This gig took place on 31/1/2024
I was kindly invited down to the Fraser gig at Crofters Rights at the end of January by Connor and Brandon of Alpaca, and I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I’d spent the week looking for work and nursing a sore throat, so hoped for a fairly straightforward evening. I was fairly aware of one of the support acts – Sam Paul, a woozy bluesy singer-songwriter who I’d met a year or so ago. The main support – Foxwhelp, were another unknown to me.
Before the gig began I spoke to the Alpaca team, and got to meet Oscar – apparently Connor’s better half, depending on who you ask. I swallowed my cough as I listened to him tell me a bit more about the night’s show, apparently knowing the Fraser frontman from an old job. One drunken conversation later, he’d booked them for a headline show at Crofters. It’s who you know, I guess.
We stumbled into the room just in time for The Sam Paul Band easing into their first song. There’s something to Paul. His naturally laid back sensibilities perhaps at odds with what you’d expect from a frontman, but in truth its a reflection of the inward looking singer-songwriter he is.
Rather his stage presence is remarkably comforting, making space in his performance for the audience to latch on to. Paul’s sleepy blues are entirely mood driven, every time the organ goes out on its own, and every time the brass swells, it gets through to an audience who have been drawn in by this group’s unassuming exterior.
All the band, from crooning horns to a lilting organ are on the same page with this brilliant, distinct artistic direction. The end result is a deeply romantic one, where his songwriting shines. Among the highlights is I Won’t Always Be There – Paul caressing the refrain in his husky voice, with his his band singing like a sleepwalking choir behind him.
For my sins I snagged a setlist from Sam after the show. It revealed what could have been – an encore of Folsom Prison Blues, but Paul and his band sadly found themselves out of time after what became their brilliant closer – Going Home, a sort of soulful version of Another Girl, Another Planet featuring a to-die-for trumpet solo.
After a brief break we, the assembled masses, returned for Foxwhelp, a mysterious alt folk threesome. The singer, John, stood centre stage, flowing mane of brown hair and thick beard, he was a striking and refreshingly unabashed storyteller.
Their first song was dark and domineering. To his left, a five string viola loomed and groaned. To his right a five string banjo that coloured in the picture with loose fingerstrokes.
But the atmosphere soon lightened and the tension dissolved, John rather opting to speak in a very down to earth way about the show and the group’s music. His instrument had six strings – a Japanese Epiphone acoustic guitar he had rescued from the Hobgoblin guitar shop on Park Street. Half broken on acquisition, it took him nearly a year to get it gig ready, but well worth the wait for how well it compliments the rest of the band.
John noted how the songs appeared on the setlist in pairs, seemingly two sides of a thematic coin, and I thought that observation contributed to a bit of a throwback vibe to him and the rest of the group.
While their subject matter was sometimes reflexive, the vulnerability of their structure and performance lends a remarkable candour to the group. Matched with a truly beautiful soundscape and clear aesthetic philosophy, it was the honesty of the experience that led me on my own internal journey through the gig.
They closed with Dead Ferns, a love song that walks hand in hand with death, a duality much explored by the band, and it was as the last chorus rang out that the romantic nature of each song stood out to me.
I caught up with John after the show, he waxed lyrical about his Epiphone, until it was time for the headliners – Fraser.
Led by trusty principle songwriter Al Fraser Green, the five piece built their set slowly. They opened with slow songs and thin soundscapes, allowing Green’s lyricism space to breath. The opening of the set also featured the curious application of a screwdriver on the lead guitar.
To generate these soundscapes their percussion was sparse, and the screwdriver half slid and half bowed the guitar, which washed out over Green’s careful vocals. The mood rose gingerly until the drums kicked in during their third song, when the full nature of Fraser’s music revealed itself.
Steeped in a post-britpop tradition of the 00s, Fraser’s music was sleek and stylish. One standout song was That Hurricane, which, as its name might suggest, came with a mighty crescendo, and as a collective Fraser were able to up the ante with each song, that revealed more about Green himself each time.
To be able to commit that to an audience comes with a level of implicit trust. It’s a romantic idea really, that you can throw a rope around those who’ve gathered in front of you and say that what happens here is special and I’m going to be honest with you and I know that you’re going to be able to understand me.
And then, just as the show reached its climax, it seemed Al couldn’t go on any longer, his voice had gone, and it was too painful to carry on.
So a tragic end for our romantic hero, but he and the crowd were in good spirits regardless as we filtered out into the wet Bristol night.
The romanticism of the songwriter, writing either directly or by degrees about truth, their truth, has always been a key part of performance, and it was on full display last night. Each act had a keen sense of the mood they wanted to instill in the room that night but it’s another thing to execute it, and then another altogether for that mood to lull an audience under their spell. If you’re looking for your next musical valentine, look no further than these three.
You can listen to Sam Paul, Foxwhelp, and Fraser on Spotify!
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