NYC DIY polymath and his righteous band are still firing on all cylinders
By Ben Wood
In a better timeline than this benighted one, New York icon and indie rock Renaissance man Jeffrey Lewis would be a superstar, although he would probably hate it.
For around three decades now, Lewis’ next-level lyrical chops, self-deprecating wit and existential musings have produced an endless series of ‘proper’ albums, side projects and comic books. It’s truly astounding that it’s taken so long for the singer-songwriter and the latest incarnation of his garage-rock superband the Voltage, to play somewhere as fancy as the Southbank’s Queen Elizabeth Hall.
For this UK outing, Lewis is joined by ace Moldy Peaches drummer Brent Cole and flanked onstage by Mallory Fuer on (beautiful) violin and keys and Valerie Marchesi on bass. Over the years, the singer has learnt to mesh seemingly incompatible genres – shouty punk-rock, finger-picking early Dylan-style folk, freewheeling psychedelic jams and more – into an instantly recognisable musical approach. His compadres help this nifty trick to work: while no show-offs, the band kick up a righteous garage-rock racket that the Velvets would be proud of, when they are not anchoring his weirder explorations or scooting offstage to let Jeff have his solo moments.
The set begins in bravura fashion with a 15-minute song lecture / PowerPoint presentation in which the artist traces, in scholarly fashion, The History of the Development of Punk on the Lower East Side. Not an obvious opener, it’s a pretty baller move from a man confident his audience will pay attention wherever his hyperactive muse wanders.
Lewis traces the rise of his hometown’s scuzzy bohemian counterculture, from shamanic postwar multimedia artist and folk collector Harry Smith through freak-out pioneers The Fugs to The New York Dolls and beyond. He has collaborated with some of the scene’s 60s pioneers and confidently, unarguably inserts himself into this arty folk-punk rebel lineage. And damn this band is tight: every song he mentions is illustrated in a few seconds by a note-perfect, tight-as-hell live segment.
To keep things fresh for the group and the audience, every Lewis set includes new songs and unexpected left turns. For the first time in around a dozen gigs, much-loved early classic Back When I Was 4 is absent. And the band plays answer song No LSD Tonight, rather than the tune that first made his name, The last time I did acid I went insane. Less shoutily, Drifting starts as a lovely, violin-lifted lament before transforming into a lengthy, tripped-out groove.
Hallowe’en is hailed with a spooky animated short story, Lewis narrating one of his gonzo illustrated monster fantasies to audience laughter. And this old-school anarcho-lefty’s traditional MAGA In Chief-dissing moment is a poem that creates an alternative timeline in which Martin Luther King, John Lennon, and others dodge a bullet while… well, you get the idea.
But the biggest shock for this long-time listener is a tranche of new songs. What the living hell is up with me and sex is an eyebrow-raising confession which sees the artist dismantle any suggestions he is some kind of indie Casanova. It’s this level of frankness about his anxieties and hang-ups that attracts so many younger fans to Lewis’ work. Even if it hurts, he is quite prepared to bare his scars and (sort of) joke about them.
Maybe the tune is possible, as other new songs celebrate our hero’s current romantic relationship, which is hymned in typically qualified fashion. The cute I Like Being a Spouse (“It’s super fairly mostly largely great”) shows that even though Jeff often battles with his big, catastrophising, overthinking brain, he is still prepared to take a chance on life. It’s genuinely sweet and heartwarming stuff. Good luck mister.
Lewis refuses to do a traditional encore, but has given us a good hour and a half of songs, poems and artworks with few longeurs. We close with another leftfield move: instead of a song, we get the ‘To be, or not to be’ soliloquy from Hamlet. Of course, he nails it. Hopefully, more gig-goers stream off into the night, thinking about all the ideas the night has inspired in them. If he can do it, maybe we can too.
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