Ian Prowse, 6th November, Òran Mór, Glasgow (Gig review)

Rock n roll crowds thrive on being packed in tight, the proximity adding to the charge. That works if you’re jumping up and down, but a crowd that wants to dance moves in every direction, like the queen in chess, and the freedom to roam makes everyone feel it’s their night.

Before Ian Prowse stepped on stage, the crowd was invited to shuffle forward, and they did. Long before the first song was over, the urge to dance had loosened that formation, and the room spread out into the shadows of the Òran Mór. Everyone was moving to the same rhythm in their own way, a strange sort of socialism Prowse would surely enjoy.

It’s a show that combines real people and struggles, but in a way that is so outrageously infectious you cannot stop yourself from joining in. ‘My Name Is Dessie Warren’ was a punch-the-air moment in a strong first half, ‘Megalomania’ bopping and bouncing with a spring in its step that some knees will regret in the morning. ‘Fireworks’ got an airing the night after Bonfire Night, a coincidence too neat to ignore. 

The new album, No Names, sat comfortably alongside the songs the crowd wanted to hear. ‘Rendezvous Point’, ‘The Cleaner’ and ‘Stand Your Ground’ all earned their place, and ‘Keynote Speech’, with its woozy Neil Young-esque harmonica, turned the room into a choir for its ‘enough is enough is enough’ chorus. Without the full horn section on the road, the crowd stepped in as ‘The Glasgow Horns’, singing the instrumental parts back at the stage. 

And while the true horns would have been good, the Celtic strings and soul were strong enough to carry the evening. The whirling violin and rhythmic stomp that draw comparisons with The Waterboys and Dexys are fair, but nothing to shy away from. This is a style of music loved the world over, the exact type of song that sees Glasgow venues creaking at the seams in January during Celtic Connections. Prowse will never trade his birthplace for any other, but if he was born in Ireland or Scotland, I suspect he’d get far more respect for his sound than he does.

Then, after a run of dancefloor moments, he slowed things down. Before ‘Battle’, Prowse spoke about reaching out when you’re having a bad time, even inviting people to email him. It isn’t about the music, but it felt relevant. 

Plenty of bands who drifted away returned to the nostalgia circuit with hands-in-the-air, arms-round-your-mates moment as the selling point. Meanwhile, Prowse has been doing it in song and in words all along, and because he kept ploughing on, it’s been easy to miss. ‘Battle’ built to a singalong chorus and a lovely little riff to finish.

When the tempo eventually settles, a performer takes their life into their own hands by launching into a monologue about a dream, accompanied only by the slight strum of a guitar. A couple of hardy souls in the middle of the room felt their patter was strong enough to join in, a critical flaw in Glasgow’s makeup. Mind you, even their chat was silenced by Prowse shouting out ‘GOVAN’. Then, still in the dream, the apparition of Jimmy Reid bought him a pint, and implored him to give some of the band members their time in the spotlight.

Which led to the Stirling-born fiddler wielding what can only be described as a lightsabre bow. Prowse would later discuss how friends his age still live a wild life, enjoying ecstasy on a night out. This moment was closer to an acid trip.

There was also the surrealism associated with ‘Fair Blows The Wind For France’. This brought the line Prowse had discussed with SNACK earlier in the year, a room full of Glaswegians singing ‘I’ve never been away from England for this long before’, and one wag shouting a blessing to that fact.

At one hour 40 it was more show than set, and the guitar workouts, good fun and clearly what the crowd wanted, stretched the second half. Great value for money, but what would have been a blistering one hour show became a more measured show, with breathers and dips. 

Then came a late ‘Born To Run’, and it did what a good cover does by pulling the entire room together, at the same time. Prowse has songs the crowd knows and loves, but none that has broken out beyond the faithful, the way one great song can lift everything around it. That’s partly luck and timing, and Prowse has spent three decades without the gatekeepers on his side, playing his own game rather than bowing to others. What he has built instead is a catalogue of good songs, a live show that earns its length, and a room that can sing every line back at him.

‘Does This Train Stop On Merseyside?’, its title borrowed from The Boss and its heart pure Liverpool, ended the night poignantly. For people my age, the Hillsborough line will always stop you in your tracks.

Prowse sits in the gaps between other artists: too political for those who simply want a good night out, too poppy and cheery for those who like to think. Crucially, he’s good enough to satisfy both camps. He mentioned more than once that it has been over 35 years, in various guises, and if he’s feeling it, he isn’t showing it. Whether it’s Pele or Amsterdam, the classic rock guitar will always appeal to men who should know better (which is all men), and you get the impression Ian Prowse is more than okay with who he is and what he delivers.

Ian Prowse

Main photo credit: Andy Reilly