UNCUT

DUKE GARWOOD

The Victoria, Dalston, London, January 11 South Coast bluesman sings the Rogues Gospel

IT’S proper brass monkeys outside, so you can forgive Duke Garwood for playing this show with his dark green beanie pulled down tight over his ears, even though, as he concedes, it makes him look like “an out-of-work criminal”. To be honest, it’s not just the hat. All three musicians on stage have the slightly wild countenanc­e of men who’ve been hiding out in the wilderness for weeks aer escaping from a chain gang. Yet despite Garwood’s curious Kentish-california­n burr – Keith Richards is possibly a role model here – his aura of outlaw cool never feels like a put-on.

There was a point 10 or 15 years ago when he could maybe have taken a di†erent fork in the road and become a respectabl­e British songwriter of a certain age, a Harcourt or a Hawley. But instead he’s chosen to pursue his muse down a rockier path, pulling his music apart in a way that feels genuinely risky and thrilling. His side-hustle making tenebrous soundtrack jazz with The Quiet Temple has completely opened up his gru†, bluesy songwritin­g to the point where most of the structure has melted away, allowing his moody, nebulous ri†s to coil around you like smoke.

Some of the songs from Garwood’s superb 2022 album Rogues Gospel are so di†use that they seem to be evaporatin­g as he plays, just about held together by the ingenious rattle of Paul May’s brushed drums. None of them seem to end properly, they just stagger around for a bit before collapsing to the ground, exhausted.

In the midst of all this, Garwood himself wears the determined expression of a man intent on making it to the next town before the petrol runs out. Every line sounds like a cryptic portent of doom, from the “blackbirds on the breeze” of the opening “Maharaja Blues” to the “red burning a erglow” of the not-very-disco “Disco Lights”. Despite this litany of warnings and setbacks, Garwood’s music can also feel warm and hopeful, driven by a belief that redemption is just around the corner.

For now, though, the conditions are challengin­g, with even his own instrument­s seeming to conspire against him. For the terri—c “Love Comet”, Garwood begins wrestling with a saxophone as though trying to subdue a wild goose. It emits a few groans and squawks before being quickly thrust back into its box. He switches guitars to the one he calls “Mama Tele – she’s a bit more moody than my other guitars, but she’s alright”. Loosely strung for that satisfying­ly deep and gooey tone, they all struggle to stay in tune. “Guitars, man,” he mutters to himself, before pressing stoically onward.

On “Neon Rain Is Falling”, he attempts to play guitar, saxophone and maracas all at once. The folly of this endeavour is quickly revealed when one of the maracas drops to the šoor and he’s le brandishin­g a single maraca like a man shaking his —st at the gods. Which of course only makes his performanc­e more compelling.

Even Garwood’s exit from the stage is wreathed in confusion. Half the audience have already dispersed when he returns alone for a sparse, poignant rendition of “Desert Song”, originally sung by his late collaborat­or, Mark Lanegan. “Paving stones and marrow bones/ A portrait of a clown”, he croons quietly, those ominous visions still coming on strong. “Don’t take me away from this dream”. Whatever surreal purgatory Garwood is going through, he knows he’s on to something.