By Adam Lovinus
By Lilledeshan Bose
By Gabriel San Roman
By Rachel Mattice
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Daniel Kohn
By Nate Jackson
By Mike Seeley
THE DIVINE COMEDY/RICHARD SWIFT
THE DETROIT BAR
WEDNESDAY, JAN. 29
"He's beautiful!" "He's Irish!" "He has a child!"
These were one woman's chaste and breathless descriptions of Neil Hannon, singer/songwriter for the Divine Comedy. And it was contagious. Obviously the twenty- and thirtysomething women in the audience were playing a fantasy husband derby as they crowded the stage, danced deliriously and shouted back the lyrics to Hannon's songs. It was hard to hate Divine Comedy because these career girls (and a lot of boys) were having such a fun time with their very safe idol and his three-piece band (someone actually tossed a box of teabags onstage, of all things; isn't it an ironclad rule to throw lacy panties at lead singers?).
Divine Comedy has built a cult following in England largely due to Hannon's sometimes-campy, sometimes-overproduced (yet always mod, mod, mod) '60s tunes. On this night, though, it often felt like they were playing axed songs from Austin Powers movie soundtracks—all horrible teeth and snappy pop hooks, only a heartbeat or two removed from hoary old English music-hall tunes. Things got worse—I half expected Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke to come out and tap-dance during one of the piano flourishes on "Frog Princess." And then they played an unironic cover of the Monkees' "Daydream Believer." Oh, behave, Neil, behave! Or at least loosen up a little. Or a lot.
The show started with a spectacular set by a guy named Richard Swift, who can only be described as an anti-idol. The Long Beach gent's body is short and squat, his head is covered by a disaster masquerading as a haircut, and his thrift-shop suits are eternally shunned from being called anything remotely resembling stylish.
But none of this gets in the way of his amazing music. Alternating between keyboards and guitar, Swift played cabaret rock tunes with bittersweet lyrics and even more bittersweet pop—the best sonic blend with which to mull over unrequited love, a beer and whisky chaser of warm humanity laced with acidic barbs. With his beautiful, clear and soulful voice, Swift's kind of how Randy Newman would've turned out had Newman ever made good on his hype. Swift should actually be riding high on some hype of his own soon. The 25-year-old recently had meetings with music moguls Gary Gersh and V2's Jon Sidel to talk about a major-label release—a good thing because he needs to be spun on stereos around the planet. But let's hope he's all ours for a little while longer. (Andrew Asch)FIELDING