John Grant’s appearance at Bristol Beacon comes a while after the release of his latest album, The Art of the Lie. Initially scheduled for October, it was delayed by illness. However, Grant more than makes up for lost time with a show that envelops onlookers with his intriguing blend of electronica, evocative wordplay and intensely personal song writing. He prowls onto stage in a neon orange baseball cap, shades and a long black gown, a keytar strapped onto his waist. His first three songs – All that School for Nothing, Black Belt and the gorgeous Marz, immediately display that Grant has the powerful catalogue to fire into.
Songs from the new album manage to stir the crowd as well as any older, better-known material. All That School for Nothing surges with P-funk energy, Grant’s voice streaming through a vocoder like Herbie Hancock’s late-70s phase. The influences are clear, with Prince-esque rhythms and the kind of groove that echoes Parliament’s Aque Boogie. This contrasts nicely with the regretful sadness of Father, where he yearns for a reconnection with his parents, and the sinister, squelchy synth bassline of Meek AF. The glitchy, awkward funk of It’s a Bitch, meanwhile, offers what must surely be the only lyrical references to both “encephalon” and “medulla oblongata” in popular music.
The latter demonstrates Grant’s beautiful gift for razor sharp lyricism, whereby obscure references come across as smart rather than clever-clever. With the the house stomp of Black Belt he spits that “You are callipygian, but look at the state you’re in”, a phrase that can only possibly work against a 4/4 to the floor beat. Elsewhere there are heart-breaking allusions to his sexuality and a deep awareness of his own failings.
The gig ends up falling somewhere between sinister basement rave and church piano recital. When Grant is in full electronica mode, as in It’s A Bitch, the seating arrangements at the Beacon cannot contain those who strain to get up and dance awkwardly in the aisles. Grant admits to ruining the atmosphere, “as I am wont to do”, by then sitting down at a grand piano for a series of doleful ballads. Audience members howl messages of love at him, to which he can only reply “I love you too, baby.”
When it doesn’t quite click, Grant can stray into a meandering mournful melancholia, something his post-Pale Green Ghosts albums could be guilty of. However, the latest album gets Grant back in the sweet spot between introspective lyricism and dancefloor-adjacent, captivating sounds. The band boulders through a superb version of Chicken Bones from early album Queen of Denmark, before a soaring encore of GMF. When he’s on this kind of form, he offers something very few others can.