โI had a dog. He died about a year ago. His name was Boss. This is for my dog. I miss my dog.โ
There he is, in his dungarees, doing his thing with a guitar and a fuzzbox, singing songs about his dead dog. On a massive, open stage in broad daylight. You might, for instance, want something a little edgier, in a more noctural setting, in a small and tightly packed venue, for Seasick Steve that the Obelisk Arena at teatime. But, strangely, he works incredibly well here in this leafy setting.
As I walk up to the Obelisk Arena, I pass a group of kids โ 6 or 7 โ miming Steveโs gutsy Blues riffs on air guitars, their faces scrunched up in mock-concentration. Elsewhere, families sit on rugs munching on their dinners, soaking up Steve in the background, and his somewhat idiosyncratic interpolation of the Blues. โWhen you get home,โ he says, โI want you to take off all your clothes. Especially your socks.โ Itโs kinda funny, extremely likable. Heโs there on stage, with a drummer, a harmonica player and a bassist โ whoโre all sitting down for much of the set, and all look like they could be played by Billy Bob Thornton in the film of Steveโs life.
He pulls out a one-string guitar โ which I think he calls โDiddley Bo,โ before announcing โIt sounds like shit.โ It looks like it was carved by Appalachian Indians at the turn of the last century, and he coaxes out of it some primal, fiery riffs. Iโm reminded, in the way he holds the crowdโs attention, of Leonard Cohen โs power over the crowd at the 02 on Thursday night. I wouldnโt wish, of course, to suggest Steve was on a par with Cohen, but thereโs something in the way one man of a singular approach to music can bewitch an audience.
We miss your dog too, Steve.
Anyway, Elbow are on now โ gotta motor.