FATHER JOHN MISTY IN LEEDS May 11 2016

As Cultureberg and My Fellow Enthusiast traveled to see Father John Misty at the Leeds Academy on the opening night of his first British Small Arena Tour, conversation turned to the Enthusiast's brother's epicurean experience at Heston Blumenthal's Restaurant.  (Rest assured, Dear Reader, this was a one-off birthday blow-out, not the customary over-indulgence of a pampered elite.)  One course on the absurd post-modern menu was a "Bubble of Cauliflower," whereby the Paul Daniels of the scullery inflated a humble floret to unfeasible size whilst retaining it's palatability and nutritional value.  Hmmm.
I'll wager you can see where I'm going with this, my dear attentive reader.  Could the bearded hirsute King of Canyon Noir maintain his steady trudge up the zigurrat of concert halls and hold true to his essence, whereby finely crafted songs mixing confession and obfuscation were shared with warmth and not a little reined in derangement, or would he retreat into Doing What Is Expected.   Would he succumb to Phestival Phwoar, where every song is inflated and injected with Pavlovian Fluids, as the crowd reacts like salivating dogs or laboratory monkeys?
I am happy to report that FJM straddled and avoided this chasm with loose-limbed confidence.  Ever since his jocular interjections from the Fleet Foxes' drumstool, FJM has always conducted himself brashly but winningly.  Cultureberg and My Fellow Enthusiast were at the Manchester Deaf Institute on his first tour as he strutted, preened and , indeed, loved himself in a self-deprecating amalgam of performing styles, climbing drum-riser and arching eyebrows in equal measure.  If he were the gentleman roue he affects sometime to be he might abandon his songs like forgotten conquests, instead he polishes them and continues to court their essence with some loyalty.  Sheer size can mitigate against subtlety and the nuance of gesture that is the very key to communication; the canny artist adapts his gesture to the stage accordingly to preserve his intent.  If this was FJM's first game of the new season in the Premier League, he began with an away win.
Exhibit one: A few songs in he stops the show.  It appears an audience member has fainted.  Necks are craned and minutes toddle on.  "Safety First," says the Preacher.  I was reminded that at the Deaf Institute FJM stopped the show when 2 Mancs had a bit of a dust up, defusing and berating.  Mr Josh Tillman is a man with some religious instruction in his upbringing , I believe, and it permeates his character far beyond his pseudonym.  He's clearly a nice guy, not the satyr of the songs, and he doesn't turn a blind eye.  Cultureberg appreciates consideration above careerism.
Exhibit two: Having seen FJM at the Brudenell and Sheffield Plug, the set remains pretty similar, vitually wholly from Fear Fun and Honeybear, but with more widescreen arrangements.  The key is to preserve their core, add some kinesis and whumpf and avoid cliche.  No doubt, dear reader, you have ambled out of some enormodome or Festival Field bemused as the former object of your affection had just taken a dive for the short money.  That wasn't the case here. FJ maintained his mugging and prowling but never descended to a shallow posturing. Hats off for that.
Exhibit Three: The Show is not just the songs it's the theatrical presentation and the accent, the register, the tone.  There were the descents into musical maelstrom we have seen in others, with songs ending with a punctuation mark of sudden silence and stage blackout.  There were the primary colour searchlights that wreathed the singer in shadow.  It was good theatre and , significantly, it accented rather than replaced The Songs, avoiding the disappointment of empty bombast.
Exhibit Four:  There were captivating stripped down versions of Bored In The USA (no canned laughter) and I Went To The Store One Day.  Sometimes the unplugged section seems an expectation, here it re-focussed on sturdy songs which (old fashioned concept)  mean something, and in these performances clearly still mean something to their composer and performer.
Exhibit Five:  Whereby the band "rock out". Danger, Will Robinson, Danger, Will Robinson!  There were two "numbers" - principally the Nine Inch Nails cover "Closer" - where a stroboscopic explosion of unhinged dancing ratcheted the house up a couple of notches.  Contrast that with earlier covers - Canned Heat's "Going Up The Country" which still linked the band to country rock and Laurel Canyon revivalism. The two songs furthest away from that strand were arguably the best.  Bodes well, keeps the interest piqued.
Exhibit Six:  The Leeds show was promoted by The Brudenell, where FJM played a memorable show when Honeybear was new.   I don't know the biz mechanics, but there is clearly a continued link between grassroots and nascent arena-dom that is cockle-warming.  The venue was rammed, the show sold-out; all this a relief to The Brudenell,  no doubt.  That the show was also a ramalama, tour De Force, Coup De Theatre  as well would lead those hats previously doffed to be sent somewhat skyward.
So, Patient and Indulgent Reader....Bubble of Cauliflower or Sturdy Legume.  Surely the latter.  FJM is moving on up.  On Twitter (Yes, Cultureberg has visited) he is Farmer Jah Misery.  The mix of weltschmerz, roots and theosophy is as present in that alter-ego as much as in Father John Misty.  Mr Tillman is mutating and growing, but, I submit, not inflated emptily, rather his transmogrification is a natural extension of the word of mouth groundswell fueling his growing reputation and stature.  Recipe for success, tasty geezer - I won't labour the analogy any more. Away win, Leeds united.....Nurse, The screens!.