Eels + Nicole Atkins

The years pass by unmoved, and Eels remain one of those bands destined to divide fans and critics alike. The substantial, warm hardcore of devoted followers shows no sign of thinning with time, just as certain critics never seem to tire of hurling excessive vitriol at anything released by the California-based outfit. Setting aside the legitimate but narrow logic of factional squabbling, some considerations remain on the table that frame, with the greatest possible fairness, one of the few genuine phenomena of American alternative rock still standing today, free of both idolatry and gratuitous spite. Even the most enthusiastic aficionado would struggle to deny that the eccentric Mark Oliver Everett has perhaps come to rely a little too heavily on his own survival instincts, essentially coasting and limiting himself to reshuffling, with only minimal variations in form, the same handful of (excellent) pop songs album after album. If we set aside, for a moment, an affection for the man that by now goes back almost two decades, it must be acknowledged that no truly essential Eels record has come along since the now-distant "Blinking Lights and Other Revelations", a genuine masterpiece of autobiographical honesty. By the same token, any detractor who wanted to dispute the claim that Mr. E and his trusted band of collaborators still manage to put together consistently enjoyable and original shows would have an immense, and ultimately futile, task ahead of them. It's simply a fact that leaves very little room for idle quibbling or contrarian footnotes.

Over the years we've had the chance to see him live in the most varied of guises, from the elegant chamber-music dress, complete with string quartet, of the "Eels With Strings" tour, to the surrealist pop-rock of the "No Strings Attached" one, from the intimate diary of "An Evening with Eels" to the electric ice-cream parlour of the "Tremendous Dynamite Tour", on the occasion of his most recent Italian stop, once again at Alcatraz in Milan. So while a general sense of what to expect seems a given, considering the noisy tilt of the latest studio effort ("Wonderful, Glorious") and the choice of a venue that rules out any symphonic frills from the start, there's still a fair amount of uncertainty in play, as well as plenty of curiosity among the crowd that has travelled here from all over the country (islands included, as we can personally attest). So caught up are we in fantasizing about the stage antics and scripted surprises that will soon, we're sure, leave us stunned, that we completely forget to consider the matter of a possible opener, not least because on the poster advertising this "Natural, Spectacular Event", alongside the ever-present little bird (here bearded and sporting sunglasses) and the enticing teaser "Hold on to your hat!", there's no mention of any Special Guest. Nor does anything change when we spot a huge, made-up (and vaguely unsettling) figure pushing through the crowd toward the barrier at centre stage, moving with surprising agility amid general scepticism. The thought crosses our minds that this might be some belated carnival stunt, staged for pure showmanship. The house lights, still on, only reinforce our ability to read the situation clearly, though it must be said that our irritation at the polar temperature of the venue (requested by Mr. E himself) isn't exactly doing our clarity of mind any favours.

And yet, no. It's not every day you find yourself cheering on a guy got up like the sinister stunt double of the notorious John Wayne Gacy, on his unstoppable march toward the microphone at centre stage. But then again, an Eels show has always been a world apart, one where a bassist (Honest Al, who back then was Krazy Al) might do absolutely anything – from menacing bodyguard to lunatic breakdancer – except actually play his instrument. So the misunderstanding is quickly turned on its head, and we find ourselves making the acquaintance of Puddles, a monumental opening act with an innate gift for the outlandish, and his absurdist circus routine dubbed "Puddles' Pity Party". The bizarre character's set runs no longer than twenty minutes or so, but it's more than enough to intrigue the crowd and earn thunderous applause. From a theatrical, nonsensical opening built entirely around a caricature of shyness, all the way to the final standing ovation, Puddles wins the audience over performing unlikely covers over backing tracks with a downright astonishing baritone voice, ideally suited to the seasoned crooning of the ice-breaking number, "Lonely Guy" (by Dexter Romweber), but no less fitting for the populist metal of "Enter Sandman" or the pop apotheosis of Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go on" (yes, really). A sketch of sublime kitsch, then, made all the more delicious by the performer's world-weary melancholy and his mournful clichés (from a Russian-doll set of suitcases to an absurdly long-stemmed flower and the inevitable box of tissues), not to mention the wild support of his comic sidekick, Monkey Zuma, an erotomaniac Minnie Mouse in a monkey mask, busy dancing, downing 66cl bottles of beer (lovingly served to her by the clown singer) like baby bottles, hurling bananas at the crowd or using them to mime obscene acts. A delirious yet featherlight preview, closed out by Puddles' mournful exit through the same aisle in the crowd, this time walking backwards, into a darkness lit only by his old lantern.

Having grasped the burlesque streak so dear to the Eels frontman, we find ourselves suitably won over, and we're pleased to see so many in the crowd already calling the band to the stage. But when a flustered young woman in a coat appears instead of the band of rowdies, the surprise is twofold. First of all, because we had no idea a second act had even been booked, especially for a set that seems to have very little to do with what we've just enjoyed, or with the main show itself. And second, because we recognise that face instantly, even though we never imagined we'd find her standing right in front of us tonight. It's Nicole Atkins, the New Jersey singer-songwriter who was touched, a few years back, by a fleeting (if always fairly modest) taste of success thanks to Columbia's backing of her debut album "Neptune City", before vanishing just as quickly into the forgotten ranks of indie artists burned out too soon. Her being sidelined was a real shame, not least because from the ashes of that decent, glossy retro-pop singer a promising songwriter was destined to rise – the one who, a couple of years ago, delighted a small but devoted crowd with her second effort, "Mondo Amore", marking a hugely important turning point for her. And it's precisely this more traditionalist musical incarnation that shapes the guise in which Atkins presents herself for her first-ever Italian date, a detail that's at the very least curious, given that her grandfather was from Palermo. Barefoot on a small rug, full-blooded, all heart, and singing with her voice at the peak of its powers, she enchants a crowd that is decidedly not here for her. Just her voice and her red guitar, played dry and jittery, stripped of anything superfluous, for a short but touching performance that leaves her visibly moved as well. Songs from her debut revisited in this raw, sincere guise, two of the best tracks from her sophomore record, a gorgeous cover of "Crying" (by her guiding light, Roy Orbison) and an enticing unreleased track destined for the new "Slow Phaser", due by year's end. Not bad at all for an unexpected gift.

