1992

Paul Kelly
Old Lion, May 1992

Reviewed by Murray Bramwell

I arrived late for Paul Kelly’s solo spot at the Old Lion. At ten thirty I was still watching Malvina Major’s splendid account of the expiration, via madness and grief, of Lucia, late of the Lammermoors. Moving from the studied contrivances of  bel canto to the easy colloquialism of Paul Kelly calls for some rapid cultural gear changes but by no means a drop in expectation. Kelly’s music and lyric invention have steadily increased over the past few years to a point where you’d think widespread international success must be inevitable. He’s been making steady inroads into the US market lately and will consolidate this when he moves there to live later this year. He deserves to be feted but it may not happen. He is certainly not given to the kind of hype that goes with world-wide promotion nor does critical success necessarily translate into sales – as Randy Newman, Richard Thompson and a large legion of others readily attest.

There is also something definitively (but not restrictively) local about Kelly. His reference points are concretely urban Australian – St Kilda, Kings Cross, Randwick, the back porch wisteria on Kensington Road. It is the kind of precise detail that poets aspire to- William Carlos Williams achieved it in his native Paterson, Vin Buckley in the streets of Parkville – and it takes considerable force of imagination to make it stick.

Like Bob Dylan, Paul Kelly has reconstructed himself and like Dylan he flattered by imitation. As Dylan followed Guthrie so Kelly followed them both – harmonica holder, rockabilly  balladry and all. But, again like Dylan, Paul Kelly has long since transcended his derivations. He’s written probably fifty songs that are first rate and, judging by his most recent performances – during the Adelaide Festival and now back to a full and very appreciative house at the Old Lion- he’s getting better all the time.

In this set, solo except for some shrewdly measured alto sax work from Kate McKibbon, Kelly stepped  forward to the audience, confident in his work, letting the lyrics speak, revealing the strength and structure in his compositions.  With slower tempos and richer phrasing, familiar songs become revelations – not unlike the new readings of classics on the recent Dylan bootlegs.

Armed only with a guitar -acoustic or electric -and some basic piano chords, Paul Kelly is hardly the virtuoso. His  raggedy strumming is reminiscent of that other concert hall busker, Billy Bragg. Sometimes you hanker for the tasty musicianship of the Messengers. They knew the territory the same way the Band used to with Brother Bob, the Rumour with Graham Parker or the Heartbreakers with Tom Petty. But  Paul Kelly’s willingness to go it alone is not a denial of any of that. This new rawness and readiness to take a chance is a gracious choice, a risk to be honoured.

Working his way through the canon Kelly plays non-standard standards and some new ones from the Hidden Things miscellany. He bangs out Sydney from a 727, then, slow and smoky, Before Too Long. At the piano there’s a hint of Tom Waits in the sly wonkiness of I Was Hoping You’d Say That and another new song, with a vocal to match McKibbon’s fine sax work, Brand New Ways. The rockers also take on new irony and resonance, even a routine lyric like Your Little Sister acquires an edgy worldliness.

In any of Kelly’s acoustic sets there are show-stoppers. His land rights anthem co-written with Kev Carmody, From Little Things Big Things Grow, is reliably one, Maralinga (Rainy Land)  is another. This time it was Careless, playfully laced with harmonica, and Dumb Things, transformed into a wry confessional with a catchy bridge that had the crowd crooning in a momentary bout of community singing. It is partly a joke – and Kelly makes a crack about singalongs- but it is also a recognition that time and change has turned a song of innocence into a song of experience.

There is a warmth in Kelly’s work these days, a tenderness  that makes songs like When I First Saw Your Ma as simple as sunlight. The lack of sentimentality is not accidental, it is a poet’s measure.  On another tack is Deadly, a rap piece from Funerals and Circuses, Kelly’s collaboration with Magpie Theatre,  which the singer has drawn back into his own repertoire and idiom.

Paul Kelly played a strong set, richer than ever. Among encores he sang Blue Stranger, the James Reyne classic, Reckless and, slowly picking at the keyboard, Know Your Friends. Kate McKibbon, stylish in her playing throughout, added her dash to From St Kilda to King’s Cross and then Kelly called it a night. He’d played maybe thirty songs and still had barely begun. I couldn’t help wondering what he might have done with Randwick Bells or Before the Old Man Died or Stories of Me –  scraps of rhyme when you see them written, magicked into something else in performance. That is Paul Kelly’s considerable gift. From little and hidden things bigger meanings just keep on growing.

The Adelaide Review, No.103, June 1992, p.34.