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John Grant was caustic as well as cuddly, drawing on his battles with addiction, HIV and toxic lovers MARILYN KINGWILL FIRST NIGHT | POP John Grant review — loveable performer at the peak of his powers Roundhouse, NW1 Ed Potton

Thursday January 30 2020, 5.00pm, The Times

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Ed Potton Thursday January 30 2020, 5.00pm, The Times

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★★★★★ There was an inevitability about this show, a bulletproof goodwill that was palpable from the start. That’s not because John Grant is infallible. Indeed, there’s the nagging feeling that the Colorado singer- songwriter’s albums have been slightly declining in quality, from the superb Queen of Denmark in 2010 to the merely quite good Love is Magic in 2018. Yet the opposite applies to his shows. Grant’s magnificent velvety howl of a voice needs to be appreciated at close quarters; so too his light-footed wit. The Roundhouse, reconfigured as an all-seater venue, perfectly suited a man for whom intimacy is all.

Grant, 51, sat at the piano, his pelt of a beard glistening under the lights, smoothly accompanied on synthesizer and backing vocals by Chris Pemberton. His voice took a while to warm up, like a battered sports car. A couple of verses into TC & Honeybear, though, and the cylinders were firing. Geraldine was even better, an undulating holler ranged against Pemberton’s Blade Runner chords.

The requests were already coming — Grant’s fans are vocal and often The requests were already coming — Grant’s fans are vocal and often funny. “Wonderwall!” someone called. He handled them warmly, even slipping into Icelandic to answer one. He has lived in Reykjavik for years and talked about envying native speakers for their intuitive grasp of the fiendish grammar. “There’s all these little Icelandic children that I resent with every fibre of my being,” he said with a smile.

Grant can be caustic as well as cuddly, drawing on his battles with addiction, depression, HIV and toxic lovers. “The only thing that brings me any comfort/Is the knowledge that, no matter who you’re with, you’ll always be alone,” went one stinging line in Vietnam. Yet this was mainly about ecstatic communion with an artist at the peak of his powers. On Queen of Denmark he stood at the mike and roared mightily over wordless harmonies from the Roundhouse choir. “Follow that!” said another fan. Somehow he did, with the gorgeous, swelling Fireflies and a Chicken Bones full of honky-tonk heat. It’s hard to think of a more loveable performer.

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