Ray Lamontagne at the National Stadium, Dublin
Beauty this desolate hasn’t been heard since Roy Orbison’s darker moments.
Craig Fitzsimons
“Found myself face down in the ditch/Booze in my hair, blood on my lips”. Ah yes, it’s party time again, Ray LaMontagne style. Possessor of an almighty, all-consuming voice that veers from a confessional whisper to a Lennonesque primal scream, LaMontagne’s nominal ‘singer-songwriter’ status (and disturbingly widespread current popularity) shouldn’t obscure the reality that his songs are darker, sadder and more piercingly truthful than almost anything unleashed on the planet since Mr.Waits said his final goodbye to Ruby’s arms.
Sure, you can see why (as with Waits, Cave and Cohen) the chattering-class masses have swooned in their thousands. At its least tormented, Ray’s single-malted voice carries distinct echoes of such timeless soul greats as Otis, Sam Cooke and Arthur Alexander.
Still, beauty this desolate hasn’t been heard since Roy Orbison’s darker moments: Ray’s soul is an aching, threadbare wilderness, while his lyrics articulate a tormented loneliness made semi-bearable by distant love longings and the faint hope of redemption (“I’ve been saaaaaved by a woman”).
On stage, his extreme introversion and obvious nervousness accentuate the songs’ fragility further still, while sensuous pedal-steel guitar adds an extra sense of yearning. Admittedly, the mood is resolutely downbeat, verging on self-pity (“I sat staring at her photograph”) and the pace never rises above medium-slow, but in the circumstances, that’s totally forgivable. The message comes through loud and clear: he’d like to teach the world to hurt, and cover it in puke. Sorrow, Mr.LaMontagne seems to suggest, is at least as legitimate an emotion as contentment, with a sweet embrace all its own, and certainly sounds infinitely richer.
“Will I always feel this pain?” Probably, mate, so you might as well learn to love it. With you all the way.
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