Review: Billy Bragg, St David’s Hall, Cardiff, April 30th 2006

If it was Billy Bragg’s ambition to be the natural successor to those dust bowl minstrels that he has adored all of his life, the troubadours, Dylan and Woody Guthrie as the standard bearers, I don’t think there could be anyone who witnessed this performance that could say he had not achieved it. He stands in a tradition that rarely alters its appearance, its sound or its subject matter, but it is a tradition that has outlived most other musical forms and here you could see why. Bragg’s art is that of a working musician who if his trade were carpentry would build you rugged and sturdy furniture that would charm themselves into heirlooms and prized reminders of life’s epochal moments. His comfort on stage, something born of the nature of his vocation, his belief in his message, held this audience tightly and personally, somewhere between admiration for a master of his genre and the feeling of being sincerely impressed by a teacher on dress-down day. He reminded us all of his talent as a songwriter, made me wonder why he is still essentially a cult figure rather than the godfather of political pop revered by all generations of fighters of all causes. He marched immediately in to some of his most powerful anti fascist songs that made him a spokesperson against Thatcher in the eighties, reminding everyone that the disenfranchisement of the working classes is a multi-faceted battle that will never end as long as the enemy continues to reinvent itself, be it Tory, New Labour, BNP, or Nick Griffin (who Bragg pointed out has two dogs named Anne and Frank and yet snidely denies being a bigot). This was no ordinary confident display of skill by a talented and seasoned performer, he was there to move this audience into action, to rally troops and make us aware that the BNP are “on the march again”. Regardless of the fact that the audience were a largely professional looking collection who would have looked ridiculous and faddish were they to be seen on a march of any kind, Bragg drew cheers and whoops with all the skill of the warm and emotive orator that he has learned to become. The sense that he was preaching to the converted was essentially irrelevant as the importance to the people sat in front of him was that we were watching a creature that is rarely given such a populist audience to address, that is, a man with a flexible intellect in these matters and one who is governed by passion laced with common sense and decency rather than politics (something almost all politicians lack). He is a passionate singer with a voice that beats at your brain with its rumbling sincerity and guitar that rattles your teeth with cut-glass beauty and syncopation. The songs, astounding in quality, rolled out one after another throwing in hits (Levi Stubbs’ Tears), love songs (The Price I Pay) and some real unexpected gems (Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards) as if he was flicking through a tab book on the edge of his bed.

Bragg proved he is worthy of the reverence afforded other great British pop chroniclers such as Ray Davies and Morrissey, and without the tedious petulance and furrowed brows that too often is the focus of the latter duos’ mythology. Bragg was succinct, sometimes profound, informative, moving and most importantly, significant. I can think of no artist touring today that could name all of these things in their arsenal.