Duffy: Totally Cooler Than That MTV One

Let’s talk about Eli “Paperboy” Reed and the True Loves. Right now, you are probably saying “Who the fuck are Eli 'Paperboy' Reed and the True Loves?” I know this because when I saw them on the marquee as the opener for Duffy, I said to my wife “Who the fuck are Eli 'Paperboy' Reed and the True Loves?” Anyway, I found out that Eli “Paperboy” Reed and the True Loves are a Boston-based septet with a retro-soul sound that blew the roof off of the TLA, and won over a gaggle of fans that was previously unaware that Reed’s band had emerged from their mother’s wombs. Seriously, the show started with one of the saxophone players – band consisted of two saxophones, a horn/tambourine player, bass, lead guitar and Reed on rhythm and vocals – on the mic chattering in loud fashion. I soon gathered that he was introducing Reed, and I waited for a 50-ish black dude to come out and join these fresh-faced kids. So immediately, I was blown away when Reed emerged in gray suit and maroon shirt looking like a cross between Wonder Years-era Fred Savage…and Wonder Years-era Fred Savage. However, as soon as Reed strapped on his ax and let out a guttural yell into the mic, it was clear that he was the genuine article. While some of his moves, histrionics and even his delivery were derivative, his band’s eight-song performance achieved a level and intensity that leaves me proud to compare him to greats like Albert King or Otis Redding….only if King and Redding were white and had just come from their bar mitzvah.

Truth is I don’t know any of the names of the songs. Nobody gave me the tickets for free, so, not planning to write it up, I didn’t take notes. All I remember is there were blaring horns, clapping drums, sturdy bass, grooving guitar lines, and Reed oozing charisma like a Delaware Avenue guido oozes cologne. He talked about being able to satisfy your woman. He talked about being able to satisfy women other than your woman. He ended a song with a James Brown-ian collapse that featured everything but the valet and the cape. He ran off the stage during the final rave-up, and ran back on to an avalanche of applause. Hell, he even had the balls to tell the audience to “stick around for Duffy,” as if anyone had actually come to the concert knowing who the hell he was. The final testament to his completely unforeseen greatness? After watching Duffy, I was leaving the concert and there’s good ol’ Eli and the band out there shilling vinyl and signing copies of their CD for 15 bucks. Not only did I hand that brotha some of my hard-earned green, if I had breasts I would have whipped one out for him to sign it. Eli Reed, if you are out there, I still really don’t know who the hell you are, but you have made a fan in me.

But on to the main attraction: When last I had seen Duffy, it was on a tiny screen at my work computer as I was lolly-gagging on YouTube. I checked her out as she performed on Later with Jools Holland. She sang the song “Rockferry” while standing still as the Pieta, and wore a somewhat matronly, long black dress.

Well, things done changed.

As she sauntered out onto the TLA stage, she wore a black one-piece, which scooped fairly low up top and rose pretty high down below. She topped it off with bright red lipstick, swept-up hair, a gold belt, and, of course, a pair of bright yellow stilettos. Why am I concentrating so much on her outfit? Well, one, because I am a cretin whose borderline fetish for British accents left me wanting to get my John Hinckley on with her Jodie Foster. But second, because this is America, and in America, if you are a female singer, it isn’t enough to be extremely talented. You better look good in a pair of bright yellow stilettos, and if you don’t, nobody is going to care.

So we know that she looks incredibly hot on an HDTV screen, but can Duffy sing? Um, yeah. Really well. Really, really well. Backed by a crack touring band (she didn’t introduce them, which I thought was a little lame), she nailed the soaring drama of “Rockferry,” conveyed a lovelorn intensity in the stirring “Hanging on Too Long,” and, um, made some new fans with a come-hither interpretation of “Syrup & Honey.” During a rousing rendition of the up-tempo hit “Mercy,” not even the fact that the oldhead standing in front of me kept dropping silent-but-violents throughout the show could distract me from her tenor. In short, her singing was never less than wonderful, and it was enough to make you pray that she never develops a debilitating drug habit or marries an enabling waster like Blake Fielder-Civil.

One point of note would be Duffy’s stage presence: It should be said that it is a work in progress. When she strolled across the stage doing her two-step dance moves, it had a slightly mechanical feel. She had a somewhat distracting tendency to end songs by climbing onto a strategically placed riser to twirl the mic in her hand by the cord. Once, and I’m thinking it would have been pretty cool, but four times? Seemed like a crutch or scripted move. This being said, when you consider where she came from – standing on the stage motionless as if she was afraid she could be assassinated at any moment – and how enchanting her voice is, it is easy to give her time to develop her stagecraft. She also displayed an endearing self-deprecating nature. Not Chris Martin self-deprecating, where you can tell that he is an absolute, bold-faced, phony blowhard. But real self-deprecation, such as when she admitted to being a lousy dancer or confessed to thinking there would be “three people” at the concert that night. But then again, maybe I am just an easy mark because I am now completely out-of-my-mind in love with her. Whatever.

Image Credit: Flickr user Vincent Teeuwen