Thursday 8th February 2024
Albert Hall, Manchester, England
“But he knoweth the way that I take;
when he hath tried me,
I shall come forth as gold.”
JOB 23:10
I had been wondering how it would go tonight. The unassuming, down-to-earth Chris Lunsford came out of nowhere and had greatness thrust upon him last August when, under the stage name Oliver Anthony, he released ‘Rich Men North of Richmond’ and the song immediately went viral. Overnight, he became one of the most talked-about people in the world. No one would be prepared for such a change but, having handled it well so far, would he be able to take it on the road? Would he stumble under the spotlights? Would he lack the stagecraft of a more seasoned performer who had worked his way up as an opening act and regular tourer? All of Chris’ songs released so far have been recorded on a Samsung mobile, and while they are fine songs, would an audience stay engaged throughout a whole set? Or would their attention wander after the viral ‘Richmond’ is played?
I do not wonder any more. Thursday night at the Manchester Albert Hall will prove to be perhaps the most intoxicating live experience I’ve had: powerful, communal and cathartic, as though movement is being made in things you did not even know could move. And any concern is banished immediately, for before Oliver Anthony has even finished climbing the steps to the stage, that distinctive shock of orange beard has been recognised by the crowd, and they begin to cheer and sing with one voice…
But before that moment comes, I had had my doubts – though perhaps it was more curiosity than doubt. Certainly, I’d had time to ponder as I joined the long line to enter the venue, not knowing for sure it was the right queue but reasoning from all the cowboy hats perched on heads that it must be so. The queue snakes around the block; some bemused passers-by must surely be wondering what Rudy’s, the Neapolitan pizza place next door, have put in their pepperoni to become so popular tonight. But the line moves quickly once the doors open and, after an inevitable detour to the merchandise stand, I easily find a place on the front rail, with the empty stage just above me. But I’ve always been more wallflower than rail-rider, and before the hall gets too busy I decide to abandon the spot and head upstairs to the mezzanine, where I’m happier with a seat on one of the steps just to the right of the stage.
The night’s music is begun by Caleb Dillard, looking every inch the Virginia hillbilly in a grey check shirt and sweatpants, with a navy blue hat pressed down tight on a mass of long dark-blond hair. But his music surprises where his appearance does not; the self-penned ‘Ol’ Red’ and ‘Deceived’ display a deep country croon and a quick-fingered blues guitar. The songs are well-received by the audience, prompting a decent singalong of the Rolling Stones’ ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’, with Caleb’s use of a pedalboard to play two guitar lines the same technical doohickey I saw used by Billy Strings in concert a few months ago.
Speaking of Billy Strings, Caleb follows up with a cover of ‘Must Be Seven’, before another self-penned song, ‘Son of an Angel’, brings more dextrous displays on the acoustic guitar. The song stands well among the more storied covers in Caleb’s setlist, as does ‘Run Away’, which follows. Caleb closes with a cover of Tyler Childers’ ‘Whitehouse Road’, and considering Tyler is unlikely to play it when he comes to Manchester himself in less than two weeks – having refused to do so in London the last time he came to England – this is a neat consolation. The song is a vibe, and in Caleb’s hands it caps off a fine opening set.
After Caleb leaves the stage, the crowd chatters and shuffles patiently while awaiting the big man himself. A sustained roar passes through the crowd as Oliver Anthony finally takes the stage of a sold-out Albert Hall, just six months after he uploaded a raw, heartfelt song to YouTube and went about his day. He responds to the roar by raising his arms triumphantly in the air. Remarkably, the action strikes me as humble; Oliver/Chris seems completely at ease with the adoration, but with none of the arrogance which another performer might well feel on such a reception.
“Manchester, how the hell are you this evening?” he says, to cheers. He looks around the venue, a former Methodist chapel in the Baroque style, with crucifixes still showing in the ornate, decorated windows up here in the mezzanine where I sit. “We couldn’t ask for a better venue or a better city to play in,” he says. “I mean, these walls are thick but I can hear y’all clear as day back there,” he says over the roar of the crowd, before praising Caleb Dillard’s opening set.
Caleb himself is back on stage; he has put down the guitar and hoists a great stand-up bass from the floor. Caleb will be Oliver Anthony’s bass player for the rest of the night, with Joey Davis getting a chance to show his talent on acoustic guitar. Oliver Anthony, for his part, is behind his already-iconic Resonator guitar, though this silver-and-iron-looking instrument is different from the one in his viral video.
