
I’m not, in day to day life, Jeffrey Lewis’ biggest fan. It’s not because I don’t like his music, I just never spent any time with it for some reason. I did however see him supporting HRH Stephen Malkmus last year in Tripod, and I was enthralled.
Take one part Moldy Peaches-y New York anti-folk, add in one part US slacker punk. Mix in an obsession with comic books, and take away most of the cocaine, pills and alcohol that Adam Green seems like he’s on. Add some bizarre, image-accompanied factual songs about the history of communism or, on that occasion, the Creeping Brain.
That’s Jeffrey Lewis, or the ingredients for Jeffrey Lewis in any case. Saw him in Crawdaddy on Wednesday night, and it was surprisingly packed out.
With his reputation in tatters, his career all but over, and his fürstlich acquaintances abandoning him at an alarming rate, everyone’s erstwhile favourite blue-blooded populariser of Dublin’s fine arts, Byron Chaffinch Frump, clings obstinately to the one final thing he can be sure of:





