Seeing B.C. Camplight When You Think You’re Gonna Die

First, a confession: I am writing this review eighteen months after it happened. Hot off the press, eh? 

I was going to lie and pretend it was written the next day and that you, dear reader, only stumbled on it now, thereby making you the Johnny-come-lately rather than me the… tragically unprofessional “reviewer”. 

But then I thought I could spin this astounding contravention of usual journalistic practice into a uniquely dick-ish positive: namely, what is the truest review? The head-swirling one, all aflutter from the ambush of the moment? Or the one that stays with you for life - the one that gets repeated for years… the lasting, monolithic record? 

So here is my LMR of BCC (my Lasting Monolithic Record of B C Camplight, for those half asleep at the back). 

It took place on a moored boat, The Thekla, in Bristol on Wednesday 27th November 2019. One reason I’ll never forget this gig was that I was undergoing tests to see if I had lung cancer and pessimistically thought it likely I would suffer an early death. Not a glamorously early one but a rather MOR tragedy, the kind where people wince slightly and say, ‘Still, it’s no age, is it?’ 

I was returning from a long weekend in Nottingham celebrating the 30th anniversary of the DiY sound system when I started coughing up blood - the traditional sign that someone’s about to die in cheap dramas. A doctor highlighted a mysterious shadow on my lung and I was being fast-tracked through some tests. 

I remember leaning up against this ludicrously posh radiator we’d just had installed, looking at my tiny son and thinking, ‘This pretentious heap of junk will be warming you long after I’ve gone cold.’

Let’s face it, everything outside of your health is utter bullshit. Except perhaps music; and it’s here that I steer this review out of the dank mausoleum of my mind and back into the raucous epicentre of booming life - the stage! 

So as I (and my potential widow-in-waiting) stepped onto the boat that night, what did I already know about B C Camplight, AKA Brian Christinzio? 

Well, I’d been enjoying his album ‘Deportation Blues’, a pretty unique concoction that manages to sound both traditional and unconventional, accomplished and ramshackle, all at the same time. It’s listed as ‘Indie and Lo-fi’ but there’s strong overtones of rockabilly with his chugging piano and Orbisonic, sweet falsetto. But then there’s also some acidic, wavering and unstable synth sounds carrying addictive hooks. It’s like a mid-air collision of the past and the future. 

Aeronautical analogies are pertinent here because planes figures highly in this guy’s story. Not only is his latest album called ‘Shortly After Takeoff’, but his backstory is an unusual tale of chance migration and forced repatriation. 

Having been dropped by the One Little Indian label, after two promising albums, he lost faith in himself. He turned to booze and drugs for comfort and ended up squatting in an abandoned church in Philadelphia. 

It was then that a zealous fan wrote to him from Manchester, begging him to take a room there and revive his mojo. Casting his fate to the winds, he agreed and, effectively, did a Nico - became a Yank in Manc  - taking his stirring muse to the city of The Smiths, Joy Division and Factory Records.

‘But there’s something about Manchester Town,
And the silly little things she makes me do,
Oh lord, a pretty little city innit?
I’m in a weird place now.’

I love how, with those lyrics, he’s the cuddly American tourist, enjoying the quaint little charms of  Manchester ‘Town’ with a benevolent paternalism. 

He then flourished in the rainy city, producing the album ‘How To Die in the North’ and getting it signed to Bella Union. But trouble was still stalking young Brian: in 2015 a leg injury meant he overstayed his visa and was forced to quit the UK just prior to numerous prestige appearances. It was like his muse was kicking him the balls to produce more music because, without that debacle, we wouldn’t have the magnificent ‘Deportation Blues’ (2017). 

So here we are today (or, rather, eighteen months ago) when B C and the band lumbered out onto the stage whilst I wondered how much longer I’d be on the planet. 

As a physical prospect, Brian Christinzio sports the ubiquitous trinity of beard, baseball cap and beer-gut, resembling an extra from The Dukes of Hazzard. As a look it’s ten-a-penny - the go-to get-up for the portly gentleman who’s not so fair of face. However, as soon as he opens his mouth you feel you’re in the presence of the real deal - a wise-cracking American eccentric who commands from centerstage with aplomb. He is someone who can use the word ‘Douchey’ a lot and get away with it. 

‘I should say from the start I only have three fears in life: people looking at me… crowds… and boats. So this is going to be interesting.’ 

He then launched into a set that seemed to hold up to the records pretty well. Sometimes he’s a powerhouse bellowing whilst pounding the piano, other times his voice snakes between doo-wop stylings or that beautiful, lovelorn falsetto that makes you feel he’s got the finesse of a truly great artist. 

After a couple of numbers, he confessed he felt lost without his usual sunglasses on stage. Someone hurled him a pair which were donned for the rest of the show. A hat, dark glasses and beard are not very far from being a joke-shop disguise; I mean, the head and face are almost totally obscured, and sometimes I feel a little cheated by that as I want to see a performer’s every expressive manoeuvre between vulnerability and invincibility. Perhaps he really is afraid of crowds, despite his bearing as a gritty truck-stop Pete. 

I think it shows he is a man of great sensitivity. One of his songs, for instance,  is a tender paean to his dog. However, the most spell-bindingly gentle and entrancing moment of the set came with the song ‘Just Because I Love You’.  Redolent of the Stylistics, ‘You Make Me Feel Brand New’ in its light-as-a-feather harmonies, it created a stillness on the boat, wrapping us up in its gossamer veil, within which I thought again of my own mortality: ‘Could this be the last time I feel such quiet communion at a gig?’ 

Such is the power of music, that salvation from my grim introspection came in the form of a rousing song that spoke directly to me that night… the unequivocal ‘Am I Dead Yet?’ Whatever his intention in that song, the stark, hectoring phrase ‘Am I dead yet?’ was like ice water flung in my troubled face. 

‘Of course! Of course I’m not actually dead … not yet… and who’s to say the tests will come back bad? And even if they do, I might be around for years still.’

It is often said that music is a celebration of life. Well, I felt that sense in extremis during that song. Through those chords and melodies, B C Camplight was saving my life, at least temporarily and, without question, I went home far happier than I came out. So thank you, Brian. 

So as you can tell, I did survive, unless this has been ouija-ed in from the great beyond.  It was a long-term chest infection that got out of hand. And Brian Christinzio survived all his trials and tribulations to bring us his latest album, ‘Shortly After Takeoff’, which I intend to review  in 6 months’ time when it’ll be 18 months old, ok pop slackers? 

Sshh, it’s another gem. Buy it now, ‘ere tomorrow we die! If you’re reading this remember: you’re not dead yet.