John Vanderslice is an absurdly talented singer-songwriter whose literate, imaginative songs invariably invite comparison with fellow master storyteller John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats. The comparison is apt: not only has John Vanderslice toured extensively with the Mountain Goats, he has also produced their recent albums at his Tiny Telephone studio. But whereas the Darnielle’s London shows are a scalper's wet dream – tickets sell out so quickly you'd swear they just evaporated – whenever I go to see John Vanderslice there's always the same disappointing smattering of geeks in attendance. What the fuck, London? Here's one of the very finest narrative songwriters you're ever likely to see, leagues above the tripewash that calls itself indie these days, and who turns up? Nobody apart from a couple dozen loyal dweebs. Seriously, if you took a look at this audience you'd swear there was a cardboard cutout of Milton from Office Space standing by the door, captioned "You Must Be At Least This Dork To Enter". Or maybe just a sign reading "Bloggers Only". Fuckin' hell. Vanderslice and co make a decent fist of the show, though; agitated, paranoid songs from the last two albums combining to build a charged, almost oppressively tense atmosphere. Vanderslice is a great chronicler of the millennial American psyche, and his live shows never fail to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The band finally breaks the ice by unplugging and jumping off the stage to play their final songs in a kind of nerdy hoedown fashion, surrounded by a circle of awestruck fans. Oh, you better believe it was brilliant. You should have been there.
