Gig review: Alabaster DePlume at Wharf Chambers, Leeds

It’s intended to keep fellow musicians (drummer, bass player and violinist, all of whom contribute to the sing- and hum-a-longs that permeate the set) from worrying about missteps during the erratically shifting compositions.

It could equally well constitute a summary of Fairbairn’s approach to music and performance.

The stereotypical image of a jazz musician as a remote personification of cool shatters within seconds. Dressed in a glittery cardigan and alternating between saxophone (which he plays from the side of the mouth) and guitar, Fairbairn (an alumni of London’s Total Refreshment Centre, a major incubator to the ongoing renaissance of British jazz) spends just as much time chatting as playing.

One of the idiosyncratic hybrids of loose-limbed, often deeply beautiful spiritual/global jazz (with hints of Don Cherry and Pharoah Sanders alongside Ethiopian and Far Eastern traditional music) and bluntly worded spoken word recitals aired tonight is titled Don’t Forget You’re Precious. Fairbairn is certainly not shy of reminding the capacity crowd that we are collectively just that: valued, appreciated, less a conventional, passively observing audience than vital participants in Fairbairn’s daringly unplanned spectacle of therapeutic organised chaos.

The earnest, unstinting positivity and plainly spoken declarations of empowerment and unity that pepper tonight’s show could easily trigger an allergic reaction amongst the more cynically-minded observers. Proceed with an open mind, however, and Fairbairn’s unfiltered, sincere self-expression soon provides an appealing alternative to vacuous notions of cool and cynical sneering.

The most recent Alabaster DePlume album (this year’s Gold) was reportedly recorded with minimal rehearsals to maintain spontaneity. Similarly unmapped approach appears to apply to tonight’s performance: the musicians are at times visibly feeling their way into the song despite (or because of) Fairnbairn’s cryptic approximations of a musical roadmap (“I'll show you where the notes are with my hand”).

As songs frequently morph organically into others, it’s clear that no one on stage knows exactly where this is all heading. It could easily transpire into a self-indulgent mess. Instead, the collective tripwire act adds a frizzle of intensity and appealingly nervous energy to even the most tranquil moments. The politically and socially conscious spoken word recitals escalate into joyous testimonials for the hypnotic potential of repetition, rather than faceplanting into the embarrassment their base ingredients might suggest. There is a palpable and infectious sense of joy onstage and off whenever the group navigate another segment to a successful conclusion.