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This is a review from my companion at the gig

“I’ve been obsessed with Adam Green since purchasing the Moldy Peaches debut album and doing what seems to be that rarest of things, since I’ve grown out of my teens, falling head over heels in love with it.

As an ex riot grrl (apart from still loving wearing nighties as daywear and silly hairclips) have never really liked male singers.
However there is something about Adam. He is admittedly rather fine looking and his rich timbre is at odds with his pretty indie boy looks. As someone who prefers music to melodically drift over my head, thinking them as more of a carrier of the tunes rather than anything vital in themselves, both his songs and lyrics mesmerise me, there is not one without the other and there is rarely a time when his songs do not accompany me on my daily absolutions. This is not good as I work in a nursery and absent-mindedly sing hideously catchy couplets about ketamine and death.

Anyway, in a bland mediocre age of uniform singers singing forgettable songs about nothing, thank fuck for Adam Green.
He comes onstage looking like Big Bird in a slightly satanic looking top with white tassels and white jeans. He stumbles, looks befuddledly arrogant, slurs, smiles, trips then bursts into glorious rich classical numbers with tunes that transcend boundaries, style and images-songs which only last two minutes and have lyrics about fucking girls with no legs, but sung so so sweetly, that haunt and hum. I watch the bouncers eyes widen as they listen and their mouths drop. Everyone around me is terribly excited at the thought that he might be on drugs. ‘He is so fucking fucked; they murmur in admiration.
He goes through the whole repertoire of his five solo albums, each song greeted with devotion and sung along to although there are a few people who have come to the gig due to hearing him and his ex Moldy Peaches band member Kimya Dawson on the Juno soundtrack.
He dives around the stage, his only words, mumbling about haggis but it is clear that he is a star. His fellow band members help him out when he seems to forget where he is, starting songs and improvising, sometimes looking like annoyed parents when he swans off, staggering on his skinny legs waving his arms and still somehow remaining impossibly elegant and glorious. How did such a glorious voice and such a foul mouth end up in this mid twenties American who looks like a member of the Killers?
Proof that if there is a god, he has a sense of humour.
Frank Sinatra, Curtis Mayfield and Mick Jagger are channelled through this slight swaying figure-I want a wee but am transfixed, cannot take my eyes of him-I imagine it would be the same seeing a disjointed Kurt Cobain in some seedy club in Seattle but Adam suits this venue-a deconsecrated church, rich and lavish yet seedy and gloriously wrong with its selection of two hundred whiskeys and plush leather sofas where people once prayed.
Adam at the pulpit, breaks into glorious song, stumbles, forgets and beams. And he is absolved as yet another song rolls forth in all its glory. Rich, orchestral and magnificent, yet lyrics delving into the seediest of mines. He is one of those rare artists where every song is a classic, no filler, all killer as they say. I cannot even remember which particular ones he sang as every song he has ever recorded is so fully burned onto my membrane, each one following me as I walk to work, brush my teeth and go to sleep that I cannot distinguish reality from memory. I just stand in a vodka haze, watching a legend perform before me, knowing I witnessing something so very very fucking special.”

Tamar Newton

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