Martha Wainwright @ Cockpit
By Lauren Strain"Please excuse us, it's very hot in these cravats" winks Yellow Stripe Nine's quirky keyboardist with a cheeky smile pinned haphazardly across his malleable face, tongue firmly slotted into cheek, twinkly eyes joking merrily along with all this talk of decadence, sleaze and spotless white spats. Far less scary and far more amusing are these affable fellows when seen gracing a stage and supping from faux-crystal decanters than when being listened to alone and in the dark, a time when you may wish to run away and hide amongst the Pennines to avoid yourself being violated by such squeamishly dapper vocals and squinting guitar niggles. Indeed, upon seeing the four exquisitely bedecked gentlemen in the live venue I feel myself cultivating a certain soft spot for their unabashed bombast, svelte delivery and dinner-party (complete with brocaded drapes) tomfoolery. Only reluctantly, though, I might add, as a suppressed yet tangible shudder still insists on shivering its way down my spine.
Isn't Martha Wainwright a lovely, lovely, lovely girl? A lovely girl you'd like to aid in tying her shoelaces (as the man who also plied her with Jack Daniel's on the front row did, indeed, do)? A lovely, homely, rustic princess with an aura of open-fires and Christmas trees you'd like to have a natter with over a cup of tea, even though you can't stand the taste of the stuff (soil! peat! foliage!) and would much rather have coffee? Of course she is, but methinks there's far more to this earthy, warm, sisterly, husky Canadian than meets the eye; her songs display a raw, ragged-edged fragility with a defiant strength, a drip or drop of spurned vitriol and a pervading, questioning loneliness. She may look cuddly, but there's something deep-rooted, something fiery, gnarled and emotional gnawing away at her from the inside out and she's fully aware of this, playing a thoughtful Leonard Cohen cover to describe herself. And, holy mother of god, does she not have the biggest, most tuneful ship's foghorn of an earthquake for a voice that ever was heard? Man alive, what bank I would not rob in order that I may have even a daub, a smudge, a grain of those vocals in my lungs.
Tossing her sandy-haired ponytail back during the pounding numbers, gasping and cracking on the stark, stripped acoustic solos, she whips and heels that wild, red bronco voice of hers into submission. A lone, country girl with the ability to harness and manipulate a sound of that strength is truly someone admirable to watch, as she teasingly pours it, like black velvet, into the microphone before drawing it slowly back out again, clipping and stretching words to create snippets and captions of vowels which drift off, echoing, around the room like little capsules of half-formed phrases fluttering through the sweltering air looking for a home.
With a dash of cynicism directed at that favoured target of universal sarcasm, America (and its wife, Starbucks), and a mischievous, boisterous glint in her eye (present on 'Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole'), she's a witty thing wearing a feisty shell to shelter a streak of vulnerability which pulses through the arrestingly haunting 'I Will Internalize', a song I once sat and listened to on repeat through headphones for a whole hour. It loses none of its beguiling eeriness here tonight.
Feet on the ground and head held high, she's an inspiring little statue moulded by private pain and the art of pulling through, preferably doing it with the healing purgatory of a few chords and a good melody. Honest, human stuff. And aah, lovely!
this is what comes of so little sleep and only toast to eat. wargh!
