In Black Yaya, another branch grows from the Herman Dune folk-rock family tree. André Herman Dune, who left the cult French group in 2006, operates prolifically as Stanley Brinks. David Ivar, Herman Dune’s frontman, has also stepped out under a cryptic nom de plume.
Ivar – a tall, gangly chap in a beat-up trilby hat, harmonica brace around his neck and a tambourine strapped to his ankle – performs as Black Yaya. Candles, paper garlands and paintings of a righteous-looking man with an afro adorn the stage, styled like a mock shrine. Among these trinkets, Ivar strums his acoustic guitar and sings, supported by nimble-fingered bassist and backing vocalist Vincent Mougel.
Done in a stripped-back format relative to the lush, full-band sound of Black Yaya’s eponymous debut album, there isn’t actually much to differentiate these songs from Herman Dune’s. But to their author they represent a personal epiphany after years of “questioning my life”, as he puts it. One number addresses how he attempted acting in a friend’s film, until he discovered he couldn’t even play a corpse convincingly.
Instead, Ivar’s sticking to what comes naturally: heavily Jonathan Richman-inspired observational writing full of wit and compositional flair. Vigilante opens with a moody mariachi-style guitar instrumental, setting the tone for a wounded lyric about abandonment. The groovily blissed-out Flying a Rocket sees Mougel whack out a beat on a tambourine as Ivar unexpectedly stamps on a fuzz pedal and lets rip with a tremendous, gnarled solo.
Disappointingly there’s no place for Under Your Skin, Black Yaya’s best song. But surely nobody could feel short-changed by the set’s highlight, as Ivar steps to the front of the stage, illuminated by a torch, to play an unplugged song innocently paying tribute to his late hero Lou Reed. “It’s strange to miss a person you never knew,” he sings sweetly, “I’m gonna miss his voice and his guitar too.”
• At Adelphi Club, Hull, on 15 April. Box office: 01482 348 216. Details: blackyaya.com
