Patrick Wolf + Cranes

Enchantment is that something that catches you by surprise, that torments you, that shatters you. It's purity elevated to the highest degree, it's closing your eyes and sketching the notes with your mind. Enchantment can only be brushed against, it grazes the mind rarely, but when it does, it's instant magic. In its highest moments, you feel a bit like Stendhal, right up to reaching "that level of emotion where the celestial sensations given by the arts meet passionate feelings."

Stendhal was talking about Santa Croce in Florence; we'll be talking about a concert, but the substance doesn't change.

The Abbey of Sesto al Reghena is an enchanting place: a medieval bell tower looms over the fortress, and a small river almost turns it into a fortified stronghold. Purple and fuchsia lights caress the packed square, the bells chime nine o'clock, and, ever so shyly, Cranes make their entrance. Alison Shaw appears in a long black dress, her hair gathered up with a few strands falling to the sides, her face betraying genuine embarrassment, her voice childlike. So begins the Cranes' concert, in reverent silence: the acoustic guitar swaying, drums marking the pulse with gentle assurance, a bass stirring up an underlying tension, and that extraordinary voice that seems to speak straight from the heart. The immortal "Everywhere", in its ecstatic ebb and flow, paints the square in pastel shades, the resolute drive of "Shining Road" sets it alight, and "Jewel" brings reassurance.

An hour of pop enchantment, a dream that colours the sky, stars gradually peeking through. They take their leave just as they arrived, with a whispered "thank you".

The wait for Mr. Wolf is a long one. At eleven at night the English enfant prodige appears decked out like a vulture, swathed entirely in a black cloak covering his head, a dangling cord crowning it, and his face heavily made up. A little intimidated, he sits down at his piano and conjures up his spell. An incredibly powerful voice, masculine and thunderous, tears through the night. Often turning his eyes to the moon, the bleach-blond English musician caresses the piano, pulling it towards him in a gesture of affection. The violinist accompanying him rises to the occasion, and the interweaving sounds ripple, swell and come alive.

There's no room for pauses, except to tune the instruments, and "Augustine", "Damaris", "Wind In The Wires", "Bluebells", "Tristan", "Who Will", "The Magic Position", "Hard Times", "Theseus", the stirring "Teignmouth" and many others - including a cover of "Hyperballad" by Bjork - all fly by in a flash. The enchanting sonic interplay flows with dazzling naturalness, and Wolf proves himself a true entertainer as well as a sublime performer. And there we stood, open-mouthed, through ninety perfect minutes of pure genius: a guitar here, a violin there, then back to the piano, the ukulele, and on again.

He takes his leave looking almost moved, promising he'll be back. A sublime, all-consuming experience, an enraptured, emotional audience applauding him again and again through to the final standing ovation. We're counting on it, Mr. Wolf - we really are.

Thanks to Stefano Colombini © for kindly providing the photo.

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