David Gray - London O2 Arena, 27/05/22

As a twentysomething with my own aspirations as singer-songwriter, I was always churlishly dismissive of David Gray, and I confess I have only been peripherally aware of his work since that album.  A couple of decades later, I’m treating its anniversary show as an opportunity to grow up, catch up and re-evaluate.  White Ladder struck a chord with (literally) millions, at a time when thoughtful, acoustic songsters were looking for ways to sound relevant in a musical landscape still recovering from the ravages of Britpop.  Alongside artists like Dido and Beth Orton, Gray embraced beats and electronica in ways that few of his fellow troubadours previously had.  The slow-burn success of White Ladder, and in particular the massive hit ‘Babylon’, not only marked a stratospheric rise for Gray, it also paved the way for a huge resurgence in acoustic music that would follow.  

The fashion for the classic-album-in-its-entirety show is relatively new and, having no support act, Gray splits the evening into two distinct halves; the first is a 45-minute review of his prolific career, while the second is to be reserved solely for the album that ultimately made his name.  The stage set, like the man, is unassuming and intimate, insofar as is possible in a 20,000-capacity venue.  Black backdrop, simple studio lights, black suit.  “It’s Friday night!  And I’m going nowhere!” announces the beaming 53-year-old, as he takes the mic, borrowing the opening lines of his own biggest hit.  The formalities are brief and, though Gray is excited to be finally playing this Covid-delayed run of shows (originally scheduled for 2020), he’s straight down to business, opening with 2007’s ‘You’re the World to Me’ and then ‘Be Mine’ from 2002.  Both play out so much like showstopping finales that I instantly worry what on earth the man might have left in the tank.  I’m struck by the voice, too, which seems thicker and fuller than the thin bleat of ‘Babylon’ that’s lodged in my memory.  There’s a Van Morrison bark and a joyous Paul Brady abandon around its edges which makes the words national and treasure start to flirt with one another in my brain.  But I’m trying to give up clichés.  Suffice it to say that I’m rather pleasantly surprised.  The calm abruptly follows the storm with the more downbeat ‘The Other Side’ and ‘Flame Turns Blue’ before we’re treated to a trilogy of songs from 2005’s Life In Slow Motion: the crowd-pleasing Springsteenisms of ‘The One I Love’ feed nicely into ‘Hospital Food’ and, back at the piano, the more poignant ‘Alibi’.  The set closes with the wonderful ‘Nemesis’ from the Draw The Line LP, its shimmering electric guitar line reflected by the onstage mirrorball, spinning stars all around the arena.  I have to tell you, I’m a bit sold. 

Honestly, I could have gone home happy at this point, but during the break we glimpse the stage being reset for the evening’s main course.  Gray returns in negative, sporting a white double-breasted suit, replete with flares.  The backdrop is filled with a digital screen which buzzes brightly to the now iconic drum’n’bass rhythm of ‘Please Forgive Me’.  To say the crowd erupts with excitement would be another cliché and I really must kick the habit, so I’ll just tell you that everyone on the lower level is suddenly on their feet and I can hear several thousand people singing every. single. word.  I try (and fail) to remember the last time I was at a show on this scale but I welcome the return of its infectious euphoria.  ‘Babylon’ is, of course, up next (the golden rule of these shows is that the album must and shall be played in the correct sequence) and, to understate, the megahit only further elevates the mood.  I won’t mention religious experiences but, you know. 

As White Ladder unfurls song by song, it’s easy to see why it is held dear by so many.  From its big-hitter opening, through the mesmeric ‘My oh My’ and the respective resignation and hope of ‘Nightblindness’ and ‘Silver Lining’, it has a shape and variety of pace that modern records don’t often concern themselves with in the stream-and-scroll age.  Arguably its crowning achievement, ‘This Year’s Love’, retains every aching inch of its original yearning and, fittingly, the arena is lit by a sea of mobile phone torchlights.  Winding down with ‘Sail Away’, it seems odd to think that the night will end on a cover version - Soft Cell’s ‘Say Hello Wave Goodbye’ being the album’s closing number - but of course, what better way to finish than having Marc Almond pop by to join in?  And, naturally, while Mr. Almond is in the building, it would seem impolite not to launch in to ‘Tainted Love’, wouldn’t it?  There is much handclapping and I’m trying not to dwell on how much dad-dancing is happening around me, though I’m dimly aware that I myself might be participating involuntarily. 

Everyone gets a well-deserved little sit down before Gray and his bandmates reappear for the encore.  Refreshingly, tonight it consists of two sharply delivered David Bowie covers, the evening’s sole anecdote having centred around the day Gray’s father cheered the legend up, backstage at Glastonbury.  As you do.  It’s a surreal and charming tale, lent more weight by the evening being otherwise bereft of banter.  We’re treated to ‘Life On Mars’ and ‘Oh! You Pretty Things’; the latter segueing back to the ‘Please Forgive Me’ riff, just for full-circle neatness.  Off-book, yet somehow textbook. 

David Gray’s career may have been rocket-fuelled by the success of White Ladder but, if this evening proves anything, it’s that he hasn’t let the record define it.  He may have unwittingly opened doors for others, and perhaps it would have been tempting for him to style himself as some sort of father of folktronica, but no.  Like all good songwriters, he’s simply moved forwards, armed with guitar and piano, one song at a time.  And here is David Gray, nearly thirty years away from where he started, with a consistent, enviable body of work, and a legion of fans who are happy to look back but equally eager to hear what’s next.

Review by Rich Barnard

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