Glasgow Barrowland Ballroom
People do not buy double albums of jazz-funk by accident, certainly not in numbers sufficient for a high place in the album chart. Jason Kay has made a lot of converts to the cause of global funkiness. The result is that Jamiroquai gigs resemble an almost believable form of pan-cultural tribalism: every haircut known to science is gathered, getting funky to an alcoholic spliff-tastic party groove -- music decorated by lyrics advocating love, being true to oneself, and hailing the revolution.
The shaman is slightly built, famous for his hats (in this case Himalayan) and for a voice which is a reedy version of Stevie Wonder. His band is an eight-strong, including three horns, plus a scratcher DJ and a didgeridoo-player. The latter made the best noise of the evening and received the biggest cheer. The rest performed with that relentless dedication for which jazz-funkers are renowned.
You already know what they sounded like without being told -- every piano chord, bass slap, guitar chop, and brass blast. A concertgoer needs to be in the mood for this and clearly the paying customers were.
Let's face it, the messages make you feel good, both about Jamiroquai and about yourself for liking them: love the world, love the people, don't take any nonsense from anyone. It's the last bit that worries me.
This Review was Originally featured in the Glasgow Herald
an article by Peter Easton
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