Carissa from the #LunchBreak show goes to Paolo Nutini
Comfortably settled on the plush green grass of Kirstenbosch gardens I waited with baited breath for the opening act to take to the stage. This time around I had done my research and was giddy with excitement knowing that soon I would witness Toya Delazy live; a local act I had admired since the release of her hit single “pump it on” in 2012. A few minutes into the set, though, any enthusiasm that I had just felt had diffused. I respect Toya’s experimental approach to music but when the dancers and DJ scratching is more captivating than your performance, it rings as familiar as the puppet dolphin outshining Katy Perry at the 2015 Superbowl. The crowd wasn’t particularly responsive either; you could tell that they were counting the seconds before the main act was to take to the stage. I couldn’t help but think that the person that tried to match the headliner to the supporting act got it so wrong. Toya did not warm up the crowd for what was to come. In fact, Poalo Nutini didn’t need anyone to break the ice.
I had just entered High School the first time I had heard of Paolo Nutini. “Jenny don’t be hasty” became my anthem in 2006 and, to this day, the song I refer to when people confuse Paolo Nutini for an opera singer or a dead Italian author. Of late, admittedly, I hadn’t given him as much attention as I did in my prepubescent years, and had ignorantly confused his lack of commercial success for a lack of talent. How wrong I was to have laughed and agreed with my friend who said that Paolo Nutini was a poor man’s Jason Mraz. From the moment the 28 year old Scot took to the stage he managed to capture, and keep, my attention. As my hand mechanically reached for another prawn chip my mind was being occupied by a man whose stage presence and vocal range is comparably to an artist from the 1970’s
Paolo had an easy going demeanour. With a scotch in hand, a guitar hanging from his neck and clad in denim on denim he came across as effortlessly cool. His theatrics, of swinging his mic by its chord and bowling over in sweet surrender as he serenaded us, could have been mistaken for unnecessary drama but his timeless quality dismissed all suspicions of pretence. He rarely engaged with the audience but I didn’t mind watching him; I was taken by how he embodied his music. At some point I almost felt embarrassed to be looking at something so intimate; I was watching a man in his most vulnerable state.
His vocals transcended my expectations. I tried to place his voice in between Jamiroquai and James Morrison but that would be reductive. He easily weaved between genres from pop to r ‘n b. Backed by two singers and a couple of instruments he demonstrated something ethereal; at one point my soul was responding. By the time the evening blanketed us he had proven himself to be one of the most underrated artists I’ve seen. When he played the first chords of MGMT’s time to pretend I wasn’t even hesitant that he would ruin a much loved hit. As if on cue our voices all echoed Forget about our mothers and our friends/ We’re fated to pretend/ To pretend. Wanting to avoid the inevitable congestion I left soon after he disappeared backstage. The masses weren’t having it, though. Their chants drew him back on stage for an encore. I could still hear his smooth vocals as I exited the gates. He is one of those acts that you need to see live to be able to fully grasp. He rebirthed the fan in me.
- Carissa Cupido