Rodriguez
The Deaf Institute, Manchester
December 7, 2009
The Manchester Deaf Institute is a perfect contradiction. An elderly building, once a refuge for the hard of hearing and the dumb of a century ago, it has been refurbished with sublime louche taste, and is now a rock venue. Going deaf seems to resonate from within these walls, now papered with eccentric birds and enhanced with a tiny theater-like venue on the top floor, painted red and finished off with much crimson velvet. It suggests a bordello of sorts. People now willingly come here to be deafened, not cured of that complaint.
Tonight heralds the arrival, a mere forty years after the release of his incendiary debut album Cold Fact, of Sixto Rodriguez. Three quarters of the crowd were absent from the world when he first put songs to plastic, but they loiter with intent anticipation to witness a man old enough to be their grandfather. In reality, where this singer is coming from, despite signs of physical frailty, is a place of bohemian eloquence. He exudes a sublimely genial nature as he emerges from the shadows at the left of the stage. A wave of warmth and admiration greets this arrival.
Sixty-seven years ago, Rodriguez, of Mexican parentage, was born in Detroit, a place he refers to as a city of victims. A cross between Arthur Lee, Jose Feliciano, and a Native American, he is an arresting presence. Although he describes himself as ancient, he seems curiously ageless, a shaman in shades.
His voice is soft and low, and occasionally inaudible, but the crowd is with him, and in awe. His backing band is young and eager to make an impact. Many artists on the trail of return make the fatal flaw of employing seasoned session players, only to end up with a perfection devoid of vibrancy.
Rodriguez wisely has youth in a supporting role. Although his work has weathered the storms of four decades, it sounds amazingly fresh. "Establishment Blues," a Dylan-esque checklist of grievance, still provokes, and "Sugar Man" remains the perfect yes-no lament to drugs. The keyboards lend a Doors-ian touch to the evening, but the songs could have been written yesterday, and as played tonight they sound as if they were. Despite various guitar glitches, and his resorting to acoustic strumming on electric strings -- a tack few would be brave enough to employ -- there is a rare and curious magic in the air.
When he asks the audience to "Climb Up on My Music," they already have, and are swaying and singing along. Rodriguez is a talker of songs; his unique voice retains a soft, clipped, metallic edge.
Forty years on he is on the verge of arriving. A rare presence, with great grace and charm, this artist's verve was obscured by the froth of his time. Genuinely humbled by this renewed appreciation, he deserves more, and is likely to arrest the attentions of any listener in pursuit of sustained clout and a certainty of touch.
Rodriguez seems reluctant to add to his output, content that his less is more. Such brevity is rare in creative natures. If these songs are all there is, folks, be glad that they are available; tonight's crowd was.
The word genius has been less deserved when so frequently applied to unremarkable talents. Here is the Kerouac of the dispossessed, the poetic observer of a world normally denied such eloquent remarks -- and usually, such appreciative applause.