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Solomon Burke, Barbican, London

The minister of sound

Nick Hasted
Friday 11 October 2002 00:00 BST
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It's been 28 years since the self-styled king of rock'n'soul last graced a British stage, at which rate this could be a farewell performance, too. His throne and 11-piece band precede him, giving you time to recall the legend of the man many rate over his contemporary, Otis Redding – a 300lb ordained bishop of his own church, whose royal title was taken seriously enough for James Brown to vainly demand that the crown he wore on stage be handed to him.

It's what made luminaries such as Dylan and Costello contribute songs to his comeback album, Don't Give Up On Me, a fine if polite soul lesson. But any fears that this would be a night of nostalgia are dashed by Solomon in the flesh. An unpredictable, charismatic monument of positive humanity, he brings this cold venue to life in what proves a privileged experience for everyone who makes it inside.

When he does arrive, you soon realise that the throne is no longer a prop, but necessary for a 62-year-old of such weight that standing up for a long time is hard. But from the confines of his seat, Burke is still intensely physical, rising for brief, gargantuan, graceful shimmies, or leaning back while he conducts his songs' passionate emotions with his hands, and mugs and smiles and seduces with his kind, handsome face.

Solomon Burke Jnr, one of his 21 children ("I didn't do it by myself!" he protests to cheers, "I was just the spark!") softly wipes sweat from his brow, and you can't tear your eyes away. And that fails to mention his utterly undiminished voice, soaring and diving with enormous power or quiet authority, according to his mood.

The performers he reminds me of are Louis Armstrong and Elvis Presley, in the limitless and uncynical love that he pours from the stage. Every song seems to be directed to women in an attempt to raise their spirits or the worth of their men – Tom Waits's "Always Keep A Diamond in Your Mind", for instance, is interrupted by a heartfelt marriage-guidance sermon.

The smile in his eyes only disappears once, during "None Of Us Are Free", a gospel-deep demand for individual resistance to oppression. Tonight, he turns it into the most urgent, contemporary protest, bellowing "President Bush! You cannot make peace with war," in a voice with the moral authority to turn a dozen presidents to dust.

Leading the crowd in choruses of "peace!", he seems to want to turn the bombs from Baghdad with just the power summoned here, and he ends the song sunk and spent in his throne. When he then encourages us to "tear this place up" with a mass stage invasion, you feel lucky to be alive, and listening to him.

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