых гісторый.

Baxter Dury in Berlin, 29.09

Berlin may be the place to see Baxter Dury perform live. (It is a toss-up between Berlin and Paris, but I am currently leaning towards the former.) It is a city of heartache and bombast, intense disco and total alienation, sophistication and wild excesses. It is a city of many moods and complex history, and it is a place where Baxter Dury feels right at home. As he himself swears and confesses, breathes out and screams (quite orgasmically, no doubt), it is the only city that matters. And I guess this is true. When you are in Berlin, there is only Berlin. 

As I approach Columbia Theater later in the evening (there is a distinctly old-fashioned sign that I shoot in faded black and white), I notice a long queue of kids aged from 18 to 20. They all look different and yet completely the same: black T-shirts, dyed hair, New Balance sneakers. I admire their discipline and their patience, and I have a very hard time imagining that they have all come here to see Baxter Dury. They have not. As it happens, they are queueing up to get into the nearby building (Columbiahalle) for a concert of their own. 

There is no queue to the actual Columbia Theater. Even though the tickets have been sold out a while ago and the doors have stood open for half an hour. Also, those who have come to Dury's show are, ostensibly, not 18 to 20. They are middle-aged and mostly middle class, and this is their fuck-it moment, their freak-out night. Short leather skirts for women and Pretenders T-shirts for men (beers for everyone). Well, they get into it straight away, long before Baxter Dury hits the stage. 

Quite honestly, I get into it, too, as the opening act is genuinely, irresistibly good. The band is called Ttrruuces, and they sound a lot better than their name. They play a rough mix of discoed-up indie pop that comes with charisma and strong hooks. They look confident, too, and their songs have titles like "STFU" and "Sensations of Cool". The singer is so full of swagger that we all just throw our hands up in the air and admire the cheek. At one point she asks the German crowd to cancel her, and at another shouts 'Meet your new favourite band!" Well, they are not quite there yet (not with Baxter Dury performing later tonight), but they certainly have the tunes to back it all up. "Disco" is a certified banger, and "Sensations of Cool" is one of the best pop songs I've heard in a while. 

Half an hour later, Ttrruuces join us in the audience and get humbled, so charmingly and with such suave professionalism, by Mr. Dury. He arrives on stage after the elegantly dressed young bassist ('the prettiest, the most talented of us', as Baxter claims towards the end of the show), the keyboard player / backing singer in a striking bearskin hat (she looks so French that everything else that happens in Columbia Theater feels like some sort of barbarism) and the big drumming guy who will keep the perfect beat all through the night. Baxter Dury's sartorial sense is impeccable, obviously, and coupled with his expressive moves (which will get very expressive at some point), it creates a unique atmosphere that presents him as this off-kilter poet, both sensitive and low-key thuggish.

The first song he does is "Leak at the Disco", and it remains one of his greatest songwriting achievements: subtle, mysterious and utterly gripping. It is a perfect introduction, and the audience goes crazy as the intensity increases and the song breaks into its anthemic final act. Throughout the night, he will be choosing songs from nearly all of his albums (favouring his latest LP, obviously). There will be elegant, introspective stuff ("Happy Soup", "Palm Tree"), and there will be more harder-edged songs from the second part of his discography ("Slumlord", "Leon"). Berlin crowd will go insane during the relentless groove of "Miami" and will be genuinely moved during the closing, inevitable "Prince of Tears". Baxter Dury is big in Germany.

He leaves us after an hour and a half, with the intense and club-like "These Are My Friends" that could seem too straight in the face and just too fucking much - but not after a night like this. Because, and he repeats it again and again, this is Berlin and we are his friends. And there is no questioning his words. Outside, meanwhile, the kids are nowhere to be seen. Instead, there are lots of disorganised middle-aged couples, tastefully drunk and buzzing with joyful abandon.