Newton Faulkner, Islington Assembly Hall - music review

Newton Faulkner played like a man looking to finally shrug off that “homegrown Jack Johnson” tag. Set opener Where To Start showcased his spidery guitar playing and soulful vocals; Plastic Hearts saw him hitting his guitar like a bongo drum
P34 NEWTON FAULKNER ARTS 0309 PUBLISH ONLY IF USED IN EDITION LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM - JUNE 12: Newton Faulkner performing at agit8 at Tate Modern, ONE's campaign ahead of the G8 on June 12, 2013 in London, England.
3 October 2013

Whoever said men couldn't multitask forgot to tell Newton Faulkner. The dreadlocked one was singer, guitarist, drummer, roadie and raconteur at last night's show at Islington Assembly Hall.

Understandably, this left him little time to think about his wardrobe, a trampy ensemble of black jumper, baggy jeans and bare feet. His choice of onstage refreshment was similarly understated: where Keef is partial to a bottle of Jack Daniels, Faulkner prefers a mug of tea.

But if that sounds like the recipe for a boring evening, it wasn’t. With a new album, Studio Zoo, to promote, Faulkner played like a man looking to finally shrug off that “homegrown Jack Johnson” tag.

Set opener Where To Start showcased his spidery guitar playing and soulful vocals; Plastic Hearts saw him hitting his guitar like a bongo drum.

Sometimes, the tunes didn’t match the technicality. Just Outside had everything except a hummable melody and, tellingly, one of the biggest cheers of the night came for a cover: Faulkner’s breathtaking rendition of Massive Attack’s Teardrop.

To his eternal credit, he declined continual requests to play the theme tune from SpongeBob SquarePants, preferring instead to concentrate on songs from his more sombre new record.

At The Seams saw him crooning “As if your life wasn’t hard enough, you chose me”, while Innocent declared “I don’t deserve your kindness anyway”. Beneath the surfer dude demeanour, there’s plenty of pain and sadness here.

Still, Faulkner was never going to stay miserable for long. Old favourite Dream Catch Me cued a joyous sing-along, before Write It On Your Skin prompted that rarest of occurrences at an acoustic gig: mass pogo-ing. “Come back next year when I’ve learned to play all the songs properly,” said Faulkner in typical self-effacing fashion. It’s a date.

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