Review: Kele at Cyprus Avenue.

I was running through new musical possibilities with a friend the other day; over beers, we batted names of artists and tour dates and album release schedules, and we’d worn each other out long before we’d exhausted the list of recommendations. In the name of self-preservation, we eventually conceded that there was just far too much quality tuneage out there to keep up. It’s a crowded marketplace - gloriously crowded. And it’s in this standing-room-only wonderland that Kele Okereke is launching his solo career.

Not that it should be difficult for someone with such a stellar pedigree to grab the attention of the inundated masses; as lead singer and rhythm guitarist for a band as important as Bloc Party have been, there’s no way Kele’s solo offerings wouldn’t attract interest. But with Corkonians spoiled for choice last Saturday night (amongst others, we had the wonderful Cathy Davey playing just over the road), could a displaced frontman admitting substantial departure from the style that made him famous hold his own? As it turned out, the answer was yes. Yes, yes, I’ll-have-what-she’s-having yes.

Opening for Kele was Mama, whose tracks I’d admired for their sophisticated sultriness when I’d previewed them before the gig; no comedic hawt chick, this. Mama herself has great presence, and a natural knack for the master-of-ceremonies role that support acts are sometimes expected to take on. Gorgeous and just a little unhinged (she writhed around on the floor in front of the stage at one point, with the audience hovering over, unsure of what to do with her), her songs are dark, yet scorching, moody, yet danceable. Flanked by two stunning dancers, all pouts and angles, she was a treat, but it’s difficult to imagine her carrying an entire gig with such minimalist tracks, no matter how elegant they are. One to watch, though.

How the place changed when Kele arrived. The crowd who’d listened to Mama with polite interest and occasionally-appropriate hip-swaying exploded when the star landed on stage, with many of us up the front stopping just short of spontaneous human combustion. There’s something about Kele Okereke’s easy grin that prompts instant infatuation - but not because of any half-arsed attempt at getting dahn-with-the-people; Kele is a legend and he knows it. Soaking up the attention without faux-modesty, chatting with the audience without making out he’s everyone’s best buddy - perhaps it’s just me, but I like it when my frontmen act like frontmen. I like the demi-god carry-on when there’s something of worth behind it.

And Kele’s solo stuff is bloody worthy. “The album hasn’t leaked yet,” he pondered, at one stage. “So you’re here on faith…” Well, to a degree. We’ve all heard first single Tenderoni by now (as was evident by the ecstatic howls at its opening notes), and it would have been nothing short of befuddling had Okereke not come up with something brilliant after five years of Bloc Party releases. The hedonistic intensity of a great dance set coupled with rocktastic riffs and delivered by an artist who was getting off on the stuff just as much as his audience - what can I say? He was amazing. Throwing in a couple of Bloc Party tracks was a fitting recognition of that “faith” thing, too; it’s fairly commonplace for renegade frontmen to want to stick only to their new stuff, loyal fans be damned, so it was wonderful to be rewarded with a bunch of classic tracks. You never get tired of hearing The Prayer live, and I suspect we’ll be saying such things about Kele’s own songs before we know it.

Kele’s solo album The Boxer is released on 21st of June. Buy it.