Vinicio Capossela, Union Chapel

A man on stilts may look precarious, but after a lifetime of occasionally seeing men on stilts we’ve become used to trusting that they are not, at any moment, going to topple over backwards and break their necks. So it was uniquely disconcerting – even slightly frightening - to see such a man (in the generic man-on stilts apparel of red and white striped trousers, multi-coloured waistcoat and waxed moustache) come crashing to the ground, inches from my feet, pulling a spotlight from the stage as he did so. A spotlight that, moment before, had been trained on the rather wonderful Vinicio Capossela (who has been labelled by some, the Italian Tom Waits) during the carnivalesque, confetti-storm of a final stretch of his two-hour set at the Union Chapel.

And what a pleasure it was to be part of a largely Italian (and unlike with Waits, largely female) audience who were clearly already ardent followers. Even before Capossela appeared, the crowd whooped and cheered whenever they suspected a microphone-adjusting roadie was their idol taking to the stage. And half-a-dozen alert photographers crouched down the front, ready to take as many photographs of VC in the first twenty minutes of the set, as Marilyn Monroe probably had taken of her in an entire lifetime.

I must confess I’d not been aware of this charismatic, bearded gentlemen (who looked a bit like a young Cat Stevens) before hearing his just released Best Of compilation, The Story-Faced Man, which I played constantly in the days leading up to this concert. But I’d go and see him again in a heartbeat on the strength of this performance.

His band was remarkable too. The Dickensian Brian Eno (complete with ostentatiously huge white sideburns and tatty top hat) who tackled Theremin, marimba, backing vocals and triggered samples, was in a world of his own world as he casually moved from instrument to instrument as if it didn’t matter if he got there in time. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him going back to mending someone’s shoes during one of the songs in which his services weren’t required.

Then there was the guitarist who was perfectly adept at replicating Mark Ribot’s parts when called for (Ribot is one of Waits’s regular musicians, and he features on recorded versions of several of Capossela’s songs) as well as having a style of his own. And the instrumental line-up was completed by trombone, double bass, drummer, saw player, and Capossela himself on battered old guitar, piano and harmonium.

Yes, the wheezy old harmonium tended to emphasise the Waits connection, but Capossela is very much his own man, both vocally (he’s more versatile than Waits) and in his song writing. But, not knowing any Italian, I can only guess what most of the songs were about, but on separate occasions Capossela mentioned Joseph Conrad, Calexico, and socks, so one can assume most of the material fell somewhere into that disparate triangle of references points. At the end of the show, as I brushed confetti from my coat, I realised that it wasn’t for the Union Chapel’s unforgiving wooden pews I would have happily sat through the whole thing again. It’s a bit early to be talking about gigs of the year, but…