Hope and Visions

Neil Jones on Daniel Johnston at The Point, Cardiff

16th July, 2007

Daniel Johnston’s rise to fame could be said to have begun after Everett True handed a T-shirt to Kurt Cobain in the mid-nineties, and has snowballed since the cannily-titled The Devil and Daniel Johnston documentary of 2005.

His story is one of unceasing creativity amidst a turbulent private life. A compulsive comic artist and songwriter, Johnston suffers from bipolar, a psychological defect that sees moods swing from deep depression to heady euphoria, and, completely locked in the moment, has been known to exit live performances after a single song. It all makes for an extra, if sometimes dubious, fascination, and the Cardiff crowd has gathered at the old church to see tonight’s story unfold.

The candles that burn high on the walls inside are maybe an effort to sooth the magic out of our guest, but he still takes to the stage nervously, avoiding eye contact and doing his best to lose himself in the opening number. It’d be a clich・ to analyse Johnston purely in terms of mood, but as he settles down into the gig and discards a few cobwebs his songs start to speak with an absolutely intrepid kind of grace and childlike wonder, veering into the unlikely territory of rock‘n’roll with slightly worried smiles.

It’s something of a surprise when he’s escorted off stage after the third song, but it’s not long before he’s trickling back on and over to the piano to etch out numbers that float through the arena like tortured spectres. It’s balladry that infuses the head with the “essence of Johnston”, baroque looking monsters vying for attention with other awkward shapes, remnants of hope piqued by dark visions.

The quiet rapport with the audience is now fantastic, and as Johnston swaps his regular guitarist for a menagerie of local musicians to pump the songs up to a retro rock crescendo, we get an extra sense of his their charm. The sounds ring out as quiet subversion of every pre-conception in the book, pulsing and shimmering with staccato poetry, wonder and honesty as Johnston plays the team game like a beguiled outsider, emerging from his public myth into a more genuine picture of childlike mischief and complicity.

Maybe this kind of expression has been the sole property of the comic artist for too long, and to see it sprout wings in lines of music and melody like this is little short of spectacular. Towards the end a definite smile or two emerge from Johnston like nervous rays. Brittle and sublime, he’s once more has grasped wonder from the hands of despair.

© 2007 Neil Jones

© Miwsig