Given recent reports it would have been all too easy for the night to become a sort of Rocket Juice and the Moon: An introduction to..., the newly formed supergroup composed of Damon Albarn, Flea, and Tony Allen pivotal throughout. Moreover on tonight's evidence they may already have a truly super LP simmering, however the evening thankfully never veers off in such an astronomically egotistical direction.
While Albarn himself may perhaps have become all too involved with African music and its varied merits, his affiliation with its myriad genres not only offers us insight into the inner workings of his more contemporary compositions, but also exposes the gloriousness of the continent's rich, vibrant, and harmonious sonic output. For Albarn provides an accesible link to this magical, if at times all too superficially esoteric, culturally segregated world, and to share and revel in the experiences and emotions twigged during voyages of discovery (both physical and proverbial) is visibly as enlightening for he, as for all who witness it judging by the beam of white teeth and single glinting gold one that his smirking face houses. It is both beguiling and humbling to see him so entertained and enthralled by it all, and Flea too is similarly humanised as he strays too far from his stack during We Are Home, involuntarily unplugging signature bass from amp. In this very instant it's as if the bassist is brought back down to the reality that most beings inhabit, outside of the realms of various stadia and Arcadia.
The show itself briskly assumes the dynamic of a Gorillaz gig, with guests appearing and disappearing, emerging and then evaporating continually, as both style and substance are subsequently chopped and changed suitably. So collaborative has Albarn been throughout the course of the past decade it'd be comprehensible were he to forget the sound of his own name, let alone that of his unique musical fingerprint, that which he's imprinted on every gold disc he's touched yet tonight's performance is laced with his inimitable ability to pin down the most melodious melancholy.
First up is 'The Moon' (potentially a working title), on which Albarn's initially experimental synth warbling gradually warps into spanked and slapped bass funk romp as it becomes instantaneously apparent that Flea is highly capable of producing, or at least reproducing dubby bass lines of considerable quality and authenticity. Joining them on MCing duties is Accra's finest, M.anifest, whose boisterous demeanour recalls previous Albarn collaborator Tinie Tempah, while the fluidity with which he delivers his vocals is redolent of Jay-Z's clear-as-Diamante slur. And just look at what happened to him... The four trumpet boys of Chicago's Hypnotic Brass Ensemble meanwhile add swagger and smooth to the track, each and every one of them with one hand on a multicoloured blower and t'other teetering on the edge of loosely fitting jean pocket. They're sounding as epically timeless as ever, and especially so when joined (more in spirit than anything else) by the Zeus-like figure of Phil Cohran on Frankincense and Zincali, rousing off-kilter fanfares during which a Gorilla and a Red Hot Chili Pepper are left to ape about behind all active musicians, as if monkeying about in the gloomy basement of Notting Hill Arts Club. Thus Albarn becomes a somewhat peripheral figure, dipping in and out of proceedings yet dictating the flow, whether playing to the senses or hanging on every word and croon, momentarily overawed and slightly starry-eyed. While seemingly anxious to air his latest pieces under the guise of a pretty bad band name (one allegedly coined by an acquaintance on a flight over to Lagos), he never appears impatient in doing so, happily bounding out of spotlight for the early brace of Cuernavaca and Stateville. Arms flailing overhead in simian motion, his movements even when barely visible are mimicked by tonight's faithful, their obsession with the Chelsea FC obsessive explicitly exhibited.
Put It Out, another perhaps working title encased in quotation marks on tonight's setlist, pairs Cheick Tindane Seck's sax appeal synths with the humorous lyrical whimsicality of a Gorillaz G-side (never a bad thing), while Alama, a duet between Albarn and Malian songstress Fatoumata Diawara, a track that this time sounds inherently evocative of his Mali Music produce, conveys his astounding ability to emulate and therefore momentarily slip into African rhythm and melody. The sleeve of said record is periodically fired across the room from the eyes of a pair of projectors, alongside the artwork of releases from Lee "Scratch" Perry, Theo Parrish (whose appearance tonight is all too fleeting), and various compilations that you'd carry out some exceedingly hard graft to cobble together the funds for. However if vision is temporarily transfixed on this brainwashing advertising for old Honest Jon's back catalogue, all ears are on Diawara's mesmeric guitar lines and coarse husk, and Albarn's tumbling piano refrains. The murky bass swampiness of the segueing Dolo M'Bife is brightened by her throaty vocal clarity, before a clown-like character by the name of 'Dog' emerges with a laptop clenched underarm. Resembling one of the many fancily dressed hedonists that tonight parade the streets of the City of London he, alongside two all-singing, all-dancing accomplices provides the gripping Shangaan Electro interlude.
The amalgamation of the surreal frenetics of Konono No.1 and Sjinedo Chauke's dance moves that recall those of Nick Cave (albeit were his legs made of viscous slime and devoid of joints) makes for a few veritably expressive moments that are as transportive as the exotic sights and sounds of an all-too-extortionate holidaying experience. Thus it's left to the ever-reliable Hypnotic Brass Ensemble to offer a loosened grip on a dwindling reality, before Seck returns to yield a poignant ballad that comes across as a hybrid of North West African flow and a more Western chord progression, all plonked out on Albarn's piano that's perpetually tuned wonkily to the point of sounding broken and bust. The ringleader then returns for Rocket Juice and the Moon track, Poison. Conceivably their most conventional revelation of the evening, Allen provides intoxicating arrhythmia while Albarn's typically doleful vocals imbue the track with palpable sultriness. That he croons: "Poison will only break your heart" contributes invaluably to this tender aesthetic. An encore of Here We Go comprises Seck on snake charmer-like Omar Souleyman synths and Damon on directorial duties (he dictates the dubby, irregular musical proceedings and later the crowd in harmonious call-and-response), before thanking the Barbican and, somewhat strangely, Aer Lingus. On a night like tonight however it is we who are left feeling refreshed and thankful for having cramming into this great hall.
