You also can鈥檛 fault his songwriting. A long time past, he used to share a stage with his old friend Jarvis Cocker, filling in the occasional shift on guitar for a fledgling Pulp, and it鈥檚 easy to hear how he has the same ear for melody and drama, though he filters it through a much more mature form. Yet while his old mate is glamming up, growing his hair and playing the Hogwarts Ball, Hawley is still stuck playing lower-tier student venues, and you have to ask why. Slicked, quiffed and suited like an early Elvis, he strikes the laid-back pose of front man with ease, and his South Yorkshire wit, as dry as weathered granite, prologue every song with a wonderfully comic tale of how it was written or what it means; be that how after 364 dreary days, one great night out can鈥檛 save a relationship, or what it feels like to be stuck in a dinghy, afloat the Cornish sea, far away from the tape recorder you need to note down the melody in your head. Even without his self-deprecating stand-up, Hawley鈥檚 music is spellbinding stuff. Simple chords make lush beds for his deep, dark chocolate of a voice, toned as if it came from another mouth completely. It may not be upbeat ("I'm going stagediving in a bit," proclaims one music aficionado wryly), but like Morrissey, the beauty of it unfurls all the more gloriously with a slower tempo. Last time Hawley played Manchester, it was as support to Nancy Sinatra at the Bridgewater Hall. With his powerful honesty, luxuriant songs and genuine charisma, he deserves to have another shot at the venue, only this time at the top of the bill. |
