Just in case you were in any doubt as to what sort of crowd a double live bill of Nightingales and Ted Chippington might attract, within 10 minutes of entering Le Pub I’ve overheard two men of a certain age observe, to their pals, “There are a lot of men of a certain age here.” Soon after, there’s a bit of a kerfuffle when someone takes a tumble.
Comedian Chippington is used to falling flat on his face, metaphorically speaking: indeed, he’s made a kind of career out of it, albeit one with a lengthy hiatus when he deliberately ducked for cover, worried about the questionable prospect of becoming too popular. After a handful of trademark deader-than-deadpan covers – D.I.S.C.O; Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree; sadly not his working men’s club version of the Beatles’ She Loves You – with backing band the Rockin’ Rebels, he presents a masterclass in how to subvert the art of standup while still eliciting laughs.
Recounting anecdotes about irritating neighbours and pest control that stumble to anticlimactic conclusions, telling anti-jokes that are all the funnier for not being funny, and delivering punchlines like “I once saw them supporting Throbbing Gristle,” when Chippington pulls a setlist of sorts out of his pocket he grumbles about not liking the look of anything on it. A punter interrupts a segment about atlases to talk about the manufacture of model globes. “Keep going,” Chippington replies. “I’ll need this for tomorrow night.”
It’s clear that Stewart Lee has been a keen student, but whereas his routines are meticulously crafted, Chippington comes across as a natural spontaneous performer – or skilled in concealing the artifice. Nightingales frontman Robert Lloyd, meanwhile, was the subject of Lee and Michael Cumming’s 2020 anti-rockumentary King Rocker.
Though parallels are perennially drawn between Nightingales and the Fall, Lloyd claimed he “never understood that comparison” a few years ago; “only inasmuch as us both being a couple of curmudgeonly old cunts who don’t know when to give up.” Lloyd did give up, for a period: The Nightingales formed in 1979 from the remnants of punk outfit the Prefects, split in 1986 and since being resurrected in 2004 have gigged and recorded prolifically. Lloyd has been the one constant, with a high turnover of accompanying personnel, though guitarist James Smith, bassist Andreas Schmid and drummer Fliss Kitson have become Lloyd’s regular accomplices for the last decade.
The quartet’s chemistry is evident as, over the course of an hour, they bear witness to the truth of Lloyd’s claim that Nightingales are unique and uncategorisable. In very broad terms, we’re talking postpunk, but the set also encompasses everything from rockabilly, Dr Feelgood-esque pub rock and Glitter Band glam stomp to warped near-Beefheartisms and hints of motorik.
The suited and booted Lloyd is a belligerent crooner, the Sinatra of ‘Spoons, an embittered middle manager letting it all out at a works karaoke night. His voice wobbling with sustain, he sings about fire and brimstone and namechecks Jesus and Elton John, before supplementing Kitson’s percussion by bashing on a metal beer tray. However, even this seasoned veteran of the stage is momentarily discombobulated by the loon up front who continues to throw Pan’s People shapes during a cappella section. “You can’t dance to this, mate,” he says with a chuckle.
No breaks between songs, no tedious tuning up, no encore – just a tight, focused demonstration of why this band deserve their cult status.
Nightingales / Ted Chippington, Le Public Space, Newport, Thurs 9 May
words and photos BEN WOOLHEAD
