May inadvertently becomes the support for the '74 screwball-fest to follow therefore, and his aberrant coalescence of the Bee Gees' gauche disco and the saccharine surf of Brian Wilson's West Coast curlers is an appositely odd fit. Indeed quite how it arose up and outta the landlocked humidities of Jackson, Mississippi is of legit mystery, although it's from the far end of a Lahndan caff that he tonight enthrals. Bringing the Fun, May immediately flexes the crackled falsetto atop recalcitrant drum pads as the PA judders into a vibrant form of life. A premeditated peril of the relatively impromptu gig perhaps, but the sound is initially shakier than William Finley in the film to segue the show as May and they (they being his trusty backing trio) then chip in with a somewhat more smoove Rent Money. It's accompanied by the unmistakably fetid odour of disinfectant too, imbuing the eve with an ever more multi-sensory aesthetic.
Although it's the old ears that get a real good washdown, so luscious are his fluid dance-pop jives. Best Friends jingles and a-jangles with an aqueous shimmer as it kindles a close affinity with a chunky bottom end, yet in its brilliance resides a deep-seated bummer. For the uke appears to have been well and truly atticked. In its place, a sprawl of magical pedals; in my heart of hearts, it feels as though a little of his gawky legerdemain has been lost. A squeaky-clean Wedding Day ("a song written for wedding receptions", May matter-o'-factly vows), boosted by F-Zero geetar FX brings May a little more up to speed, as he clatters into an insistent brat-punk breakdown of "Wedding day will come" in its closing moments. It's pretty swell to see him having to prop his rims back on the tip of his nose mid-solo, too – you lack that vein of vigour when you've only a ukulele to hand, and there's now some identifiable panache at play within the man.
However the prominence afforded the bulbous octave bass lines of Do Things is arguably the differentiation most discernible. It may be the mix, but they tonight sound heftier than tectonic plates crunching as they clunkily scrape alongside one another to the tune of throwback groove. It's in keeping with this seismic modification that College Town Boy is thudded out: given a rambunctious beefing up, it's utterly brill as such. More baa-baa and sha-la-la than doo-wop, it calls for a healthy glug of Hoegarden as he silkily croons one final barb of "How does it feel to be no one?" What with all the dissension currently surrounding our education system, it's a timely reminder that it's categorically not OK not to "get off your ass and do something" having been thrown up from said system, covered in delusion and largely worthless detrital knowledge.
Yet stereotypically, May's lyrical advances concern his apparent obsession with all things nuptial. Whether that's the seemingly taken "beautiful blonde" awaiting him in the openair of a breezy Meet Me In The Garden, or on an extraordinarily frisky Eastover Wives during which he predicates: "Good women do wrong" atop some randy freak-out funk, his fascination lies with the removal of the wedding ring facilitating the unfastening of other things. And despite his bookish, librarian looks he comes across as something of a deviant; the sort to climax on the kind of cocky wig out to conclude an otherwise unruffled Tell Her. Dent may be yet to leave the mark his idiosyncratic abilities ought, especially over 'ere in the UK although that's not to say that tonight was anything other than exceedingly impactful.
