Nati & Kirsten Adamson – Òran Mór, Glasgow: Live Review

By Seuras Og on 4th February 2024 • ( Leave a comment )

Nati/Kirsten Adamson @ Celtic Connections – Òran Mór, Glasgow – 2nd February 2024

Sorta a first for me, tending to flee, fast, in the opposite direction from any seemingly fully-fledged popstar, but, taking a bullet for the team, here I was, emerging every so slightly smitten. Having said, anyone whose tagline starts with the phrase “dangerously Scottish” is going to clearly catch my eye, which, together with the promise she might also perform a song or two in my mother’s tongue, well, I had to investigate……

But first, details; Òran Mór is another of those venues that invoke interest and wonder, as you read the name from a page, one of those exotic temples to music that Glasgow seems overly full of, and to bursting. An imposing deconsecrated church at the end of Byres Road, by the Botanical Gardens, it is clearly a chi-chi part of town. There’s a Waitrose and a M&S Food, each cheek by jowl. I’d taken the subway too, to get there, the oldest one in Europe, doncha know, adding to the sense of expedition. A pre-match snifter in the expansive bar/restaurant area hit the spot, before going back outside and around the corner, down some steps into, well, it would have been, I guess, the crypt.

Nominally I was here to see Kirsten Adamson, daughter of Stuart, the Skids/Big Country man, and who released a sturdy country tinged set a year or so. Like Roseanne Reid, she is carrying a torch (and twang) for 2nd gen Scottish contemporary music forms. Quite a glossy production on record, I was hoping to see something a wee bit more stripped back. Wishes granted, down to the expected minute of starting, here she was. This is a constant, I have found, for Celtic Connections, an efficiency of organisation that prides itself on prompt. Whoever wins, between HM Gov and ASLEF, for the future of railways in this country, could well do to take notes.

The epitome of cowpoke rockabilly in appearance, Adamson had three companions the night, with an acoustic guitarit, an electric guitaris and a fella with the biggest double bass this side of Danny Thompson. She, too, was toting an acoustic, launching straight into her first song. Swinging western saloon bar doors best describes the ambience and mood, a mix of sawdust and stardust. The band were competent and tight, adding a solid backdrop of vocal harmonies, those from the bassist almost preternaturally high. This song, Stitches actually predates her solo status, coming from her days with the Gillyflowers, up to over a decade ago, the realisation that dues have ben paid and audiences earnt. She has a strong voice, with just a touch of a ballsier Dolly in some of the stretched note deliveries. I like.

Keeping up a swift patter, we learned this was a reduced line-up and that, in the absence of drums, her drummer was delegated to be the guy with the mouth harp and battered six-string. If he drums as well as he plays that, that I’d like to see his percussion work. The electric guitar play was also smooth and sassy, that deft ability that makes the rapid finger and fret work, needed in this sort of music needs, look easy and without much effort. Mr bassman just looked impossibly cool, slapping away, a nascent quiff in the genesis of never quite unravelling. One of my favourites for the most recent release, Landing Place, My Father’s Songs, came fairly early. Given many present will be and were unaware of her legacy, she gave a brief and unsentimental explanation of what the song, and her father’s songs, meant to her. The odd greybeard present choked back a tear. A poignant song, it is actually uplifting and entirely free of any tawdry cliche. More of her own songs gave strength to the fact that the last thing she would ever need is to rest or rely on his reputation.

Appreciative she was the support and, thus, time a little restricted, having earlier given a hint, she then gave a slow solo airing of her father’s, literally, signature song. Consciously avoiding earlier covers of his material, it was only in lockdown, performing online living room concerts alone, that she realised it was something she could both cherish an relish. Stripped back to the bare bones, In A Big Country was achingly gaunt and gorgeous. Band back on, one final song of her own, the instructional Live Love Cry, and she was gone.

Was I now a little nervous? I was certainly unprepared, having, semi-deliberately, avoided any online cheating, avoiding the YouTube and all its myriad wormholes. A striking female bass player was preparing her set-up, and Moog bass keyboard, a drummer making preparatory strikes on his cymbals. So it was no small shock when this fireball of red hair and rolling r’s bounded on stage, muted tartan trews and the second bright green Gretsch of the week. Expecting some winsome folkstrel, this dynamo was all about powerchords and shouty vocals, yet shouty with a tune, something few can ever quite handle. Her banter between and, indeed, during songs, was as overtly in yer face as only a true star can get away with, the confidence pouring out of her, knowing, too, the material can match it. Stadium level performance in a tiny basement. Not knowing the songs, each had a life of their own, screaming her Scottishness, with the wry self-deprecation that only those, ground down by that prestige, can offer.

Freely in conversation with, definitely not talking down to, the audience, we were constantly offered choices. Did we want a slow one? Did we want a big Scottish banger one, etc etc? Each time, second guessing the response with precision accuracy, she swayed to the room view. So it was one big Scottish banger after another: “so the Scottish won, eh, that’s a first!” Swapping between guitars, each had a name, her oldest one being Wilma, named after her grannie. One slower song was Jakob, dedicated to the child of a friend of hers, or, more so, to that friend, and a song about the challenges, and in celebration of, single parenting, well done. The demonstration she could do quiet and sensitive as well was not lost on any present. As was a lilting Wild Mountain Thyme.

A version of hoary old classic, I Would Rather Go Blind, had me wondering which version had been her template, suspecting possibly Rod rather than any other. Her approach was spiky, angular and lovely. Shout outs aplenty were made for the band; it was, seemingly, Charlotte’s sole gig in that role, her regular bassist elsewhere tonight. You wouldn’t have known it, with both her musicians giving a solid foundation for the singer’s free-form associations. And Nati, the name, she having dropped the Dreddd vanity addition, what was that all about? Having mistakenly introduced herself to the audience, in her “Sunday name,” Natalie, it became apparent she had been given that original name, to fit around what everyone always anyway called her, after the Marley song, that had been her father’s favourite.

“Do yous want a Gaelic song” is maybe not much heard outside folky trad circles, and she wasn’t just pandering to the Celtic Connections component of the crowd, either, because, a, she is well known for it and, b, they/we certainly did. As someone who is always up for some Gaelic song, this was an especial delight, and she let neither me, herself or the language down. And there’s me thinking lvery ittle of Gaeldom stretched into the kingdom of Fife.

Sometimes the sell from the stage can be intrusive, even with the understanding how important merch is to the economic viability of any touring musician; Nati made it near as entertaining as her songs, deserving the pride of place in the setlist, below. Following that with some stanzas of that Horny Horny Horny song seemed an unexpected choice of cover, even if, by now, the unexpected was showing itself to be her lodestone. However, as she and the song dissolved in raucous giggles, she was clearly and enjoyably playing both with us and herself. (Memo to self: watch these mixed messages.)

I really enjoyed this set, yes, against all expectation, pre-convinced my demographic would be entirely wrong. Fortunately, my prejudiced presumptions were able to show me, praise be, quite the size of the faultline in my thinking. Luckily a fair few of the wrong demographic were also drawing similar conclusions. The combination of her youthful exubarance, natural blazing talent, and being entirely likeable, can do this girl no harm whatsoever. (I can’t wait to tell my daughter about her, for one, she being another feisty ginger.) Given I had toyed with leaving after Adamson, I am so glad I didn’t. A rousing encore should have ended the show, but her extended greet and meet, sigbings and selfies, took near as long as the show. Colour me converted.