Big Al Whittle at The Maze in Nottingham: Review

Big Al Whittle walked on stage wearing a black suit, black t-shirt and black hat; something like a cross between a trilby and a homburg. He looked like an enforcer for the Corleone family or the man who crushed Paul Newman’s fingers in ‘The Hustler’. His voice was Lucca Brazzi low, hushed, vaguely threatening; he had a presence, an air of menace. He was someone you didn’t mess with in case he made a mess of you. Then he started talking about his sister and Enid Blyton, stories of when he was a kid, reading her comics, collecting the badges, wanting to be a ‘Sunbeam’; some Mafia enforcer, more like Beryl the Peril’s minder or a hit-man for ‘The Beano’.

Al treads a fine, but wonderfully slippery line, between the serious and the insane. His off hand, quiet, dead pan delivery seems to be conversational, even confidential, someone having a talk with a friend, at home in this world, while at any moment he can slide into a parallel universe, an absurd country, taking the unsuspecting with him, to a place where this world is revealed as the foolish, cruel, macabre, stupid and profoundly comic place it really is. His humour is dark, surreal, gloriously funny – not so much off the wall as round the bend and off next door’s wall.

He has all the wicked delight of a mischievous schoolboy but he’s the schoolboy your parents always warned you about, told you to avoid, and kept you from, the one who would always get you into trouble. Of course, you don’t care; you’d willingly hand over all your marbles just to stay in his shady company. He nudges you, pushes you, elbows you into places you know you shouldn’t go, areas where you have to laugh. If you didn’t laugh you’d feel uncomfortable, you might realise exactly where you were and at what you were laughing. You laugh just to feel easy, to protect your own sanity, taking comfort from the fact that the whole room is laughing so it must be all right. He does a song about George Joseph Smith, the ‘brides in the bath’ murderer, and you are laughing so much you are aching. You are laughing as you join in the chorus, ‘glug, glug, glug’ and you know it’s the last, deathly sounds of another innocent victim going under and you are going under just as fast, laughing ‘till you fall from your seat at the childish gurgle in every one of Al’s darkly satanic, gleefully enthusiastic ‘glugs’. By the time he gets to his song about ‘pubic grooming’ you are a willing accomplice, guilty by association, lost completely.

Incredibly, he has a lyrical side, a lover’s eye, a gentle touch. Somewhere beneath the comic assassin is a wounded romantic; love songs sung in a voice that didn’t just finish the drink but swallowed the glass as well.

His playing is something else. If Frank sang and Fred danced then Al plays. Boy can he play! His finger-picking is nothing short of wonderful; from waltz-time, through blues-time to rag-time, always in time and always good-time. His fingers dance like Astaire, croon like Sinatra, every note is clear, every run impeccable, every snap of a string, every bend, every run, everything tasteful, oozing quality. Every ringing, joyful note sang out, reached up and then settled in the corners of the room glowing smugly in mellow satisfaction.

This was a neat sound system with a good sound man in control and a great player taking full advantage of them both. Like ‘The Musician’ in Leicester, ‘The Maze’ in Nottingham is a terrific venue; part bar, part club, a little smoky, a little glitzy, a little undernourished, part swagger, part shadow, part Lee Marvin, part Hank; a venue that offers a good player all he or she needs to shine – all that is other than a guaranteed audience and there are no guarantees of that anywhere. The mid-week crowd was a mix of young, not so young and down right past it; the ones who knew why Al was special and those who were just finding out. Guys who looked a little pale, a little thin, girls smiling, with breasts young enough not to need support just a chaperone. Some of the older guys stood, nursing their drinks, smoking sparingly, knowing they had to go home sometime but not just yet, not while Al was still on stage, still singing, still playing.

If Ralph McTell is a national treasure then Big Al Whittle must be our buried treasure: it’s time he was better known; it’s time we dug him up and his music. Mind you, while there’s something of the night about Al, it’s no good asking him if he wants to be dug up; he’d probably write a song about it so we could all have a laugh.

Neil Dalton

Copyright 1.5.06

Big Al Whittle was appearing at The Maze in Nottingham. He is appearing at The Real-Music Club in Sharpe’s Pottery Museum, Swadlincote on Saturday April 22^nd along with Kirsty McGee and Matt Martin. Tel.: 01283 701656 for tickets.

BIG AL WHITTLE
ST PETER AND JOHN DILLINGER

Surprisingly stolid effort, complete with a few giggles, by country great.

I must admit to feeling a twinge of trepidation on first hearing the opening track, a dialogue between the Guardian of the Pearly Gates and the notorious bank robber, John Dillinger, who had been unceremoniously despatched to his maker by J Edgar Hoover’s FBI agents.  Hoover had preceded Dillinger and somewhat surprisingly had been admitted into Heaven, where he now sat on a fluffy cloud, sporting a nice frock waiting for Dillinger’s arrival, so the two could form a cosy duo for all eternity.  Lyrically quite hilarious, but the cause of concern was the apparent affected American accent, which was replaced by a Cockney one on the following track. George Joseph Smith, heavily laced with black humour as it recounted the dastardly deeds of the serial killer, hanged in 1915 for insuring the lives of a number of women whom he later drowned in the bath.  The one thing, however which persuaded me to persevere with this offering was Whittle’s guitar playing.  Crisp, clean, superbly textured, Whittle demonstrated his undoubted ability to tackle blues, ragtime, country, folk and jazz with equal ability, and by the time I had sat through all nineteen tracks, I returned to the title track with a completely changed attitude, played the entire album through again and enjoyed it far more than I imagined I could on first hearing.

Although Big Al has been around for many years, other things in life, including teaching have prevented him from turning to music more seriously.  He released a cd titled DON’T ACT STUPID AND STOP ACTING CLEVER in 2003 had added some eight new tracks to this latest offering.  His sense of humour is very much off the wall – as evidenced in self-penned numbers like Well Done Liz, Trish and The Big Red Sausage, - no doubt delivered to live audiences with a bland look of innocence while they make what they will of the innuendo.  He looks back on his childhood rather more nostalgically in Grammar School Puppy Dawg and Swimming Pool, but mixed in with sometimes zany humour Whittle reveals his more serious side in compositions like Down and Out Blues, Owl Song, Telephone Song and a couple of others.  He shows admiration for young servicemen who genuinely believe they are doing right in There is a place called America.  Apart from an excellent rendition of Jelly Roll Morton’s Winding Boy, Pretty Baby by Tony Jackson, and the closing track, Roger Brooks’ The Apartment Song, Whittle takes responsibility for the writing of all the remaining songs.

As already stated Whittle is a talented guitarist.  Many of  his songs, though well constructed are somewhat quirky, but are certain to be received well in folk clubs.  Vocally his voice is is perhaps a little gnarled and rough around the edges, but again, it suits his material.  His album is available from his website and comes with notes on each song, again displaying Whittle’s wicked sense of humour.  Despite my early reservation, should Big Al Whittle happen to appear in my area I would certainly make a point of catching his live show and I would suggest that those who favour folk, blues , ragtime and little jazz, well played and  sung by a man who appears to bubble with merriment, might find that they too enjoy a good evening’s entertainment.

MAVERICK MAGAZINE DECEMBER 2005