When we first set eyes upon this vulnerable, unkempt street urchin five years or so ago, he was sitting awkwardly in the corner of a small room, nervously reciting his lysergic fairy tales. Several jaws must have collectively dropped then, at the bizarre spectacle of Patrick Wolf sharing sofa with Avril Lavigne and Lorraine Kelly and duetting with Charlotte Church on Friday night TV.
These days, a full band bolsters his virtuoso collection of songs, although the faithful Apple Mac still resides centre-stage. Launching straight into ‘Get Lost’, Patrick dominates the Astoria stage tonight, and this show immediately has the spirited atmosphere of a homecoming performance. There’s a typically snarling ‘Tristan’, he’s joined by support act Bishi (sadly, not Marianne Faithful) for the delicately dense gloom of ‘Magpie’, and even injects a few lines from ‘Sexy Back’ into the glorious ‘Blackbird’. The dark, brooding moments of insularity are counterbalanced by some sprightly, joyous outsider anthems, just as they are on his records. The nearly-hit (the strutting Motown-esque ‘Magic Position’) is saved for last, and it’s an unashamedly celebratory moment. You’re left enthralled, and with a genuine feeling of wide-eyed optimism.
“I think that Patrick will be the next best thing in music,” texts an Italian friend who flew in especially for the show. “Something like Bowie. But now he’s too young. When we’re old he’ll be an idol.”
So, should we really feel resentment towards this public lurch for the mainstream? . Let’s face it; you wouldn’t blame him for resenting the instant success of the vacuous Mika and a record-buying public that seem intent on reviving the most hideous aspects of the 1970’s, would you? His frustration manifests itself just a few days later, when he plays at the launch party of an appalling new youth magazine, in front of corporate blaggers who really only care for the free booze. He kung-fu kicks someone in the chest, snatches someone’s glass of champagne and smashes it onto the floor, before telling us all to “…fuck off home, have sex and die of AIDS.” Sweet!
Still, back in the Astoria, there’s a sea of warm, smiling faces, intensely spellbound by the lithe, sequined, preening disco queen on stage, oozing charisma from every pore and dancing himself dizzy to a camp-as-tits version of Kelly Marie’s ‘Feel Like I’m In Love’. Come on people, why revel in the bland when you could be luxuriating in the exceptional?
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