Strange chap, Paul Weller. He tours as regularly as clockwork, dutifully checking in at the Albert Hall every year or so, but never shows any sign of actually enjoying it. Operating on the principle that his mere presence is sufficient reward for his faithful public, he works his stony-faced way through a condensed version of his solo career and, well, that's it.
The routine rarely varies, whether he is in an artistic trough or, as with the new Heliocentric album, starting to peak again. He doesn't make an entrance as such, but just walks on, plugs in and gets on with it, backstage pass still dangling from his neck. It is typical that Weller should wear a pass at his own show, semaphoring that he is just another member of the band. And he could be, dressed down in jeans and exuding about as much star quality as tour guitarist Steve Cradock of Ocean Colour Scene. When he sings, in a voice mellowed to an attractive huskiness by his 42 years, he is not the commanding figure you would expect. He is just one of the lads, doing his bit in a show that has all the dynamism of a large pub gig.
No one expects Weller, long enthroned as custodian of traditional geezerly values, to do anything fancy (though the string orchestra that appears for the second half verges on artiness). But if he can't bring himself to put on a show, he could at least play more than the handful of hits he grudgingly sprinkles between unfamiliar tracks. The reaction when he performs his prettiest love song, You Do Something to Me, immediately followed by an almost punk version of The Changingman, should be instructive. People snap out of their torpor, get to their feet and dance - then stop when he reverts to Heliocentric and its unpopular predecessor, Heavy Soul.
One of the few mystifying things about this painfully straightforward artist is his fondness for spinning songs into 10-minute jams, as he does with Heavy Soul's title track. Someone of his punk roots should abhor the practice of stretching tunes beyond their natural limits, especially when the tunes are so lumpen. Playing with head down, chopping industriously at his guitar, he resembles nothing so much as one of the dinosaur rockers he came to destroy in 1977. But that's Weller: campaigner for authentic rock'n' roll, Mr Keep-It-Real.
Paul Weller plays the Nottingham Arena (0115-948 4526), tomorrow, then tours.
