Rising up from the bed of the River Tyne, a voice that crumbles and soars, that is steeped in age-old balladry and finely-chiselled observations of the mundane, Richard Dawson is a skewed troubadour at once charming and abrasive.
Shambolically virtuosic guitar playing stumbles from music-hall tune-smithery to spidery swatches of noise-colour, swathed in amp static and teetering on the edge of feedback. Richards’s songs are both chuckle some and tragic, rooted in a febrile imagination that references worlds held dear and worlds unknown.
Support to be announced.
Shambolically virtuosic guitar playing stumbles from music-hall tune-smithery to spidery swatches of noise-colour, swathed in amp static and teetering on the edge of feedback. Richards’s songs are both chuckle some and tragic, rooted in a febrile imagination that references worlds held dear and worlds unknown.
Support to be announced.