Speaking of that viral video, tonight’s crowd – already bursting with energy – seem to decide that if this is the elephant in the room, it’s going to come stampeding through the walls. While the boys on stage tune up, the crowd begins an impromptu singing of ‘Rich Men North of Richmond’, from beginning to end, word for word. Chris grins bashfully – “y’all sing better than I do,” he says – but it’s an incredible, spontaneous moment, testament to the chord this song has struck with so many people.
Some commentators may pick apart or take issue with certain lyrics in the song, but what they fail to appreciate is its sheer cathartic power. The problems of our current age are numerous, but it seems to me that one of the underlying reasons why the world seems so bad right now is that we are human beings and yet we’re being converted into economic batteries, and subconsciously we’re resisting the change. The exercise of power has become so contained and protected in elites that we cannot see it work without privilege – something which is not earned or even acquired, but divested. But here, tonight, we can see the exercise of power manifest in a different, more recognisable form. Here the people can see it work, can understand it intuitively if not academically. For power is on show tonight.
“The very first show that Joey and I ever did… after everything blew up,” Chris says, “was at this little farm market in North Carolina… We had 12,000 people show up and it was people that came from the other side of the country and we actually opened that show with ‘Richmond’… We played it as the first song and we played it as the last song and we haven’t done that since.” There is a cheer from the crowd. “But I don’t know, maybe tonight’s the night,” Chris says, and the crowd roars as he strums those familiar notes on his Resonator and the band launches into ‘Rich Men North of Richmond’.
The song itself hardly needs describing; everyone knows it, so imagine it sung word-perfect and as a great release by a crowd of more than a thousand. The band adds to the song rather than taking from it – Joey Davis’ acoustic guitar solo gets a roar – and Oliver Anthony moves away from the mike occasionally to give the singing crowd their head. It’s enough to wake the ghosts of Peterloo, the 1819 working man’s protest and subsequent rich men’s massacre having taken place a mere stone’s throw away from here at St. Peter’s Square.
Ours is the city where the working man was hit first by the impact of the Industrial Revolution; the battles fought so long ago and lost so comprehensively that many don’t remember that battles were even fought. Events like Peterloo were where the social contract was formed and, while regularly sullied, the principle remains that if you want prosperity off the sweat of another man’s brow, then you have to ensure that man is well cared for, or at least is open to opportunity. It is not a stolid, salt-of-the-earth endurance that gives the working man a nobility, but something greater, something like the building of things and the coming-together of individuals for a purpose. And it is that, among other things, which has found voice in a song. “I think we’re in for a fun night, boys,” Chris says as the crowd roars ‘Richmond’s end, and it’s a moment I feel privileged to have witnessed and been part of.
An energy still crackles through the crowd, and many begin singing “Oh, Oliver Anthony” like a football chant. Joey Davis picks up the White Stripes riff which underpins it on his guitar. “Joey picked up that sweet hat in Stockholm,” Chris says, referring to the camel-brown cowboy hat on the guitarist’s head. “Some guy threw it up on stage and we forgot to give it back.”
Chris reads a Bible verse from his phone – Ecclesiastes 4:1 – and one can almost feel the stones of this former chapel move to the sort of words it once heard regularly. There’s no awkwardness to the reading, no piousness or judgement, and the resonance of the words among the crowd proves that you don’t have to believe in divine righteousness to believe in righteousness. Chris follows it up with a plaintive rendition of ‘Cobwebs and Cocaine’. It’s simple but effective, and my earlier curiosity about whether people will remain engaged after ‘Richmond’ is sung seems foolish now.
Chris makes a paper plane out of a lyric sheet, and it flies into the crowd. It seems to be something of a ritual; after every song tonight, one of the three men on stage take a piece of paper from a stack and launch it into the crowd. The crowd throw things back, and not just their voices. A dark baseball cap now lands on stage. Caleb picks it up and hangs it on top of his stand-up bass, where it stays for the rest of the night.
Introducing the next song, ‘Virginia’, Chris talks about having driven down from Scotland for tonight’s gig, and how its beautiful hills reminded him of home. Virginia, he says, is one of the few places on earth where you can legally walk around with both a joint and an AK47. He plays ‘Virginia’ as a higher-tempo number, with some peppy guitar-playing from Joey Davis.
The song’s line about smoking “something my daddy never growed back in his day” must inspire someone in the crowd, for a joint now lands on stage. Chris is amused, holding it up like a teacher would some contraband found in class. “It’s like Christmas morning up here,” he says of the barrage of dubious gifts, and some in the crowd chant for him to light up the doobie. Perhaps envisioning a morning-after of mainstream hit-pieces and revoked visas and cancelled tour-dates, he declines, exercising the diplomacy that has stood him in good stead since being admitted to the lion’s den back in August.
