During one of the night’s many organ-effect keyboard interludes, Missourian singer-songwriter Nathanial Rateliff knowingly states the obvious: “There’s a lot of the church music tonight.” Dressed head-to-toe in black and a wide-brimmed hat, he looks every inch the apostate preacher – a red handkerchief hangs from his back pocket and flags up a hint of hellfire. With six-strong backing band the Night Sweats – always swaying, arms waving, or jumping up from a keyboard as if electrified by the Spirit – he delivers an utterly invigorating night of gospel-soaked R&B and country blues.
Opener I Need Never Get Old is an upbeat foot-stomper. Joyous blasts of sax and trumpet give way to Rateliff’s drawl over a sparsely-thrummed guitar line; his voice is enticingly languid yet tightly-controlled – by turns trembling sweetly and surging – before bursting into a gorgeous, jagged yowl for the brass-driven chorus. There’s too much church hall reverb on the vocals (initially) but his warmth and power shine through.
The first half of the show is brimming with similarly soulful, 60’s-inflected pop – bittersweet lyrics drenched in cheerful melodies. Howling at Nothing is another standout, boasting a bluesy shuffle beat and a tune that tattoos itself on your brain. Things slow down slightly for the gently breezy I’d Be Waiting and Mellow Out, then to a crawl for the set’s outlier, Shake – a slow, narcotic number with half-chanted verses and a hypnotic bassline, brief but melodic choruses that snap you out of it, then guitar and organ solos duelling to a psychedelic crescendo.
Post-encore, S.O.B. is the high-powered ode to alcoholism everyone’s been waiting for. All it takes is one woah-oh-oh and a couple of handclaps and the audience erupt: singing along to the a capella melody that backs the verse; frenziedly slapping their palms together with surprising rhythmic acuity; stomping their feet so hard the balcony shudders. The verse is pure gospel, but the chorus shifts gears in an instant: a wild explosion of R&B. Rateliff belts out mild profanities at breakneck speed, swivelling his ankles to oscillate across the stage; half-man, half-liquid.
A subsequent verse dials down the woahs and claps to hums and finger-clicks, Rateliff to a whisper. The room is thick with anticipation, the dynamite chorus about to detonate. For one woman in the stalls it becomes too much, and she screams very noticeably, overcome by what sounds like religious or sexual ecstasy. Her response seems entirely appropriate.