Coping

For some, Julian Cope deserves the slightly over-used accolade, ‘National Treasure’ but, at the Guildhall on Thursday, I saw only a fellow, old enough to know better, wearing a daft ‘tit for tat’, trying desperately – too desperately? – to shock and consistently failing to move this punter on any significant level. One or two of numbers hit the right spot, in particular a luxurious You Disappear From View played on the mellatron, but overall I was disappointed. He was alright. A fairly dull evening was redeemed by a rather remarkable stand-off between the self-styled, ahem, Arch Drude and a slightly sad dreadlocked maid who had been yelling mundane tripe at Cope all night. Saint Julian finally cracked as the new age type attempted to hijack a sensitive rendition of Sunspots by shouting out some more meaningless tosh or other. A plaintive cry of ‘Shut the **** up!’ commenced a tirade that saw the Krautrock-admiring antiquarian branding the wench a fascist and informing her, with no little aggression, that he wanted her to leave. The former leader of The Teardrop Explodes ended his tirade by comically jumping up and down while he chanted ‘Get out! Get out!’ at the bewildered bellower. The poor love fled the auditorium in tears. Her numerous humdrum ejaculations had rankled; his petulance exposed him as spoilt and graceless. Neither party emerged with any real credit but it proved splendid theatre on a night that nothing much else caught the eye or ear.