Tom McRae, Summerhall: from Hotel Cafe to Etrange Hiver
Watching Tom McRae wander round the old dissecting room at Summerhall strumming his guitar and leading the crowd in a sing-along rendition of Bloodless took me back to the very first time I saw him play live.
It was 2008, and he was touring his Hotel Cafe - a glorious concept which introduced singer-songwriters from America to UK audiences, and vice versa.
Upstairs above the old Waterloo Bar, just off Princes Street, we got McRae, Brian Wright, Jim Bianco and, I think, Katherine Feeney. They doubled up as each other’s backing bands, and ended the night in the middle of the room for another glorious sing-along.
It was a night which could easily have rolled well into the wee sma’ hours - and had it done so, no-one would have bothered about rushing for the last train or bus home, such was the quality and warmth of the performances.
My gig buddy from back then is now too ill to attend concerts, but I will always be grateful for their introduction to the music, and humour, of McRae, one of far too many musicians and songwriters who fly under the radar.
He’s sustained a career spanning some 25 years and a stack of darned good albums on the back of a loyal fan base, many of whom packed the L-shaped room with its glitterball and background of sirens as ambulances raced past the window.
Anyone seeing him for the first time was treated a wonderful stroll through his back catalogue. Judging by the word for word renditions in the seats, most were more than familiar with his songs.
And that connection between the artist and the audience is at the heart of a McRae gig.
He works the room with effortless ease; throws a rock star pose with typical humour, builds his songs quite beautifully, and laces his set with chat which is open, down to earth and funny.
He also speaks about what a gig is - how it isn’t about the guy on the stage, but about what we all take from it. Including the guy on the stage. How every night is different, but contains moments that nourish the soul.
Highlights? Sao Paulo Rain and Walking To Hawaii were sublime, while End Of The World (Dose Me Up) was the perfect way to bring everyone into the heart of the room as he built up a chorus for all to participate in.
In his blog, McRae bills himself as “a journeyman songwriter of no particular import, but one whose story is still perhaps worth telling” - but he sells him short.
He is a master of his craft, and his songs are often exquisite. His latest album, Etrange Hiver, is a collection of duets with French artists sung in both French and English - and Gingko was a perfect introduction to it.
He concluded with a fabulous Boy With The Bubblegun before thanking the audience for making him feel like Bruce Springsteen for the night, and departed to that unmistakable roar of Born To Run through the PA.
McRae may not fill stadiums the way the Boss does, but 25 years in an industry where, in his own words “recorded music is now virtually worthless, a world where a band’s debut gig can be in a stadium, but no one outside the venue knows their name” is testament to his own enduring creativity and longevity.
May he continue to follow his own path.
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