David Marx is a man of many musical moods. I have seen him tread the boards, gently teasing deft and delicate notes from an acoustic guitar. I have seen him tear the roof off leading a three-piece troupe that comes off like a speed-fuelled, 60’s rock ‘n’ soul bar band firing off sonic salvos forged as much from blood, sweat and tears of joy as from actual chords and lyrics. I’ve seen everything in between.
Henry Kissinger, the latest release, sits somewhere between the two extremes, mid-paced and slightly understated, and, like much of his work, is ideally suited to being stripped back for the intimate setting or rocked up for the more incendiary show.
And, again, like much of this work, we see his way with words writ large, his ability to reference incredible feats and faces from history and blend them into these everyday kitchen sink dramas, these tales of timeless emotions and modern life.
Musical dexterity meets lyrical poeticism, pop that is both infectious and intelligent. Pop accessibility meets R&B muscle. Pop with smarts. Pop with poise. Pop with a purpose. Pop with a PhD? Well, whatever next?
