Badly Drawn Boy Live @ Northampton Music Festival, August 2012: Sadly Mourned Joy.

When Badly Drawn Boy (real name Damon Gough) was announced as the headline act for Northampton Music Festival's market square concert, a few of my friends' ears pricked up and I must admit, I thought yeah, that should be kind of interesting.

It seems, that for various different reasons, the town has never really attracted the bigger acts touring the country. They tend to leapfrog us, as you would, a stagnating puddle in the middle of a forest trail as they trundle their way north or south. There's the obvious lack of decent music venues I suppose, particularly following the closure of the Soundhaus, but somehow it still feels unfair. It could also be, that to 'outsiders', the town portrays itself as something of a cultural cul-de-sac - a kind of post-apocalyptic, dystopian crossroads where you're being watched and judged by unseen eyes, glaring from its omnipotent, architectural centrepiece: the obelisk-like monolith of the Jesus Army HQ. To the idle visitor, scarily, it could come across as the sort of town where, if you over-stayed your welcome, then you'd only have yourself to blame as the flames licked at your conflagrated nether regions whilst being set ablaze, entombed inside a Wicker Man-style effigy fashioned into the shape of a sensible shoe.

Actually, there happens to be a voracious appetite for culture and the arts in Northampton with an endlessly vibrant music scene that keeps reaching wider and further afield in an attempt to embrace the wider world. There are now a profusion of success stories regarding talented locals 'making good'. It seemed only natural that the creative world outside should occasionally drop by..

So when an artist with a reputation as esteemed as Badly Drawn Boy confirms he's headlining one of the town's outdoor music festivals, it's easy to think, ah, at last we're being treated to some genuine quality as opposed to the turgid Droning Bleatings or the moribund Steps of the 'world' that have dis-graced the town's stages in recent years.

Admittedly, Bob Marley played here in the 70s but I fear that may have been due to his entourage, and the great man himself, being so utterly baked that they took a wrong turn.

Anyway, this summer's show has now gone down in the annals of provincial town, musical-débâcles history and taken the hotel-room-smashing, rock n roll myth to dizzyingly-mediocre new lows. One day the gig-goers of East Anglia that attended will triumphantly declare: 'I was there! ...I think? Was Badly Drawn Boy the bluesy, New Wave band named after a slang term for heroin that rocked the market square?'

No, will probably come the disinterested reply, that was the impeccably behaved 70s outfit Dr Feelgood. They played just before him, then most people went home 'cos it started pissing it down.

I did actually quite like Badly Drawn Boy's first album 'The Hour of Bewilderbeast' which led to him winning the Mercury Music Prize (or at least an ex-girlfriend did and it was a grower) and I really enjoyed the departure from his usual acoustic singer/songwriter tweeness when he recorded the trashy, breakbeat 'Nursery Rhyme/Breather' with DJ Shadow and James Lavelle for Unkle's debut album 'Psyence Fiction'.

Then he recorded the entire soundtrack to the rom-com About a Boy and I found my enthusiasm had transformed into abject indifference due to a natural (and probably unfair) aversion to Hugh Grant. It might have been an amazing album - I've no idea. However, my appetite for decent live music and limited experience of the shabbily scrawled lad thus far had given me enough encouragement to go and check out Bolton's finest perform at the NMF.

It wasn't the gig I'd anticipated.

Umbrellas that had been erratically busy all afternoon were finally furled as the singer-songwriter was welcomed onto stage to rapturous applause by an expectant and welcoming Northampton throng.

Mr 'Boy stepped up to the mic and clearly, in an advanced state of refreshment, surprisingly dropped his opening gambit:

‘I’m in a fookin' bad mood and I don’t want to be here.’

As it transpired, he wasn't the only one.

What followed was a shambolic 'performance' of start-then-give-up-half-way-through 'songs' and incoherent mumblings, peppered haphazardly with expletive-strewn insults directed at members of the audience. His finest moment on record 'The Shining' was the second song played and possibly the only track that he managed to blunder all the way to the conclusion without trying to embellish its beauty with uncoordinated verbal assaults aimed at anyone who might be looking at him in a funny way.   

Shortly into the set, Damon announced that he'd dedicate a song to all the beautiful girls in the crowd 'just as soon as they turned up' and it was at about this point that I really started to pay attention to him. I'd been vaguely aware that he'd had some kind of meltdown on stage at a Los Angeles Troubadour show a couple of years ago where he'd apparently advised his fans that they were 'twats and should fook off'.

That was a show with actual paying punters, this was a free concert in Northampton, probably full of inbred yokels that had never even heard of him and most certainly wouldn't be able to understand the intricate complexities of such an artiste's tortured soul. This was definitely going to be interesting.

As an audience, one of our many collective illusions, was shattered when the vocalist dropped the first of numerous bombshells by informing us that the town we dwelt in was a 'fucking shithole' and apparently not the sprawling metropolis or cradle of artistic invention he assumed we'd somehow deluded ourselves into believing. I was so shocked by such a revelation I almost scratched my brow. Here I'd been, all these years, thinking the crown of the 'Rose of the Shires' was one of the jewels of the wider, free-thinking world, what with its unsurpassed distance from any beach in the UK, its world-unknown, dilapidated and postcard-hostile skyline (where a cluster of eyesores are bullied into submission by a dreaming, featureless turret that goes by the name of the National Lift Tower) and, of course, Billing Aquadrome - surely the envy of all theme parks. A place where the imagination of dreams really can come true - as long as your fantastical, slumbering visions involve sitting on a miniature train and circling a lake at 5mph. Whose don't?     

