Live Review: Father John Misty

This guy's a maniac. Either that or this is the Vegas version of a show that's been on the road for longer than sanity might require. J. Tillman, otherwise known as Father John Misty, begins to sing as the lights go up, confronting our visual and hearing senses in a matter of wonderful confusion. Tillman looks like Grizzly Adams, yet sings like an angel. As he enters into the chorus of Fun Times In Babylon, he steps back and spreads his arms wide, apparently satiated by the cheers of the audience. “It's Saturday night and I'm tired as hell,” he says. “The band had to paint two eyeballs on my face.” Tillman is unruly and hilarious and his show could be recommended purely to witness his dancing. Throwing off his jacket, he swings the microphone stand around his back, jumping and flailing around the stage. He dances as if possessed, the glitter on his cheekbones shining as he tilts his head back and runs his fingers through his hair. “My shirt came untucked!” he yells. “The show is ruined.”

Father John Misty are, excuse the cliché, a visual feast; at quick glance the drummer could be Ringo Starr and we are still wondering if Bones from Immigrant Union has dyed his hair blonde and joined up as Father John's bass player. “No more questions,” says Tillman, as a guy yells something from the crowd. “Just kidding. You guys sound… great.” You get the feeling Tillman could say anything and the audience would laugh and fawn over him. He has them eating out of the palm of his quick-witted hand, though we must admit it's nice to be involved in some good old fashion onstage banter.

Hit song Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings is left for last and the band are able to turn up their guitars and fly into some heavier distortion riffs and finally let loose. Tillman is now on the floor as if exorcising his demons, banging the ground with the palm of his hand and rolling across the stage. The song finishes with a bang (or perhaps something broke?) and they depart momentarily, before returning to smash out a hasty, magnificent encore.
What could easily be misinterpreted as a fun folk/pop romp (with the best cuts of The Fleet Foxes lunch), if you listen carefully, the music begs you to look a little further. You will notice the diverse range of instrumental styles, the difficulty of perfecting something simple, the strange, hypnotic lyrical potency and the ability to write nuanced and effective songs. There is quite the underlay of hidden genius, particularly as Tillman offers no excuses, perfecting the balance of absolute intrigue with the notion that he is, in fact, completely taking the piss. He makes the performance as important as the music. Long story short, he has a fucking good time. And so do we.