The first two-gig week for quite a while. The divine Camille O'Sullivan on Monday, and the peerless Duke Special on Tuesday. Am I too old for this?

Hell, no.

There was a touch of luck involved with Camille O'Sullivan. I saw she was doing three small gigs at the Soho Theatre last week, and quickly nipped in to buy a couple of tickets. Unfortunately, I'd completely forgotten about Duke Special, but the Soho Theatre box office swapped the tickets over for the Monday night without turning a hair. And I must have timed it just about right, because the Soho Theatre is small, and it was packed.

Camille is French/Irish (and very Irish) and what you'd probably describe as a cabaret singer with a touch of burlesque. That doesn't do her justice, though. And she doesn't do the normal cabaret standards. You'll get Jacques Brel songs; you'll get some Kurt Weill. But you'll also get what she calls 'their modern equivalents' - Nick Cave, Tom Waits, David Bowie, Kirsty McColl.
The stage is cluttered: a piano, a rudimentary drumkit (actually a miked-up dustbin); a bentwood chair covered with a crocheted blanket. Two sparkly dresses dangle from hungers suspended from the ceiling, along with a swing. There's a table with a bottle of wine; two Japanese parasols; a cuddly knitted sheep. And into this Camille slinks, svelte in a black velvet jacket, a long black skirt, a net veil over her face and high-heeled black ankle boots on her feet. She comes down the stairs alongside the seats, ruffling hair, stroking necks, blowing in ears. She wanders over to the chair, sits down, leans forward, propping her microphone hand on her knee, and croons: a slow, throaty version of 'God is in the House'. Each irony picked out with a twist of the mouth; her eyes unfocus and stare forwards with the fear underlying the song. She acts and lives every second of the song.
Normally, Camille performs with a big-band set up, with horns and strings; this time, she has three accompanists: a pianist, a guitarist (who also plays mandolin, banjo and musical saw), and a multi-instrumentalist who takes turns on percussion, guitar and trombone. And they make a hell of a racket: quiet and delicate sometimes, raucous and roaring at others. Camille removes a few layers: the black skirt goes, revealing a short strapless dress underneath; she unpins her hair, letting it fall loose as she sings 'The Ship Song'. She climbs up into the audience and lays across the laps of the women behind us: 'Don't be scared,' she says, 'it's only a song.'
Between songs, she chats in a soft Cork accent. 'I have to cut down the talk because we don't have much time tonight. Those you've seen me before know how I go on. Jaysis, it doesn't make much sense. But come downstairs and see me after the show, and you'll see me disintegrate.'
Before each song, she pauses and composes herself, getting into the right state of mind. 'Rock and Roll Suicide' starts out barely whispered, but she works through each chord change, dragging herself to her feet, ending up on her knees, wringing every ounce of pleading and desperation into the final lines. Then she gets back to her feet, gives us a grin, and tells us how the single word 'miaow' can defuse any argument, even with the bank manager.
Kirsty McColl's 'In These Shoes' is a barnstormer, Camille taking every opportunity to flash her legs and red sparkly stilettoes, while another whispered song, 'Look, Mummy, No Hands' (Amanda Palmer does this one) ends with Camille and seemingly every other woman in the audience in floods of tears. Camille dries her eyes, swigs on some wine ('It's only Ribena', she says, with a sidelong glance that makes us think she's lying), and applies white pancake make-up to sing Tom Waits' 'Misery is the River' in a high-pitched girly squeal and marionette jerks, her vocals accompanied by a sinister croaking whisper from one of her side-men, distorted through a megaphone so it sounds like Waits himself is operating her. She roars through Jacques Brel's 'Port of Amsterdam', and quietens down for two final songs, leaving the stage to sniffles, wiped eyes, and thunderous applause.
Downstairs, Camille is holding court from behind a table of CDs and DVDs, still caked in white make-up and blathering away, selling CDs and stuffing tenners down her bra. 'The left one's the float,' she says. 'Aw, I'm sorry I made you cry,' she tells a couple of girls. 'I advise you to go and drink heavily now. That always helps.' I buy a CD and she signs it, giving me a hug. As we leave, she's just about to pop up to her dressing-room to get another copy of a CD for a woman who was sitting behind us. 'You have lovely red lipstick and all that hair, and you need a copy of that one,'she says. 'Jaysis, I said you'd see me disintegrate.'

Duke Special review to follow, when I have time!