Sean K. Preston | Thursday, April 25th 2024 – Titanic, Herenthout
It happened again. Of course it did. It’s all an integral part of the sneaky synchronistic ride the magic of the music is taking me on. It feels fated, whether I like it or not. Note from the author: I don’t just like it though, I absolutely love it. Drawn by the red thread that guides me through my new life, my new sense of me. I should have known better than to think I could avoid writing about this. It only took a couple of songs after which a loud ‘fuuuuuuuuck’ escapes my mouth into the general area around me. Suddenly my notes app has mysteriously opened out of its own volition. I find myself typing various cryptic expressions, full of misspellings and vague references to what I see unfold before me. This? This right here is SPECIAL.
I did try to fervently resist the urge to document this show at first because both my body and my mind are objecting to my busy schedule. No time or energy for it I proclaimed loudly and clearly to those around me, ALAS and woe is me. And yet every time when I am very much too tired but decide to nevertheless push through the limitations of my near somnambulant body, I am exposed to the most beautiful, exhilarating, inspiring and energy delivering moments in time. (Re: Joey Henry, Maid of Ace, Van Tastik and closer to home, bands like Bad Samaritans, Luna and de Maanstenen and many many more.)
Heading into the Titanic, I already notice this alluring specimen of an instrument. This already released the first I-need-to-write-about-this-pang, (as beautiful musical instruments tend to do) which I deftly still withstood. But let me tell you, the sound drawn from it by the skillful (glittery pink nail polish adorned) fingers of Sean K. Presten even outrivaled even its gorgeous body. I fell in love with it, mind, body and soul at first (auditory) glance. The range he gets out of those keyhole backed strings is unbelievable. From sneering near metal riffs, to bluesy bops, metallic bluegrass plucking and delicate acoustic notes, it goes all over the place.
It is still nothing compared to the vocal range that Sean brings to the stage! At some points, it seemed to me he was singing in two separate voices. He delights the captivated audience with an out of this world cover of House of the Rising song that leaves me breathless. I’ve heard this song so many times and it feels like I’m discovering it for the first time, here and now in Sean’s unparalleled voice and tempo. The recordings I am listening to while writing this don’t do those vocal chords any justice, even though they sound stupendous in their own right. The live experience is infinitely better, such as it tends to be with exceptional artists like these.
Sean is an astonishing story teller, a pink haired punk version in the legendary tradition of the likes of Johnny Cash and similar word weavers. Or word smith more like, where he forges a narrative from the fire of his voice, combined with the wielding of his guitar like the most powerful battle axe. An alternate reality of atmospheres that leave me laughing (Snakeskin Boots Boogie), crying (Homeward Bound) and constantly dreamily swaying to the music.
Speaking of Mister Cash by the way, between songs something draws my eye to the side of the bar. I take a picture of the above stickers and learn by word of Juice that they’re an amazing cover band of the man himself. Not a second later, I hear the opening notes to Ain’t No Grave and squeal in delight. I MEAN. This is NOT a coincidence. It’s the red guiding thread that links all the music I have had the privilege to (re)discover.
Meanwhile Sean is singing his heart out so hard that the mic falls down, he jumps from the stage into the crowd and both times an attentive audience member jumps to the rescue to untangle the cables. This brings to mind a thought I’ve had a few times already, in seeing artists with this sort of unbridled and unearthly talent. Why is this man ‘limited’ (not meant derogatory but more in terms of the size of the audience that gets to discover them) to such a small stage?
Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore these sorts of performances in venues that still breathe the music. (Like in the amazing Titanic where I finally ended up after a year of wanting to discover it.) It’s always such an intimate and breathtaking experience which you can probably never really simulate in a larger venue. But it still baffles me every time and it doesn’t seem fair to the artists that they can’t share the beauty of their art with more people. The menace of the marketing machine in the music scene I suppose.
Rants aside, I am leaning into the wall, feeling the music resonate all through me, my eyes closed, feel it gently fill me up and recharge me again from the inside out. I open my eyes and spot a random passerby in the street, through the window behind the stage. They’re entirely oblivious to the near religious experience (for me at least) they’re missing here. Alas, the last notes fade out, as they sadly always have to. I feel in my bones that this is turning out to be another year of impossibility in deciding which of the performances was better. A year full of highlights? I am totally ready to let it enrapture me.
I exclaim ‘WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS’ to Juice and Rob who’ve been right behind me the entire show and have been getting that message in several silent glances throughout the show. Juice, who was Sean (and band’s) driver when they toured in Belgium six years ago, brings me over to the stage to introduce me. I gush a little about the performance and take the obligatory selfie to accompany this blog.
We get to talking and don’t really stop until long after closing. Eventually my body is begging me to finally get the fuck home and rest. So I wistfully say my goodbyes and leave. I eventually collapse into bed content with a bag full of musical memories I won’t soon forget. (And a few remarkable musical recommendations)
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