Long admired by critics, musicians and a select group of fans, Scottish singer/songwriter John Martyn has pursued a career that perhaps has been too varied and unpredictable to hold the attention of a wider public. Like Roy Harper, Martyn started out 30 years ago as something of a folkie but soon veered off the beaten path for a more eclectic and personal journey through pop, jazz, the blues, dub (with Lee Perry) and world music.
After appearing at the Guinness Fleadh on Saturday, Martyn stopped by the Beat Kitchen Sunday evening for a nearly two-hour set that found him effectively airing out many of his musical personae. In the varied guises of bluesman, jazz-pop explorer, balladeer and interpreive singer, Martyn escorted listeners through a first-rate tour of his career.
Martyn opened his set in a blues mode, wielding an electric guitar and backed by a keyboard player, a drummer and a sideman playing a Chapman Stick (the short explanation of this versatile instrument is to say it’s a combination bass and guitar). He transformed Ben Harper’s “Excuse Me Mister” from a folky protest anthem into a gritty urban blues of stinging ax lines and savagely growled lyrics. Where Harper’s version implies menace with its spare, understated sneer, Martyn’s cover oozed contempt like sweat on a beer bottle.
But within the span of a few songs, Martyn was convincingly playing the sensitive balladeer on two of his better lush pop nuggets from the late ’70s, “Couldn’t Love You More” and “Sweet Little Mystery.” Though some fans may disdain this part of his career, the latter tune is a blue-eyed soul gem on par with Robert Palmer’s “Give Me an Inch,” and Martyn’s plush, velvety rendition was suitably beautiful.
The remarkable “Lookin’ On” found Martyn and crew in jazz-fusion territory, somehow condensing the melodic electric sparkle of Miles Davis’ late ’60s groups into song form. Over a warm bed of widely spaced electric piano chords and loose, spontaneous rhythm, Martyn delivered lyrics in twisted, silken melodies that could have passed for a lean, low-key form of scat.
Throughout the evening, Martyn’s still powerful, pliable voice often stole the show. A mixture of literal rendition and improvisation, his jazz-influenced singing embraced gruff baritone snarls and pure, almost tenor-high sighs with only slightly diminished agility. During a blues-rag take of Randy Newman’s “God’s Song,” Martyn howled Newman’s arch lyrics with a rafter-shattering gospel fervor that masterfully underscored the song’s fierce irony.
It would have been nice if Martyn had strapped on an acoustic guitar at some point and revisited his more intimate early material, but overall his set delivered on much of its promise and potential. And it made one ponder once again why this singular talent remains so overlooked and underappreciated.
