It's a measure of the energy and talent of Jack L that he can start with the proto-psycho rock of Howl At The Moon and still have time to lay waste to the remainder of the set with nary a sign of fatigue. If Jack L shows aren't exactly the marathons they're made out to be, then they are certainly the most overtly dramatic and luxuriantly romantic.
Smartly dressed and backed by an above average band and an occasionally supportive cellist, Jack L's remarkable stage presence is fitfully matched by his voice, which is surely the most under-appreciated in Irish rock. It soars and whispers in equal parts, never histrionic and frequently hymnal. The songs themselves are easily sectioned off into two distinct types, an inherent danger in most cases but in Jack L's more an advantage than otherwise.
The first type is Waits/ Beefhart amalgams, angular, psychotic beasts that veer dangerously close to self-parody. If it wasn't for the shuddering strength of his voice, they would be lost in the glare of ironic smugness. The second is wayward ballads which, bolstered and propulsed along by the deep keening of the cello, are resonant reminders of the absolute power and glory of the popular torch song.
Separately (and in plain black and white terms) the forms appear unhappy bedfellows, but in the capable hands of Jack L, they are transformed into two lovebirds eyeing each other up for right old rutting session. Result? A happy audience drifting into the night, singing the chorus to A Rooftop Lullaby . . .
