David Gray and Ray LaMontagne
At Molson Canadian Amphitheatre in Toronto on Friday
Some artists have stardom thrust upon them. And some of them thrust it right back. David Gray and Ray LaMontagne, two balladeers, disregarded showmanship in favour of melody and affecting keys for a pleasant but underwhelming pairing of singer-songwriters by the lake.
As harmlessly tuneful as these two gentlemen were, they have little business peddling their undersized personas in large venues. There were murmurs of crowd conversation during both sets, with neither performer seeming overly aware of the fans in front of him. It was a polite affair, with Gray's closing set offering more in the way of presentation and gentle audience singalongs.
A 42-year-old Englishman who has described his latest album ( Foundling) as a "private record," Gray, particularly, was less than fascinating. With his professional band, he played piano and acoustic guitar, and sang his radio-friendly folk-rock hits: Babylon, This Year's Love, Please Forgive Me, Sail Away - all from 1999's White Ladder - plus The One I Love.
Suffering from what he called "battered vocal cords," Gray's singing was fine. if somewhat froggy. He lolled his head back and forth like a marionette as he weighed in importantly on relationships. The occasional dramatic backlighting, though, promised something more vital than was ever delivered. Really, Gray's an Elton John stand-in, at best.
He wore a suit, and snuck a bit of Van Morrison's Into the Mystic within a cover of Soft Cell's Say Hello, Wave Goodbye. Mystic? Hardly. Say hello, wave goodbye? That pretty much summed up his performance.
LaMontagne barely bothered even to say hello. The acoustic-soul crooner from New England planted himself at the far right of the stage, where he only half-faced his audience, wearing his beard like a mask and his shyness like a shield. Sometimes he would count off songs to his pedal-steeled Pariah Dogs band with a "one-two-three-four." Other times, to spice things up, it was "One-two-three."
Opening number Repo Man, which also begins LaMontagne's fine fifth album, God Willin' & the Creek Don't Rise, was reminiscent of New Orleans funk band the Meters, with the raspy backwoodsman wailing ruggedly about a woman, not an automobile, who had not held her value. New York City's Killing Me was leisurely country sorrow, sung with a dignified air of despair.
LaMontagne crooned soulfully with a tight throat, as if he were delivering his warmth right back into himself. The Redding-like ballad Trouble should have been moving, but the singer was too far away, physically and otherwise.
"I need space between me and the audience," the reticent songster recently told Rolling Stone magazine, "and the more space the better."
Well, Ray, how about we all leave the room. Would that do you?