Live Review: Glenn Richards, Lucky Oceans

It had been raining all day and the outlook wasn't great for a night in the beautiful courtyard of the Fremantle Arts Centre but by no small miracle, the heavens gave way and allowed Glenn Richards to take the stage, accompanied by pedal steel guitarist and now ABC broadcaster Lucky Oceans, who, in addition to playing backing guitar, assumed the role of Richards' interrogator for the evening.

This was as intimate as any gig could get; the subtle downward slant of the courtyard meant the audience was sat up close and personal with Richards, who was surprisingly comfortable to share such stories as his escape from Shepparton as a young man, to the awkward beginnings of Augie March — including all the ups, downs and in-betweens.

There Is No Such Place, usually reserved for the end of most Augie March gigs, at once charmed the reverent audience. Despite a mild coughing fit after inhaling a waft of pollen only moments before, Richards was sounding impeccable, and the courtyard echoed the rusty Australian hue of his voice perfectly.

Between songs, Oceans elucidated Richards' many thoughts on what informed his creative processes. Speaking of 2008's less appreciated Watch Me Disappear, Richards remarked: "We allowed people to suggest things that were always anathema to us," but upon playing The Slant, it was clear that, although the album was beset by many hardships, it wasn't possible to extinguish the lexical genius uniquely inherent in Richards' craft.

Slower and more delicate renditions of hearty classics This Train Will Be Taking No Passengers and The Cold Acre gave Richards a chance to explore his impressive vocal range, adding minor twists that gave the evening its especially rare edge.

Turning back to Barfly Prometheus from solo album Glimjack gave the audience an insight into Richards' disillusionment with his then life in Melbourne. A brief stint with alcoholism ultimately saw him, in his own words, "exiled to the broken bit outside imperium" or otherwise "move to Tasmania". The upheaval obviously did him wonders, as Oceans admiringly compared him to the likes of Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, both of whom it could be comfortably said that Richards is an infinitely better singer than.

For all his nervousness that one could mistake for a tired indifference, Richards' reflections on his remarkable career as a musician in the end gave rise to gratitude, and closing with the country's favourite lament, One Crowded Hour, he concluded: "It's a nice song, and I don't mind playing it over and over."