Goldblum’s banter-to-music ratio goes awry
Jeff Goldblum Cadogan Hall, London
It’s not often that travelling Hollywood A-listers while away their downtime by playing piano in their hotel lobbies. But in a London hotel last week, this is exactly what happened. Jeff Goldblum, star of Jurassic Park, The Fly and Independence Day, was spotted breezily tinkling the ivories, wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
It was with the same casual assurance that the 66-year-old sauntered on stage at London’s Cadogan Hall on Saturday for his first ever UK live show, one of a number to promote his new jazz album, The Capitol Studios Sessions. Unnoticed initially as the audience filed in, Goldblum started chatting to the front rows, taking proffered snacks and asking what they were drinking. A hush descended as the room cottoned on that the man who was chased by a T.rex in one of the highest-grossing films of all time was yards away and just, you know, hanging out.
Standing 6ft 4in and wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a trilby, black drainpipe trousers and a (different) Hawaiian shirt, his fingers glinting with rings, Goldblum oozed charm. When the tannoy gave out the (false) alarm that the hall needed to be evacuated immediately, the air of relaxed spontaneity tipped into barely controlled chaos. “Already this is a magical and unforgettable show,” Goldblum joked.
In fact, the situation suited Goldblum’s musical style, which is as loose and improvisational as his acting. A keen jazz pianist since his teenage years in Pittsburgh, Goldblum got his record deal by chance when executives from Decca saw him accompany singer Gregory Porter on BBC One’s The Graham Norton Show last autumn.
The resultant album of cool jazz standards from the Fifties and Sixties doesn’t feature straight recordings: rather, Goldblum recreated on record the live vibe of his regular shows at the Los Angeles venue The Rockwell Table & Stage. According to the record’s blurb, it exists in “that magical area where artists and audiences meet”. And as with the album – currently number one in the jazz and blues chart – this show was a revue, with Goldblum the compère.
He didn’t sing; he played and conjured atmosphere. “We’re going to play for two hours… Then we’re stopping and we’re all going to go to my house,” Goldblum said. From the opening number Nostalgia in Times Square onwards, he was in his element as he pulled faces and pointed to members of his excellent five-piece band, The Mildred Snitzer Orchestra.
The second song was a cover of Rosemary Clooney’s Come On-a-my House, delivered by a steamily sultry Imelda May. But by now a slight problem was apparent: I could barely hear Goldblum’s playing. His grand piano was closed and un-mic’d, and I had to crane to get anything. He sounded buried. Perhaps, as the least-experienced musician on stage, Goldblum felt it right that the others should take the lead. In some ways, it didn’t matter: Goldblum has never pretended to be a virtuoso. His role was to be the glue, the accompanist, the spirited frontman. Still, I wanted to hear more of him.
The chat between songs didn’t make up for the inaudibility of the piano, even though Goldblum is a natural wit. He mixed freeform observations – we heard about his dental history and his thoughts on Tom Cruise’s height, to name but two – with audience quizzes. At one point, audience members read out jokes from this year’s Edinburgh Fringe to see if they made sense to the Americans on stage. While it was amusing to hear the Tardis, DIY and the concept of “jumpers for goalposts” explained to bemused Yanks, it grated by the time the third quiz came around. On a purely banter-to-music ratio, the concert felt less Dave Brubeck and more David Brent.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised that this was essentially The Jeff Goldblum Show. (By my estimation well over half the audience queued for selfies with him during the interval.) It was an uplifting concert – the band’s version of Herbie Hancock’s Cantaloupe Island swung beautifully, while May’s wondrous rendition of This Bitter Earth was the highlight – but I left feeling strangely unsated, as though a stegosaurus-sized charisma had overshadowed the jazz.