Lamentably, there are vacancies in the hotel tonight, with plenty of breathing space down on the floor which fittingly seems to be coated in honey, shoes stuck and struggling to tap to the folkloric tribalisms and glitchy electronic drum stick thwacks of opener Gwn Mi Wn. Rhys however, a singular individual, and one inextricable from the unique, idiosyncratic and eccentric, seems entirely unperturbed in a burgundy two-piece, rattling off routinely kooky badinage before, after, and between every tune. Such is the peculiarity of his craft, every number is prefaced by a detailed, if intermittently rambling synopsis (barring Candylion from the somewhat twee LP of the same name, which is merely a fairly self-explanatory, standard acoustic amble). However from here on in, Rhys whizzes through a joyous set with the vigour of Neil McFarland's Willow the Whale: from the sumptuous, Love Kraft-like harmonica bluster of The Court Of King Arthur, to a streamlined rendition of In A House With No Mirrors (You'll Never Get Old), devoid of Brazilian tat collector Tony da Gatorra's mechanical screeching and clanking, spectacle becomes spectacular. Following Y Niwl's incandescent frenzied surf support slot that of course remains instrumental throughout, while we may yearn to revel in Rhys' husked brogue, his Welsh work overshadows all tonight, with the nostalgia-steeped Pwdin Ŵy 1 and segueing, heart-wrenching Pwdin Ŵy 2 excelling. Lonesome Words is a wonder in many ways: primarily in Rhys' ability to hit the highs utterly faultlessly, yet predominantly in its highly effective conjoining of the wondrously Celtic and Rhys' distant links with Patagonia, expressed in the startling Morricone-like wild and wily chord progression to emanate from his permanently marked, velcro finned folkloric guitar.
Lest we forget Gruff's here to peddle Hotel Shampoo, and If We Were Words (We Would Rhyme) is as seductive as any a Keats ode, albeit more simplistic, as he takes a pew at the reception desk to twinkle its subdued tones. He omits forthcoming single Space Dust #2 in favour of airing an unremarkable Vitamin K and Sensations In The Dark, again infused with ethnic South American aesthetic. He's backed by super, phenomenal visuals, equal parts faded sepia glamour of a seaside strewn with seagulls and frenetic frenzy of a Gif-addled Tumblr on acid, and never are they more affective than on the usually placid, yet tonight almost visceral Cycle Of Violence, its conclusion fuelled by what sounds like hell emerging from the depths of Gruff's belly as devilish war cries shroud out all instrumentation. An encore composed of his best impression of a glitchcore maestro on Caerffosiaeth, and an excessive Skylon, strummed while sat on an airplane seat seemingly ripped out from the guts of a Boeing 737, feels a little like overkill, overwhelming surf psych dragging a little. However Rhys proves himself tonight to be as rare a beast as a one-off Pete Fowler vinyl toy, and with all the pomp, show, and successful gimmickry of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots-era Flaming Lips (subtly explicit eroticism included), he produces the sort of extravaganza the Super Furries once were capable of merely choking up nightly before enthusiasm was evidently curbed towards the tail end of their tenure on the explicitly abstract end of the musical spectrum. That he has become Wales' greatest songwriter, perhaps of all time, tonight became conclusive. Lo and behold a national treasure.
