January 26, 1999
London Camden Jazz Cafe
[I]"How do they make that sound?"[/I] he asks on [B]'Velvet Underground'[/B], a tribute to the band who changed his life when he was 16. [I]"Like this!"[/I] he shouts, launching into a perfect [a]L
Grown men and women who can be described as 'childlike' are generally not endearing. Looking as though you need help tying your shoelaces does not make people want to stroke your head. It just makes you profoundly irritating.
It's best, then, to approach Jonathan Richman with caution. The post-punk minstrel of love, life and rock'n'roll, Jonathan's nearing 50 now, and that's a long time to play the wide-eyed naif. The temptation now is to treat him not so much as an institution as from an institution, this well-preserved man in a roll-neck blouse gyrating like a genetically modified Elvis.
Yet far from being deranged crayon scribblings, his songs are still knowing in the best possible way - they know about musician boyfriends who make their women print flyposters, about dancing in lesbian bars and, in 'Pablo Picasso', about the sexual allure of great modern artists. They know about the immaculately timed pause, the delight in yelping, "Guitar!' before a gleefully cracked solo, the power of a little charm and warmth when it's cold outside.
"How do they make that sound?" he asks on 'Velvet Underground', a tribute to the band who changed his life when he was 16. "Like this!" he shouts, launching into a perfect Lou Reed impression, still in love after all these years. Some things just last forever.
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