Genre-bending: Julia Biel
Hard-core classical music snobs, among whom I number myself, don't usually attend pop music concerts. And when we do, we normally spend our time fiddling with our foam earplugs.
This week, however, told a different story. Monday night saw me sitting quietly, suitably refreshed by the official drink of the chosen venue (Islington's Carling Bar Academy), eyes closed and adopting the head-in-hands pose that signifies "don't disturb, serious musical concentration in progress". And, for once, I wasn't just posing.
Julia Biel, an artist whom many are predicting to be about to hit the big time ("Norah Jones meets Björk" seems to be the general line), has a voice of supreme subtlety and honeyed depth. But her alluring tones were but an entrance to a musical world of great, sometimes troubling, intricacy.
Her acoustic set comprised a mere six songs, but each of them was characterised by the kind of finely-wrought intensity you'd more likely expect in a 19th-century string quartet than amidst the bright lighting and sticky floors of the Bar Academy.
Biel and co-songwriter Johnny Phillips's songs explored the capabilities of all their instruments - guitar, clarinet, flute, double bass, and the drums of the bizarrely coiffed but bewilderingly talented Sebastian Rochford. Apparently there's normally a cello too, but, even without, the melodic and rhythmic interplay was enough of a feast.
The demanding nature of the music - the wide range of styles, sonorities, the sometimes irregular harmonies and rhythms - might seem like hard work. But Biel is obviously committed to the experimental aesthetic, and her mesmerising voice and magnetic stage presence should encourage many to follow where she leads.
Biel thanked her management for letting her band "loose on the rock and pop circuit". But from where I sat, it seemed more like the other way around, as pop did its best to invade this rarefied atmosphere. At one point, in the middle of a particularly contemplative number, the noise of a band called Chicane playing downstairs wafted in, bringing with it a bouncer, whose walkie-talkie started chattering away unchecked as its owner stood rooted to the spot, obviously perplexed.
He looked, in fact, rather like I felt - transfixed by a musical epiphany. Something of a rare event for those of us whose tastes were fixed by teenage nights alone with Elizabeth Schwarzkopf, I would welcome more of the same with open arms. Any more tips to ease cautious classical music lovers out of their shells, let's hear them here.