Instead, he sings ‘Always Love You (Like a Good Ole Dog)’, one of his tenderest songs. It has some fine picking from Joey Davis, and the night is so eventful the music itself can sometimes be overlooked. The band is steady on every song tonight: Joey has the greatest musical freedom of the trio, which allows him the occasional lusty solo, whereas Caleb, having already proven his guitar skills in his solo set, provides solid backing on the bass. Chris’ playing, on that signature Resonator, is reserved, and he’s in fine voice on each and all of the songs he sings tonight.
Another hat lands on stage – this time a white cowboy hat – and it joins the baseball cap atop Caleb’s bass. Joey is making the ritual paper plane this time around, his fingers taking their sweet time folding the wings. Chris notes the irony that they call him “Lightnin’ Fingers Joey Davis,” before telling an anecdote of one of the many strange people they’ve met on tour. A 70-year-old woman was asked what she thought of this boy ‘Lightnin’ Fingers’, and she replied, “That’s just how I like ’em.” Chris chuckles. “70 years old,” he says.
Paper plane in flight, Chris breaks the news that he’s got a new album coming soon – “it’s all done, and will be out in about a month”, he says, to cheers. It’s an exciting prospect; Oliver Anthony is fulfilling expectations tonight, and the night is still young, so it’s interesting to consider how he can build on the unlikely success of ‘Richmond’ with a full album. This album, he says, “kicks everything’s ass”, reminding us that everything we’ve heard so far in his name has been recorded on a Samsung mobile.
The next song, he says, was written when he was “messed up, a bit stoned”, and says you can see he’s red-eyed in the YouTube video. ‘I’ve Got to Get Sober’ goes down a storm, though the sentiment is perhaps not shared by the increasingly rowdy crowd who’ve been drinking the bars dry on both sides of the hall. The song is signed off with another paper plane, the profligacy perhaps creating more jobs at the North Carolina paper mill where Chris used to work.
Chris introduces the next song by sharing the first time he met his wife. He wrote ’90 Some Chevy’ because she was still living with her dad, and he would take her out in his old car. They’ve been together “about eight or nine years now” and have “three beautiful kids”, and it’s while he and the band play ’90 Some Chevy’, with some good solos from Joey, that I find myself thinking what a fine experience this Oliver Anthony phenomenon has been. It’s one thing to come ‘Out of the Woods’, as this tour has been dubbed, but quite another to come out of the woods in such triumph. It seems to me the richest man is not north of Richmond, but here tonight in Manchester, tomorrow in London, and more usually back in the woods in Virginia with his wife and kids and his good ole dogs. Such a life would be a blessing in itself, but Chris has become even more. He, speaking the truth, has been lauded for it, and loved. He has been making bank because of it and has people flock to hear him, and it proves a regular catharsis for those who do. It’s quite something to see, even at a distance.
Chris himself seems to be taking it in his stride. He foot-stomps along to the next chant of “Oh, Oliver Anthony” and tells the story of how Caleb became their bass player. Chris’ viral success was so sudden that, when they were planning to tour, they realised they had no bassist. Caleb said he’d figure it out and picked up the bass for the first time in his life. “About one month later, we played the Grand Ole Opry,” Chris says, marvelling at the absurdity of his life since August. As if to emphasise his determination to do things his own way, he reads another Bible verse from his phone: Ecclesiastes 5:15.
Oliver Anthony is, or deserves to be, more than a one-hit wonder, for now he begins a fine sequence of three of his best songs, showcasing his writing ability. ‘Rich Men North of Richmond’ may be our generation’s ‘Brother, Can You Spare a Dime’, but ‘Ain’t Gotta Dollar’, with its line about how he “don’t need a dime”, shows that Chris’ outlook is more about being self-sufficient than supplicant. It goes down well with the audience, who sing along, as does a nicely muddy solo from Joey.
It’s followed by ‘Doggonit’, which is quickly becoming my favourite Oliver Anthony song. Many folk singers strive to incorporate the modern world into their traditional songwriting, but such topical allusions too often sound clunky and alien. Chris, however, appears to be able to do it seamlessly, to great effect in ‘Doggonit’. Topical lines about “people eatin’ bugs ’cause they won’t eat bacon” and “folks hardly surviving, on sidewalks next to highways full of cars self-driving” have a natural feel to them. The tragic absurdity of our modern world is evoked in this song, as is the singer’s weary lament, “doggonit”. But the song is also something more; as Caleb plucks a bass string, Chris sings that “there’s a little town somewhere…” It’s hard to describe, but the hopefulness and quiet aspiration this minor lyric evokes is something I look forward to every time I hear the song.
