Dean Johnson @ Old St Pancras Church, London (Live Review)
- Written by Captain Stavros
Dean Johnson
Old St Pancras Church
Words & Pics by Captain Stavros
Sad Songs, Swear Words, and a Purple Pen
Say what you will about Christ, but the guy knew his acoustics, almost as well as Dean. The Old St Pancras Church, tonight moonlighting as a sanctuary for deadpan cowboys and neon desperadoes, played host to Dean Johnson, whose presence can only be described as “Father John Misty’s father”. If that father had been more disappointed, more talented, and somehow more magnetic in his plank-stiff delivery.
You wouldn’t expect a cowboy to take the pulpit at Old St Pancras Church but here we are. Beneath stained glass and high arches, Dean Johnson delivered a set so bone-dry in humour and razor-sharp in execution, the only thing holier was the reverb.
Outside, it’s 28 degrees. Inside, it’s a Tex-Mex fever dream: rhinestones, day-glo western wear, and more cowboy hats than communion wafers. A man in a Hawaiian shirt fans himself with a programme. We’re two weeks into a run of leftfield gigs, and this one’s already threatening to become lore.
Dean took the stage like a man surprised to be witnessed. Johnson opens solo, standing plank-straight, guitar in hand and posture like he’s been nailed to the spot. “Thanks for being here on a Tuesday,” he says. “It’s Wednesday!” comes the cheer. “Really?” he replies, perfectly deadpan. It’s not a bit. It might be. You can’t tell — and that’s half the charm.
The first song, ‘Old TV’, is a lonely song made lonelier by a solitary figure framed by light. The backstory about a friend whose dad told him never to pass a busted telly without smashing it open for copper wire adds more questions than it dispels. “Fatherly advice,” Johnson says, before launching into a song that’s equal parts sorrowful and sweet, a shadow stretching long behind him on the chapel wall.
There’s an art to solo performance, and Johnson’s got it down to an accidental science. He moves between obscure tunings like it’s second nature, his playing rich with nuance, a quiet tap here, a pause there, subtle shifts in rhythm that stop it all from feeling static. It’s a hypnotic ride.
Between songs, the humour continues. Introducing ‘Possession’, he warns us: “These next few are about jealousy and obsession. I’m gonna try and get through them.” The crowd laughs, not just out of politeness but recognition. Later, he talks about a free spirit who made him realise he wasn’t one. Cue more laughter. And a sigh.
‘Acting School’ arrives with a strange preamble: “This one’s weirdly popular with babies,” he shrugs, “though I think it’s because it’s got the F word in it.” Sure enough, the entire church erupts in a gleeful chorus of expletives. It’s the closest you’ll come to a spiritual awakening at a gig this side of Lent.
There’s a choose-your-own-adventure moment with ‘Blue Moon’, where he asks the crowd which strum pattern they prefer. The newer tracks; ‘Mother Nature Song’, ‘Faraway Skies’, and a Buddy Holly-inspired number about dreams and plane crashes, prove that the upcoming second album isn’t just real, it’s already promising.
Mid-set, someone in the crowd whispers to us: “How do you know about Dean Johnson?” We didn’t have a good answer. Maybe it’s the voice; warm, melancholic, deceptively strong. Maybe it’s the lyrics; deceptively simple, then suddenly devastating. Maybe it’s that he seems genuinely surprised we’re here, and more surprised still that we’re singing along.
The penultimate track is a Lucinda Williams cover, ‘Lake Charles’, cracked midway by the church bells striking ten. Johnson chuckles, admits he forgot a verse, and soldiers on. The mistake only adds to the magic.
He closes with ‘Nothing From Me’, introduced as “kinda blasphemous, but it’s a comedy song, so it’s fine.” The crowd laughs, again. Maybe at the joke. Maybe because they don’t want it to end.
Johnson has five more shows left on this European tour. Chances are you won’t catch them. But if you do, brace yourself for a night of gorgeous gloom, unexpected punchlines, and a set that manages to feel both loose and flawless, with a set of pipes as smooth as velvet on broken glass. His playing? A study in restraint; all minor shifts, capos, alternate tunings, and clever plucks that build a whole world out of six strings and a stiff spine.
And yes, he’ll sign anything. He’s got a purple pen.
