Late, early, on time! Not usually an issue for press given that access is given by the bands/promoter.  Not so tonight though.  We were told 19:30 doors, support starts at 20:00.  Steve Hill was well under way when we arrived at 19:45.  The Epstein Theatre is a weird and magical auditorium, a venue designed for dance, plays and Vaudeville.  The stage is deep and wide, it lends itself to that very specific kind of stage ownership you don’t see often enough. 

I sat at the back, a usual step prescribed for reviewing.  I want to feel the hit, the presence of a performer reaching all corners of the venue. The volume was low, both from the stage and the audience.  A genuine unknown article.  Steve, Canadian, from that vast wilderness habited by our dreams and nightmares, stand alone. The guitarist, drummer, bassist and singer.  A throwback, a progressive busker, or maybe not.  There is a trend, a modern musician, that plays all parts. Freedom through technology has driven a small movement of popular artists that do it all themselves.  From Jacob collier to Seasick Steve.  Depending on your dependency a new path is being trodden in all corners of music. In 2004, KT Tunstall played a track ad hoc on Jools Holland.  She wasn’t meant to perform, someone far more famous had dropped out. She was given a small opportunity to shine, and how brightly she did. With the aid of then a fairly basic looper she provided one fo the all time highlights from a star studded catalogue of great performances.  Steve Hill is in that vein of do it yourself performers. Capable, raw, a brilliant slide guitarist with the flexibility and rhythm to go it alone.  If you close your eyes, there may as well be a four a piece resonating that old chamber on Hanover street. 

We are in time for the Ballad of Johnny Wabo, a slow jam, a tight country blues riff, with a call and response vibe.  Slowly the stomp builds, bah bah bah bah. I notice I’m foot tapping, the distortion kicks in and the energy is spilled into the benign crowd of mostly fifty somethings. They don’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve this crowd. The tempo doubles, this is a new years eve stomper, a barn burner in Victorian parlour. I can see his fever, the sweat and passion, he’s trying but the crowd are quiet by nature. AC/DC die hards from the beginning, it’s a school night and tomorrow brings responsibility.  The set slides on in this fashion, a guitar change every song, he uses the a drum stick attached to the headstock to play the cymbal, it must play havoc with the tuning.  He has the hardest working guitar tech in the business.  

Steve ploughs on, recites the social media mantra and bids adieu with more fiery blues. The crowd are mostly unmoved.  This adds to the eerie twin peaks vibe the Epstein already exudes.  The set was novel, Steve Hill is an accomplished guitarist who would do better with a band behind him. 

This Glasgow based blues band are an unknown quantity. I listened to their album 'Exile and Grace' before leaving for the gig, It’s a polished, hooky AOR affair.  I hoped like most do, that the live version might pack more swagger and power. They came on to 'Highway To Hell', the crowd clapped In time and half-heartedly sang the chorus. I felt too young too be there, I’m not young but this was a sign. A resignation of place from both the band and the crowd. Mild fun on a Thursday night, that ten minute small talk in the office the next day, it was immediately depressing, I can’t lie, I played ‘Highway to Hell’ as a cover for a particular birthday less through choice and more through restriction of capability (not mine I might add). King King, strode onto stage with the conviction of a Glaswegian entering a pub. 

Alan Nimmo on vocals and Guitar. Swaying tartan and timberland is a big man. He looks comfortable on stage, he has that Scottish American way of speaking. His voice is strong, fierce not Joe Cocker more Joe Walsh. The rest of the band don’t appear to matter, he doesn’t interact with them, there are no nods, no choreographed swaying back and forth, we are here for him, Nimmo. He’s not enough. The bass player looks out of place, the drummer looks like he is going through the motions. The vibe at the start is tepid.  A handful of cougars get up in the seats and clap and dance along, I feel I’m being too harsh but this could be Gary Barlow or Cliff Richard. The music is louder and hints at being rock, but it isn’t. “She was young and cool” he cries, I grimace. He is nearly forty. Old men in leather coats dance badly and I want to leave.  It’s not terrible, the band are tight, the sound is fine. His lead or pedal has stopped working and a tech rushes to the stage, I can see his frustration, but it confirms a suspicion I have, this is a vehicle for him. There is no attention to detail, no fire in the songs. It is a well planned, plotted performance but somewhere in that giant blues guitarist lurks a beast, a fire driven Gary Moore-esque demon.  He has the voice, he can play guitar, but rather than let go of the rope and fall into that snarling pit, he skirts around the edges of middling chord progressions and trite lyrics.  He’s not a politician he exclaims, and then sings about our broken planet. Alan Nimmo, drop the pretense, and let rip the beast within.  King King could be a lot more than they are. They are a hard working blues rock band, this cannot be taken away, they are a polished and capable group.  Somewhere within, there must be a fire that needs lighting.  At this time of writing, sadly it wasn’t to be lit tonight.