Pop Levi

Pop Levi Live at Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff.

Wow. Cheap foreign lager in pubs should really be banned, but it sure makes for a grand night after. If I wasn’t slightly inebriated Pop Levi might sound a little shallow, like a guy chasing the retro dream in an Armani suit, but now I kind of live with his songs, kaleidoscopic nuggets of a vague nature that they are.

Levi, mercifully, is only approximately one-tenth glam-posturing and nine-tenths glam, and plays his songs like he’s slightly embarrassed. It suits them well, keeping them grounded as his slight frame accentuates the unexpected fragility. This is the kind of Beatles legacy I can live with, all fuzzy cartoon hooks and slightly abashed vocals by a man with the most chiselled of chiselled beards, so much so as to be comical. Is he actually three-dimensional?

Prince has been mentioned, but on tonight’s evidence Levi doesn’t have it in him to writhe with the devil - his daughters are more than enough. ‘Pick-Me-Up Uppercut’ pleases them with androgynous kisses as Bolan’s ego is put to sleep in the meadows. Etching paths to the stars with rock’n’roll memorabilia, Pop’s a beguilingly humble proposition.

NJ

© Miwsig