JOHN LEES’ BJH
VENUE ISLINGTON ASSEMBLY HALL, LONDON
DATE 28/05/2023
It is, as the T-shirts on the merchandise stand read, “A Farewell To Touring”. At 76, John Lees has decided that it’s time for a well-earned rest from the rigours of the road. There will, he’s stated, still be occasional dates and a new album, but nonetheless tonight carries an air of pathos as one of the staples of British progressive rock begin to rein in their activities. Lees wants to “go out on a high”, and does, especially when the encore of Hymn raises a previously sedate Sunday night audience to their feet with some hollering and air-punching. At the same time, a heart of stone would be required to not hear the poignancy as the band’s characteristically gentle classic Galadriel offers the line, ‘Oh, what it is to be young.’
The Oldham oracles have soldiered on through the vagaries of fashion and fate, first as their early-70s success was tilted by punk’s reset, and later after the death of key member Woolly Wolstenholme. In the late 90s, BJH split into two factions, the Les Holroyd one and this one, which has played to huge audiences in
Germany and across Europe. The setlist, while nodding to more recent works like North, sensibly draws on their best-loved Lees-penned material, opening with Child Of The Universe from ’74’s Everyone Is Everybody Else. Its narrative concerning the innocent who are affected by other people’s wars remains as relevant as ever. Poor Man’s Moody Blues has always been a Marmite choice in the band’s catalogue: what was once conceived as a throwaway joke in response to critics has arguably come to stick more than was intended. Still, as bassist Craig Fletcher offers, it’s possible The Moody Blues, exponents of a similarly grandiose melancholy, refer to themselves in private as “the rich man’s Barclay James Harvest”.
It’s the skinny-jeaned Fletcher who, oddly, stands stage centre and, as well as tackling around half the vocals, is in charge of betweensong stage banter. There’s perhaps rather too much of this, as the atmosphere is repeatedly disrupted by chirpy jokes and lengthy explanations of what the songs are about. “I used to look like [Bay City Rollers singer] Les McKeown, now I just look like [TV presenter] James May,” he quips.
Lees, meanwhile, holds stage right, generally a self-effacing, reticent character. His voice however grows stronger and more affecting as the evening develops, and the tone and timbre of his guitar solos are exquisite. His playing has that David Gilmour quality of making each note count, and of knowing how to bring a solo down from a peak gracefully. It contrasts with his shirt, a s
