Moth Club, LondonThe Newcastle singer-songwriter takes an east
London crowd on a tender but challenging tour of broken Britain
The scalloped ceiling in the back room of this erstwhile working men’s club is pebble-dashed with gold glitter. Behind Richard Dawson, pink with sweat, shimmers a backdrop of gold foil lamé. His new drummer and a bassist in a trucker cap look like they have wandered in from two different bands.
Such incongruous details would not feel out of place in the lyrics of a Richard Dawson song. The 38-year-old singer-songwriter might deliver the information in a quavery Newcastle falsetto – alluding, elliptically, to the gentrification of Hackney, to the Memorable Order of Tin Hats (the Moths), the ex-servicemen who once drank here, while praising the amazing value of the craft beer on tap. Dawson’s emotions would cast no obvious shadow until, suddenly, his guitar-playing might turn ugly and he might yell the words “Ironic! Gold! Glitter!” as the drums beat mercilessly along.