Apparently we're incredibly unenlightened down here in the East Midlands. I guess we really should appreciate being treated to a visit by such a complex artisan of the wooden guitar as Mr Gough. A craftsperson that hails from a far-away, exotic and cosmopolitan dominion that goes by the mysteriously enigmatic name of Bolton. Unfortunately, we can only attempt to envision the majesty of such an unknown kingdom or to the profound depths of its mercurial denizens.

Rather charmingly, after stopping his third song half way through, BDB splurged: ‘I’m bored already. At least I still get fookin' paid so I couldn't give a shite,’ and then proceeded to castigate the crowd continuously with volleys of insults, whilst stamping his feet and then woollily whimpering about the terrible time he's been having recently - a relative of his had recently died, his sister and brother-in-law had split up and we should fucking well know how awful his life is.

This is to people who live in Northampton for fuck's sake!

It was so moving, I almost yawned.

His fellow musicians and backing vocalists shifted uncomfortably as their artistic integrity was demeaned by the brattish display - how can you shake a tambourine in time when your front man repeatedly stops the songs to inform the crowd that they should 'fook off home?' It's has to be a bit distracting.

Eventually, after calling assorted members of the audience 'cunts', the cunts in the audience, understandably, started to heckle back.

And it was at about this time that certain individuals started to film the unfolding events, with the subsequent footage making it onto YouTube and circulating in the media.

I've read oodles of online comments from Badly Drawn Boy fans that didn't actually attend the Northampton show, defending his outbursts and assuming they were just directed at a particular female heckler, who can be heard clearly in one of the clips and 'definitely deserved it' but this ain't representative of what actually went on. The heckling (from scores of onlookers, eventually) only occurred after the Bolton man had repeatedly informed them that they were 'cunts and should fook off', whilst triumphantly proclaiming that he’s ‘actually got a life’. How fortunate.

Unlike the twats that had braved the rain with their kids to watch him.

For the record, Drably Yawn Baby was categorically NOT heckled until he’d aggressively and repeatedly called fans 'twats' and 'cunts', completely without provocation for just turning up to watch his sorry, hissy-fitting arse. The thing is, it wasn't Brixton Academy or Nottingham Rock City or the Bloodstock Festival, it was an alcohol-free, family music event that took place in the late afternoon amid fruit stalls and bugle-blowing pensioners. It was embarrassing.

The fans defending his indefensible behaviour on numerous websites without witnessing the actual events or viewing the footage in its entirety are being somewhat adventuresome with their loyalty, I'd suggest. The YouTube clip that appeared on national newspaper websites was taken several songs into the gig after repeated and unprovoked derision from the behatted bellend and frankly, I’m surprised he wasn't twatted by a member of the Numptyville massive after tempestuously kicking and hurling percussion instruments and stands into the front couple of rows, where there happened to be plenty of kids milling about.

It was the most objectionable performance I've ever witnessed by a reputable artist.

Having said that, I actually enjoyed the gig in a kind of masochistic way because I thought it was hilarious, but I’m someone who regularly attends amazing gigs and festivals; it was never going to be a particularly special day out for me – I went because my friends and their families were going and I always like to see good live music.

And that was the problem. I actually felt sorry for the fans that had turned up in the hope of seeing something cool, the people that don’t get the opportunity to traipse up and down the country to events because they’ve got kids or they feel they’re just too old. This was a chance for them to see an artist, who is clearly talented, perform in their own back yard. Aside from the insults, the performance itself was atrocious, with minimal effort being made with the musicality and some of the most shuddersome, lacklustre singing I've ever had the misfortune to witness. And I saw The Stone Roses' reunion gig at Heaton Park in June.

As an aside, I have a genuine love and admiration for Anton Newcombe, the lead-singer with The Brian Jonestown Massacre, who also has a reputation for being unpredictable and kicking-off at gigs. The thing is, he does it when he feels that his talent and music are not being given the respect due. This is an artist that lives and breathes for the music. When Badly Drawn Boy whined: ‘I hate doing this, I don’t even want to be here,’ it was impossible not to think:

Well fuck off then you pampered, egotistical, over-privileged, uninspiring, prima donna, cunt-face. The lives of the majority of the proletariat stood here being insulted by you in the rain are, without doubt, infinitely worse than yours could ever be. Get the fuck over yourself.

Hmm...

A final word regarding my personal experience of the show:

Ignore everything I've just said, I actually thought Badly Drawn Boy totally atoned for the banality of his dreary music and his one good song with a staggeringly unexpected and impetuously cavalier onstage crackup and for the relentless peppering of a family day out with repeated bellows of: ‘Fook off ya cunts.’

It was fuckin' rock n roll genius.

But hey, I ain't a parent. Or a pensioner.

Yet.