Antony, New York's most famous velvet-voiced androgen, is a very hot and bothered man this evening. One can hardly blame him. The venue is tiny, airless, black and packed to the rafters on this sweaty Manchester summer night. At least he is keeping in good spirits, and making light of the temperature situation, and the fact that most people have ignored his 'no smoking' request.
 | | Antony and the Johnsons |
The onstage set up of cello, violin, guitar, bass, accordion and, erm, grand piano is a bizarre sight on a tiny stage usually frequented by amp stacks and rock drum kits. The usually impeccable sound mix is thrown off-kilter, with Antony's vocals never being loud enough and, let's face it, that's what we are here for. But what a voice! A shivery, spiritual creaminess blended with a deep, bruised emotional undercurrent. Utterly haunting, breath-stopping, spine-tingling on record, and here in as perfectly fragile a form live, but somehow never cutting across properly. The heat, the difficult sound, the murmuring, heckling crowd and Antony's boy-next-door stage banter cumulatively marred the potential for tonight being something really special. The crowd were restless, whooping and jeering at any available silence, and positively lapped up Antony's chatty manner. Had he ditched the smoothie ballads and opted for some honky-tonk, I suspect a riot would have ensued. I'd love to see Antony back in the Winter, in a larger, more classical venue, with an abundance of air conditioning. Under those conditions, he would take flight. |
