JAMES WALSH is moved by an exhibition of graphic art that relates horrors that would be much less immediate in other media

Half Man Half Biscuit
Electric Ballroom, London
20/1/2023
IN CAMDEN TOWN on a cold January night, a man down the front is crying and bellowing along to the closing track of a band’s sixteenth studio album: Oblong of Dreams, a paean to place and belonging worthy of Wordsworth.
Up on stage, Nigel Blackwell, Britain’s greatest living songwriter, is an unassuming type, his genius known only to a lucky few. Half Man Half Biscuit’s wonderful, warm and endearingly obsessive fan base are all here, packed like expectant sardines after drinking weak lager in a Camden boozer.
While many of their era have long since sunk into a morass of nostalgia tours, new tunes met with a rush to the bar, Nigel and the boys are more vital than ever.

JAMES WALSH is moved by an exhibition of graphic art that relates horrors that would be much less immediate in other media


