18Aug2005

Review: The Independent

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Guy Pratt is in a dingy punk club in London in the late Seventies when a punk called some­thing improb­a­ble like Poison Hatchet approaches him. “So what’s your name?” says the Mohawk. “Guy Pratt,” replies the cowed bassist. There is a pause before the Mohawk replies: “That’s bril­liant.”

The punk-moniker anec­dote is a per­fect micro­cosm of Pratt’s won­der­ful show, an hour of sto­ries and sub­lime bass-play­ing from a man who has stood in the wings of recent pop his­tory. From Madonna to Michael Jackson, Ice House to Pink Floyd, Pratt has played bass with them all. And, like the shy teenager with the punk name, one senses that Pratt has been a hero by acci­dent rather than design.

But what tales he has to tell. It’s hard to pick a favourite. Is it the story of play­ing a fes­ti­val with Crosby, Stills and Nash, only for David Crosby to spend his entire time in Pratt’s car­a­van putting the gas hob to insalu­bri­ous use? Or lay­ing down a bass track for a Michael Jackson song, as the star issued instruc­tions while hid­ing behind the amp? Or per­haps being asked out on a date with Madonna, only for there to be no pho­tog­ra­phers to catch the glo­ri­ous moment?

The refresh­ing aspect of this pop-anorak heaven is Pratt’s mod­esty. “When I started out”, he admits, “bands recruited a roadie and a lawyer before a bass player.” Funny, then, that Pratt is now the star attrac­tion.

 

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Ed Caesar