The stage reset happens so quickly that the horde of photographers packed like cattle into the gap between us and the stage doesn't even have time to clear out. As the lights go down, Eels walk on one by one, greeted by joyful shouting, and if it weren't for where each one heads to their instrument, it would honestly be hard to tell them apart. All five are decked out in Adidas from head to toe – dark blue tracksuits plus white shoes (whether it's a joke or a sponsorship deal is hard to say) – looking like a genuine team, complete with Ray Ban-style sunglasses and the obligatory beards. Trusty Knuckles settles comfortably behind the drums on the left-hand riser and kicks things off, P-Boo, Honest Al and the ever-reliable Chet take up the raised section at the back, while E bursts in with his inseparable pale-blue Danelectro amid a roar of applause, just in time to launch into "Bombs Away" (an almost inevitable choice to open with, from the new record). And it's an excellent fuzz-blues launchpad the Eels serve up in the name of "Wonderful, Glorious", with three ferociously effective songs from that album followed in quick succession by a wild cover of Fleetwood Mac's "Oh Well" (with Everett playing the part of an exorcist master of ceremonies, maracas in hand) and by the howls of "Tremendous Dynamite". "Are you enjoying the rock?" he then asks, in a devilish voice, before announcing a couple of numbers "for the ladies present", which by the end of the night will indeed prove to be mere diversions. The intimate tone, so distinctly Eels, of songs like "On The Ropes" or "The Turnaround" remains a pleasant confirmation of the frontman's Jekyll-like side, though this time round it's boxed in on both sides by its noisy, feral counterpart. What follows is a trio of songs that reads as an all-too-explicit statement of intent, running through the heavyweight likes of "Peach Blossom", the timely revival of the werewolf of "Prizefighter", and a "New Alphabet" slowed down to an agonising, narcotic crawl.

Despite this clearly defined expressive direction, the mood stays jovial and boisterous, drifting ever further into unbridled farce. Right on cue at the end of every song, Mark invites one of his bandmates up for a hug, thereby softening that domineering, menacing shroud that so many of the songs drawn from the latest studio album help conjure up. The peak of this carefree, larking-about mood arrives with a sparkling cover of Small Faces' "Itchycoo Park", followed by the grand introduction of the musicians and the madcap "renewal of vows" ceremony between E and Chet, after ten years spent touring the world together. Knuckles is the joke minister who officiates the rite and seals it by singing Bette Midler's saccharine "Wind Beneath My Wings", while the bandmates clasp hands in a moment of rare hilarity. All great fun, though the constant comic interludes inevitably end up sapping the show's momentum, with too many pauses and an excessive fondness for tomfoolery. While there's no doubt this now well-seasoned line-up has reached impressive levels of live chemistry and technical skill, legitimate doubts remain about what increasingly looks like the great absence of the evening: the setlist. It wouldn't take much at all to set an electrified but still not quite adoring crowd alight: proof of that comes in the revisited versions of the older "Fresh Feeling" and "The Sound of Fear", twisted into funky reworkings so as not to stray from the show's blissfully playful tone.

"Souljacker, Part I" seems to hint at the start of a more substantial recovery operation, entirely for the fans' benefit, but the "Wonderful, Glorious" that follows dashes that hope, unfolding instead as a rowdy knees-up that already carries the whiff of closing credits. It's no accident that the band leaves the stage amid raucous cheers, while die-hard nostalgics are left with nothing but the hope of an encore. That hope, too, is dashed by the unexpected performance of "I'm Your Brave Little Soldier", a lightweight outtake from the latest record that confirms Mr. E has, on this tour, chosen without hesitation to look to the present rather than the past. Freeze-dried and forced to cohabit in an eyebrow-raising mash-up, "My Beloved Monster" and "Mr. E's Beautiful Blues" feel like a token gesture, teasing rather than satisfying. After one more farewell and a further return, Eels are far more intense on the titanic, sinister "Fresh Blood", which, amid blinding strobes and howls, closes out an enjoyable, eventful show that nonetheless falls short of expectations. The house lights come back up, some listless background music starts playing, and roadies in grey Adidas tracksuits rush in to clear away rugs and a tangle of cables. It looks like it's all over, and Alcatraz empties by more than half in short order. But anyone who's followed Everett and co. for a while knows full well that the band has the pleasant habit of coming back out after a few minutes for proper goodbyes. The tradition holds, at least that much: the five reappear to send off the most die-hard members of the crowd with the rock racket of "Dog Faced Boy" and a chaotic romp titled "Go Eels", joined, in the role of self-appointed keepers of order and silence, by a fired-up Puddles and his Monkey Zuma. It all ends in cheerful pandemonium, right on script. Three nights later in Vienna, Mr. E will try to outdo himself with a particularly violent staged confrontation between himself and the clown, though the band's followers, judging by online comments, don't seem too keen on it. For those who have always sided with great music over modest theatre, none of this really comes as news. But when the balance tips so heavily toward the latter at the expense of the former, a few complaints seem not just fair, but warranted.

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