Another Bible verse follows in the lull between songs; this time it’s Matthew 24:6-14, a prophecy that “nation will rise against nation” and “the end will come”. It’s an appropriate introduction to the next song, one that’s full of foreboding. The crowd sings along to ‘I Want to Go Home’, but if Oliver Anthony has struck a chord of solidarity and common purpose in his whole body of songs, it is in this song that he shows why that is important. “We’re on the brink of the next world war,” he sings, and if any prospect requires people to band together and hear truth spoken, it is this.
It reminds me, if I may be permitted to say, of something I wrote in my novel Void Station One. This book describes the working man’s plight in a future of spaceflight, with the depressed protagonist intending to commit suicide by piloting his craft into a black hole. Something is coming, I write at one point in the book, and it may come soon. We don’t know what it might be or what form it will take, so we should learn as much as we can and gather what tools we can. Because you can feel something is coming. And if we don’t know what it is, or what we need to fight it, we can at least decide what we would want to preserve when it comes.
Such a sentiment might well be considered conservatism: small-‘c’ conservatism, in its purest sense, and not remotely at odds with the “Fuck the Tories” chant which is now sung lustily by a section of the crowd in the Manchester Albert Hall. Little more than a year ago, I listened as Mike West sang ‘How to Build a Guillotine’ and Nick Shoulders sang ‘Won’t Fence Us In’, two catchy protest songs from the left-wing, and now, in ‘Richmond’, I have heard Oliver Anthony sing from what some have argued is the right – though it would be the centre, in a sane world. The expression is the same across all three songs, despite the different viewpoints: the defiance of the common man against all that is arrayed against him. This is especially important in our country, where Labour and the Tories are often just two cheeks of the same arse.
Most men just want a little dignity and to live their lives without needing to subscribe to any ideology – to become a rich man only in the sense of living peacefully with a wife and kids and dogs in the woods. It’s natural for the working man to resist radicalism, because it is the working man who, history shows, most often has to pay for the consequences of it. In history, these consequences are often extreme, but Chris now alludes to a more minor example. Tomorrow, he says, he’s heading down to London for another gig, and he plans to meet the ‘Blade Runners’. These are the people who are cutting down the ULEZ cameras – those undemocratic, punitive, dystopian shakedown-machines raised in service of a radical green initiative.
Less politically, Caleb launches a paper plane into the crowd. Unlike the others launched tonight, this one flies far into the body of people, earning Caleb a fist-bump from Chris.
After ‘I Want to Go Home’, it’s time for a change of tack. Chris launches into a cover of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Simple Man’, and his vocals are perfect for an interpretation of these lyrics. The choice of cover is revealing, and I begin to recognise how many of Chris’ self-penned songs would fit Ronnie Van Zant like a glove.
But there’s a surprise in store; about halfway through the song, Joey Davis takes over the lead vocals. Roared on by the crowd, he sings with gusto and rides the wave through to the end of the song. After Joey’s vocal triumph, there is the fall; the ritual paper plane he makes falls short of the crowd entirely, crashing pathetically in the gap between the front row and the stage. “It’s got me wondering what dirt that plane had on the Clintons,” Chris quips.
The next song is ‘Between You & Me’, a lesser-known tune punctuated by a good solo from Joey, before Chris sends another paper plane out into the audience. It doesn’t go far. “Caleb is king,” Chris shrugs, referring to the cross-country flight chartered by the bass player a few songs earlier.
“This song is about outer space, I guess,” Chris says, introducing the next number. “But it always reminded me of coming home from my bullshit job… Anyways, I hope I don’t butcher it…” The crowd cheers in recognition as Chris sings the opening line of Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man’, and begins to sing along. The choice of song seems an odd one at first, but Chris sings it well and it suits the ground he has staked out: the melancholy working-man sent stratospheric.
Chris follows it up with a few more Bible verses: Luke 8:17 followed by Matthew 10:27-28. “History repeats itself, it’s the same shit,” Chris says, not (to my knowledge) quoting the Bible this time. “People tryin’ to control other people.”
It’s a simple message. In the six months since Oliver Anthony’s rise, some establishment commentators have scoffed that it’s an unsophisticated one, and some professional activists that it’s ideologically unsound, but to real people such a message is real. “I felt relief when this song took off,” Oliver Anthony says, the ordinary man looking completely at ease on this stage in front of this large crowd. There’s a lot of people out there who feel like this, he says, and when we think of those people who try to control other people, he asks us to remember that “we outnumber them”.
