A Night in the Museum

A nifty tip from Dunk a couple of weeks ago alerted me to a delicious prospect: an intimate gig in the animal gallery at the Manchester Museum, featuring the charming Mark Morriss of the Bluetones on acoustic guitar. I’ve loved the Bluetones forever, and I leapt at the chance.

The support acts were Becca Williams and Nomad Jones. I really liked Becca Williams, who came across as pleasant and down-to-earth. I thought she was at her best during the upbeat songs in her set, especially the last song, Devil on My Shoulder, which was gravelled and bluesy. I didn’t like Nomad Jones much. His fingerpicking was good, but his delivery was poor. Firstly, he rambled on at the start of each song, explaining exactly what event in his life it was about. Boring! I’m sure that there would be room for two more songs in the set if he chatted less. Secondly, before the last note had finished ringing on every single song, Nomad Jones would lean forward to the mic, stare out at the audience and say, “Thank you.” - a presumptuous thanks, said expectantly before the first clap. Arrogant and rude, I thought. Lastly, I felt really sorry for his girlfriend. The story behind the first song was about Nomad being heartbroken by dumped by a girl in Newcastle. The story behind the second song was something around wanting to be better at washing up for his current girlfriend, who was sat, he pointed out, on a bench near the stage. The story behind another song was about Nomad having his heart broken by an older woman who turned out to be married, the story behind another song was about Nomad having his heart broken by… are you starting to spot a pattern?

Yes, and so was I. Every time Nomad sang a song about a woman he’d known, his poor girlfriend’s face grew sadder. He was basically going through his romantic CV in front of an audience of strangers, with his girlfriend sat right there. How insensitive. She must have felt awful.



Mark Morriss shuffled on in a black polo neck and grey slacks, with a glass of white wine and a cheeky Bluetones smile, and melted every heart in the room over the course of the evening. He was charm itself, well-mannered to the sound man despite the gear starting off a little crackly, politely borrowing a guitar to cover a broken string, and gratefully and humbly enjoying our applause after he’d earned it. He came over as a really pleasant bloke who’d fallen on hard times and was bearing it with a smile. The manager of the Bluetones had stolen all their money, he told us. I pictured a man running off with a suitcase full of fivers. It was an old friend of theirs. Ouch.

The evening was compelling. Mark came across as bittersweet, (“this is a song that was made famous… well, not famous exactly, this is a song that was made known by the Bluetones,”) but good-humoured with it, and still as sharp as ever. When semi-heckled to “Stop apologising!” by someone in the crowd, he smoothly agreed that, yes, he ought to stop apologising, and that the next song was all about stopping apologising. It was Marblehead Johnson. Genius. The man dripped charisma, and we splashed around it like ducks.



You might have forgotten how good the Bluetones are. That voice, those amazing songs – Sleazy Bed Track especially - will remind you. See Mark Morriss. He's pretty good.