Review: deNova Blues @ the Blue Note 27/01/07
10/02/2007 By By Tommy Dick-Fingers
Remember, way back in the old time tradition of Freddie King and Junior Wells, when it was ‘cool’ to give a show of practiced lines with depth and variety? When pride was taken, performance tailored, and the unspoken understanding garnered between entertainer and audience that what they were about to witness is for their eyes only. When the blues in its all encompassing egalitarianism could reach out across divides thought impervious. This, in a manner rarely seen now a days, is how deNova Blues took to the stage and won their applause. As if out to prove to themselves and to every eager soul present that music does not have to exist in the neat prefabricated box of pop culture - devoid of the human, slave to majority rule - they seemed set on delivering with power and the subtly of the sensitive hand a last stand for the small voice in an every shrinking world.
Bold, brazen and beefed up on Rockabilly punch: if that had been the whole story of the evening’s endeavours then enough would have been given and enough duly swallowed down by the enthusiastic crowd; but it was only half of what was a night brimming over with new ideas and delicate, deceptive directions.
Tomkins (Vocals/Guitar) was at his best. At one moment a sea of calm, alluring, playful, the foamed nymphet of Greek tale. Then whipped by mighty abysmal currents he raged into jealous tonal tirades, guitar and voice used claw-like to brandish and wave. Instigating everything, his eyes ran from the front row to the back bar injecting all he saw with the jury’s cold inquisitive stare.
Andrade and Querée (Bass and Drums respectively) were a two-headed beast to wonder at. Musically never far from each other’s collar, physically a wail of limbs and digits, they inhabited a jungle of grunts, pigmy forest clearings and tranquil silver pools. Conjures of magic, sorcerers of the percussive spell their nights more than mean accomplishment was to metre out justice to the rhythms of note. Thinking on their feet a song’s backdrop could change, melting away to leave a new raw surface of bright polished bronze. They were the shield to the guitar’s sword that cut the head off Medusa. The prize was won the job was done.
Sly le Feuvre (Organ) cemented the deal. Not so much a new comer to the deNova Blues fold as the returning distant traveller baring the gift of foreign latitudes (see deNova Blues debut album 2001). He of subsequent Bordellos fame - song smiths much admired and missed – found his place as mouth on nipple, or fist on jaw, settling in to provide the pastel hues of dappled light and reflected shadow. Amongst recognised company he laced dream like connective runs and solos showing ample reason for his inclusion.
As deNova Blues grow in strength and popularity who can deny them their rise and amid a night when a new hero gained his laurels, the chaff was irrevocably bisected from the grain.
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