On the way to this show by way of a ponderous tram journey with the frazzled commuters I was musing if Elkie Brooks’ voice had held up over the years and even since her last show here on home turf over four years ago. After all, she’s 74 now (age and the ability to get around, or not, as easily as she used to, is something she readily jokes about on stage) and if you listen to some singers in that age range (Paul McCartney for example and even the younger Marc Almond spring to mind), it can be embarrassing at times.
In fact, what the Salford lass offered up both vocally and presentationally was nothing short of astounding and it was a shame there were no aspiring young singers in the full house audience (at least I didn’t see any) amongst the many that might have used a bus pass to get there, to learn at first hand from the very best. One word from The Maestro would be worth an encyclopaedia from Simon Cowell or most of those red chair-swivellers.
Of course, it helps when you have a top-notch band behind you, and in Andrew Murray (keys); Rufus Ruffell (Guitar); Brian Badhams (bass); Mike Smith (saxophone and synth); and Steve Jackson (drums) that was certainly the case. Ruffell and Smith with some dynamic solos between them, and the Phil Collins-lookalike Murray in particular, stood out, but that was only because the other two had little opportunity to shine individually. Unfortunately Mike Smith also stood out with the most ill-fitting suit ever seen in John Collier, the Window to Watch, but as this wasn’t a fashion parade, we’ll move on.
The final piece in the jigsaw was great sound quality. I’ve never visited this 1,730-seat capacity venue before so perhaps it is the same at every show. The size of the speakers – about the same as at my local pub – did not fill me with confidence but the sound was crisp, each instrument was pitched at just the right level and those speakers generated more than enough volume. The only lack came in the lighting department, which was bland.
Elkie Brooks provided two 45-minute shows with a 15-minute R&R break which also gave her the opportunity for a costume change, from shimmering black to matt black. Black must be the new Orange. Visually, she was thoroughly professional and she is trim and agile still, for all her self-deprecatory remarks.
Just like what happens across the River Irwell at Old Trafford, it was a show of two halves literally and most of the action came in the first half as the majority of her best-known songs were in that section, including ‘No More The fool’, which came quite early on, and ‘Lilac Wine’ which I thought might have closed the set altogether. It turned out to be quite a different version to this YouTube classic, delivered more slowly and purposefully, and with a light-hearted break mid-way through as she prepared for the big ending (which she achieved with ease), joking that she “was about to go home”.
The second half saw ‘Pearl’s A Singer’, which opened with a sudden, huge note that shook the building and towards the end of the show when she threw in a couple of songs from her most recent studio album ‘Powerless’, as if to prove she can still hold a note, she did so with what I believe was a Top C for in excess of 10 seconds. That deservedly brought the house down.
Along the way there was a variety of covers, including Adele’s Bob Dylan-composed ‘Make You Feel My Love’, The Carpenters’ ‘Superstar’, and, surprisingly, Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’. The highlight of the show for many though, was a superb interpretation of The Moody Blues’ ‘Nights in White Satin’ in which Elkie Brooks, Mike Smith and Rufus Ruffell all played a memorable part.
What you must remember about Elkie Brooks is that it isn’t just the music; she is an all-round entertainer just as much as, say, Ken Dodd was; comedic, never fazed or even struggling to find just the right word. Her mannerisms alone have more entertainment value than an entire series of Britain’s Got Talent as she claps, gives a thumbs up like Fred Pontin entreating us to “book early”, copiously toasts the audience with a glass of…water, and punches the air with both fists as if she’s just seen off Conor MacGregor down some Gasoline Alley before she came on stage. There was no support act for this show; she doesn’t need one, she’s her own support.
But at the end of the day it is that voice that the audience takes home with them. While she might have to take a deep breath before a big note now (and she doesn’t try to disguise it), and while it is a little more gravelly and she’s had to adjust the key on some songs, I didn’t hear a single bum note all night long and she consistently hit higher notes when called upon to, with ease, precision and power. That’s remarkable, for anyone.
The sad thing is that this show confirmed the institution that is Elkie Brooks as the most under-rated singer this country has ever produced.
Making my way home on an even more laborious tram journey I started to muse over Lower Broughton’s other female chanteuse of great, if passing, repute, Ren Harvieu, who thrust herself on the nation in 2012 with another voice to die for and has barely been heard of since. Elkie can’t go on forever, though you’d be forgiven for thinking she can on the strength of tonight’s performance, and needs a successor. Lauren, wherefore art thou?
