David Sylvian

It's always been a favorite of mine, but for some mysterious reason I'd never yet had the chance to see a concert by mr. David Sylvian, the refined composer and romantic gentleman who always seems to have dropped by chance into rock's fiery arena. It happens on a warm October evening in Rome. And even climbing the steps of a Teatro Olimpico packed for the occasion, one gets the feeling of being at a contemporary art exhibition rather than a rock concert.

An intellectual dandy, narcissistic like Bowie but without his megalomaniac, chameleon-like instincts, Sylvian has always given little or nothing away to trends and mass taste. And this evening was no exception: a performance steeped in the strictest minimalism, made of silences and shadows, as well as sounds and colors.

On a dimly lit stage, spare even in its instrumentation — two keyboards, two laptops, electronic percussion — Sylvian appears alongside his brother Steve Jansen (himself a longtime member of Japan and Rain Tree Crow) and Japanese visual artist Masakatsu Takagi, tasked with projecting images onto the two screens behind the group.

The show is split into two parts: the first devoted to tracks from the excellent "Blemish", Sylvian's latest work and his debut for new label Samadhi Sound, the second to other songs from his solo catalogue.

Contrary to what one might have expected — given the undeniable difficulty of "Blemish" and how hard it is to adapt to a live setting — it's precisely the first part that delivers the most intense moments. Sylvian runs through the album's entire tracklist with such magic and fluidity that he can even be forgiven for using pre-recorded backing tracks for Derek Bailey's dissonant guitar, one of the record's cornerstones.

Dressed in black, shy and hushed as expected, Sylvian opens with the long minimal suite that gives "Blemish" its title. One might have expected a rather lukewarm reception from the audience, especially from those who have never heard the album (which is, incidentally, hard to find). Instead — after some initial disorientation — the audience grows increasingly curious, warming the glitch coldness of the sounds with heartfelt applause.

What captivates most is the integration of music and images (small, moving impressionist watercolors that suit the "liquidly" ambient notes perfectly) and — once again — Sylvian's singing, so majestic and musical that it conjures melodies out of thin air, even raising the fleeting doubt as to whether the other instruments are needed at all...

Tracks like "The Good Son" or "The Only Daughter" give off a charm that sticks to you and never lets go, like a precious talisman. More than a concert, this Sylvian show is a "performance" - an audiovisual performance, to be exact, steeped in a minimalist-impressionist style that feeds on estranging sounds and delicate images of everyday life, gradually distorted as though seen through a warped lens.

The enchanting tenderness of "A Fire In The Forest" - the closing track of "Blemish" - acts as a watershed between the two halves of the concert, ushering in the second part: a sweep through the former Japan frontman's twenty-year career.

Never losing his composure and never raising his voice by a single decibel during the (rare) song introductions, Sylvian picks up a more reassuring acoustic guitar, while Jansen discreetly handles a drum machine. With the return of rhythm, the part of the audience left "hypnotized" (or stunned?) by the ambient-minimalist rigor of "Blemish" also "wakes up".

Old classics are recognizable: a languid "The Other Side Of Life" (from Japan's "Quiet Life"), the evocative "The Shining of Things" (one of the standout tracks from Sylvian's penultimate album, "Dead Bees On A Cake"), a bluesy rendition of "Jean The Birdman", born of his collaboration with Robert Fripp, and a well-judged medley combining the elegiac "When Poets Dreamed Of Angels" (from Sylvian's absolute masterpiece, "Secrets Of The Beehive", also represented by "Maria", but sadly not by the unforgettable "Orpheus") with the crepuscular "Cries And Whispers" (from "Rain Tree Crow"). The show closes with the disorienting "Wasn't I Joe?".

The most eagerly awaited new track turns out to be the biggest disappointment: "World Citizens", marking Sylvian's renewed collaboration with Ryuichi Sakamoto, is the first song with explicitly political content in the English songwriter's entire career. Judging by the result (a bland pop song stuffed with clichés), let's hope it's also the last.

An evocative concert, all told. Though Japan fans like myself will be left with a faint bitter aftertaste at not getting to relive the magic of songs like "Nightporter" or "Ghosts", which on other occasions had found a place in David Sylvian's live setlists.

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