Live Review: Beck

Beck

If you were lucky enough to sneak into Beck's surprise gig, you witnessed an entire career boiled down to an hour and a half. Beck has always been a collector, a diminutive dude that absorbs all American music and synthesises it into cheapo knock-offs of more expensive sounds, imbuing it with soul and wit in the process. The night (and his career) was a collage, a performance demonstrating his versatility as an artist. It crossed over from his slacker west-coast junk pop younger days into his stately journeyman middle years before swinging wildly into the bizarro chrome-plated yacht-rock of his recent work.

Along for the ride was a band loaded with talent, surrounding the little guy as he popped and locked to the electro bridge of Where It's At, and shredding right along with him during the thumping swagger of Black Tambourine.

The first third of the set was devoted to a wistful collection of hay-chewin', finger-pickin' Americana. The set moved like a fat stream sliding under an evening summer sky, Beck lazily strumming his guitar on the shore. These versions of Say Goodbye and Heart Is A Drum could've been Nick Drake B-sides from Bryter Layter, given a back-beat and an American heart. It was all very pretty, but the urge to change gears was palpable. That he did, with a ferocious version of Devils Haircut that kick-started a much stronger back half (apart from Mixed Bizness, which was a mess). It was a blitzkrieg that culminated in an extended all-in roadhouse jam session of Where It's At that transformed his wry white-boy rapping schtick into a heaving celebration, a joyous parade of solos, break-beats and ridiculous dancing. It bookended an extended personnel rundown that introduced the band via short chunks of song dedicated to each instrument.

Somewhere in the middle they threw down a chunky interpretation of Think I'm In Love that slid effortlessly into Donna Summer's I Feel Love. If you could take a song and hold it up to demonstrate to those that weren't there what the night was like, that was it: a consummate professional chameleon that could transition from off-kilter gonzo pop to large-scale disco stomp without breaking a sweat under his flat brim hat.