Last night in the Old Queen’s Head, normal rules didn’t apply. During a wondrous, spellbinding set by Wilde – aka Ollie Briggs, recently featured here – the Islington institution’s upstairs room was packed, but Logic clearly hadn’t made it. It was obvious by how Wilde was the first act on stage, and yet instead of the mandatory sparse room, he had a packed, attentive audience. And then by how, despite this being a London gig by an unheralded act, there was hushed wonder rather than an irritating volume of drunken chatter.
I couldn’t have been further from irritation. Wilde’s offbeat folk stylings and pleasingly crazy-structured songs sounded just as good in the live arena. His lyrics were clear and revelatory. But it was his voice that got me. He sounds so honest, so dazzlingly pared down and clear, like an exposed nerve. At times I actually shook at the purity of it.
Everyone, from the pretty blonde looking near-hypnotised at the front to a curly-haired guy practically climbing onto my sofa in his enthusiasm, appeared to be in the midst of a similar rapture. ‘Whoas’ were whispered to equally wowed neighbours; an enchanted gape became the vogue expression.
This aura was encouraged by the room’s door staying shut, thus drowning out the mundane noise from the ground floor. But when that door was unfortunately left open towards the end of the gig, the sense was of a bubble burst: minds wondered, chats recommenced, text messages were read and replied to, chips were summoned from the kitchen. Normality had been depressingly restored.
Uh-oh. Not so quick, said Wilde. Authoritatively he hushed everyone, before reeling off two final, faster songs, just as moving but with extra oomph. It worked. Phones were set down and catch-ups re-postponed; a silent awe once more took firm hold. It felt righteous: this was a very special talent that needed hearing, and it was being heard.