And with that, he strums his Resonator guitar and begins ‘Rich Men North of Richmond’ again. Again there are roars, and again the crowd sings along to every word. It’s hard to explain the specialness of this, in a city that’s had its fair share of being beaten down over the centuries by rich men. But the catharsis is also shared by Oliver Anthony himself. Still clearly enthused by the reception the song gets, Chris stomps his foot on the stage as he sings.
It gets me thinking about another Bible verse; not any that Chris has read tonight, but the one from the Book of Job with which I opened this review: “When he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold.” It’s remarkable that Oliver Anthony is even here tonight on this stage; not because of any lack of talent (he’s a talented songwriter and sings like the kiss of the howling wind), and not even because of his overnight viral success – an event without any real precedent. No, it’s remarkable because there is something that I don’t think many commentators have picked up on, despite Chris himself occasionally hinting at it: his thoughts of suicide in the depths of depression before he decided, instead, to summon the will for one last effort at life. This was an effort that succeeded for him in a fantastic way, when many just like him fail and fall away, and his voice contains not just his own pain but the pain of those who were left unheard. Having been tested, he has come forth as gold, speaking truth on the frequency of the forgotten men and quoting Bible verses when the man himself could have easily been relegated to apocrypha.
As the song ends, Chris raises his fist and takes in the long applause of the audience. He bows, but soon after there is a brief murmur of outrage from the crowd as someone throws a pint of bitter at the stage. It’s the only bitter moment in a night of phenomenal goodwill, and a small reminder that there’s always one who has the capacity to spoil anything special that builds. But the crowd is unwilling to let it be anything more than a short, sour moment; the “Oh, Oliver Anthony” chants begin again and Chris takes to the mike.
“Don’t you ever forget,” he says, over the roar. “No matter how they make it look on your cellphone and your television… don’t ever forget – if this isn’t proof enough, this reaction to this, everywhere in all these countries, all these different people who don’t know each other… if we haven’t found common ground in anything else, just remember that there will always be more of us than there are of them.”
Cheers and stomps and chants again, but Oliver Anthony’s still not done. For his final song, he debuts a song from his upcoming album. ‘Mama’s Been Hurtin” continues his honourable theme of the effect of economic depression on working families. Lyrics like “a week’s worth of groceries is the price of gold” suggest he’s no flash-in-the-pan with ‘Richmond’.
“It’s been an honour and a privilege and a pleasure to be here tonight,” Chris says. “I’m gonna let Joey play a few and go along the front and sign some shit.” As he leaves the stage, Joey Davis, in his Stockholm hat, continues strumming his guitar and begins the Amy Winehouse song ‘Valerie’. “Well, my body’s been a mess, and I’ve missed your ginger hair,” he sings, but the one ginger no one wants to miss is the big-bearded Chris now moving along the front line of the thronging crowd, taking selfies and signing merchandise.
Joey will go on to complete a fine set of six songs himself, including covers of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rhiannon’ and Bill Withers’ ‘Just the Two of Us’. As he finishes, I head down from the mezzanine to the main floor. Oliver Anthony is still signing things, and I note with a wry smile that he’s stood beside the same spot on the rail that I vacated earlier. I consider joining the throng to meet him, but decide against it. While it may come as a surprise to those who have made it to the end of this long and indulgent review, I can’t think of anything to say at that moment.
Instead, I head outside into the Manchester rain and walk down the street past the Sir Ralph Abercromby pub. A sign outside the inn tells us that this building is the last-remaining witness to the Peterloo Massacre. Just a few years ago, it was again threatened by the rich men, who see the city as a portfolio rather than a place for people to live. History repeats itself, it’s the same shit. People trying to control other people.
Setlist:
(all songs are 2022/23 singles and written by Chris Lunsford – a.k.a. Oliver Anthony – unless noted)
- Rich Men North of Richmond
- Cobwebs and Cocaine
- Virginia
- Always Love You (Like a Good Ole Dog)
- I’ve Got to Get Sober
- 90 Some Chevy
- Ain’t Gotta Dollar
- Doggonit
- I Want to Go Home
- Simple Man (Gary Rossington/Ronnie Van Zant) (unreleased)
- Between You & Me
- Rocket Man (Elton John/Bernie Taupin) (unreleased)
- Rich Men North of Richmond (reprise)
- Mama’s Been Hurtin’ (unreleased)
The novel mentioned in this review, Void Station One, can be found here.
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