Review: Fish, O2 Academy

As Gene Simmons was quick to discover, farewell tours are a great way of shifting tickets. Tonight, Fish played to his largest Bristol audience since his Marillion days in a show that’s been sold out for months – as has the rest of his UK tour. “Even the promoter said, ‘Oh, fuck!'” he beams. “I’m not dead yet.”

Indeed, the small print reveals that this is, in fact, the last time that he’ll play Marillion’s Misplaced Childhood in its entirety. There’ll be another album and tour before the big fella takes his pipe and slippers and retires to Germany. And, of course, he could continue to play individual tracks from Misplaced Childhood live without breaking his pledge. Cynicism aside, this opening night was always going to be an emotional experience for the charismatic Scotsman who wears his heart very prominently on his sleeve, as well of those of us who had the misfortune to grow up in the musically barren post-punk era, for whom Marillion were our Genesis, Pink Floyd, ELP and Yes all rolled into one.

But first, the very excellent Lazuli, purveyors of ‘Entre rock progressif et électro-world’ from the south of France, who rock some serious beardage and ponytails. A welcome addition to the very slowly expanding list of great French bands that includes Alcest, Magma, Gojira and half of Gong, they boast a wholly distinctive sound thanks to some exotic instrumentation. This includes the horn, marimba, chapman stick and, most notably, a stringed instrument of their own invention – the leode, which is played upright and emits a melodic, occasionally eerie sound that meshes perfectly with the electric guitar. Their hypnotic, percussive music recalls in part Pierre Moerlen’s late 1970s jazz-prog-fusion incarnation of Gong, especially when they gather at the centre of the stage for an extraordinary five-man concluding vibraphone workout. It’s fair to say they go down an absolute storm. Come back soon, proggy French fellas.

This wouldn’t be a Fish show in Bristol without some kind of catastrophe. Before last year’s gig at the Fleece, guitarist Robin Boult contracted chickenpox, causing a six month postponement. This time it was the turn of keyboard player John Beck, who broke his arm a few days before the tour. Enter Tony Turrell with just a couple of days to learn the set. Word from backstage was that Mr. Fish was absolutely crapping himself. Turns out he needn’t have worried. Turrell, who favours the flashy modern metal-style outwardly slanted keyboard configuration as popularised by the likes of Tuomas Holopainen, pulls it off with ease. If there were any mistakes, we didn’t notice them.

Fish isn’t daft, mind. He knows perfectly well that a large proportion of this audience hasn’t listened to any of his music since Marillion’s Clutching at Straws (one wag even gets his shout for Grendel in nice and early). So before the main event, he takes the opportunity to set out his solo stall to show them what they’ve been missing. The muscular Pipeline is followed by the title track of his most recent album A Feast of Consequences and that spine-chilling domestic abuse song, Family Business. He’s never been afraid of a bit of speechifying, which occasionally goes on a bit. But tonight he gets it just right with a rant, received in reverential silence followed by a huge round of applause, about why (I paraphrase) recent events should not be allowed to incite hatred of asylum seekers and bombing the crap out of civilians in Syria is possibly not the brightest of ideas. All of which serves to introduce the portentous The Perception of Johnny Punter from his Sunsets on Empire album, which was written about the Bosnian War but still seems all too depressingly pertinent today.

Heavy, huh? The mood changes abruptly as he announces: “This is an album called Misplaced Childhood” and, as promised, proceeds to play the entire thing in sequence from start to finish, illustrated with projections of Mark Wilkinson’s distinctive artwork. These hit album anniversary tours don’t always work, as you’re often standing there dreading the duff tracks and fillers. But Misplaced Childhood flows perfectly as a single piece of music, front-loaded with the hits (Kayleigh, Lavender), filled with emotional peaks and troughs, and benefitting from euphoric singalongs at the end of what we used to call side one and side two (Heart of Lothian, White Feather). Just as impressive as the band are the crowd, who chant every single word. This isn’t the same as bellowing along to the half-remembered chorus of an old chart hit. Mr. Fish has never stinted on the verbiage, so it’s more like committing a chunky short story or the entire Rime of the Ancient Mariner to memory.

The encore whisks us back to 1982 for the jaunty Market Square Heroes, followed by Fish’s very own drinking song, The Company, during which he even persuades the audience to dance like ballerinas. It ain’t a pretty sight. But, hey, this was another victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. If the tour continues on such a high, maybe he’ll even be persuaded to reconsider that retirement.