Incredibly his new songs were the best songs: Lindsey Buckingham, at the London Palladium, reviewed

Lindsey Buckingham, at 72, still has cheekbones that cast shadows. He has the upright shock of hair, too, though now it makes him look less like the kohl-eyed pop god of 1980 and more like Malcolm Gladwell’s cooler, angrier brother. He still has fire, too. A couple of solo renditions of Fleetwood Mac songs won the crowd over, but it was the following run of three numbers from his newest album, played with his three-piece band, that put the spark to the show. It proved he’s not yet a heritage act.

He had no choice, really, but to forge ahead. In 2018, he was booted out of Fleetwood Mac, for various reasons, chief among them appearing to be that Stevie Nicks couldn’t stand the sight of him any longer, and it was her or him. There were also books documenting him being controlling and abusive to two former partners, Nicks and Carol Ann Harris. One American musician I interviewed idly wondered what it must be like inside Buckingham’s head. Probably, he concluded, a bit like that horror movie Event Horizon, where the malevolent spaceship drives everyone mad. All of which is to say that while he may be an elder statesman who has given pleasure to millions, Buckingham is very much not the music industry’s answer to Tom Hanks.

But popular culture will persist in throwing up problematic people who happen to be geniuses, and Buckingham is one of pop music’s geniuses, worthy of comparison with Paul McCartney and Brian Wilson. His run of records with Fleetwood Mac from 1975 to 1987 is a glory (well, OK, Mirage is patchy), and though Nicks and Christine McVie were also major songwriters, Buckingham was the one with the vision. He was an astounding, adventurous songwriter, a brilliant guitarist, and an extraordinary producer and arranger – the studio was his instrument. Mick Fleetwood used to refer to Buckingham as the band’s ‘musical director’, and they are a shadow without him.

Buckingham’s London show – 2,200 people at a West End theatre – might have been more intimate than Fleetwood Mac’s two nights at Wembley Stadium last time they were here, but the place was packed with zealots, eager to show their loyalty. ‘We love you, Lindsey,’ came the shouts between songs, mainly from men. They even gave him a standing ovation for ‘I’m So Afraid’, the showcase for his interminable, furious guitar solo, which at Fleetwood Mac shows was often the cause of a mass exodus to bars and toilets.

It took a while for the show to find the sweet spot, as Buckingham traversed through his back catalogue of solo material: all expertly played – special kudos to drummer Michael Urbano, who was fantastic – and pleasant to listen to, but unspectacular. It was like Buckingham himself: austere, ascetic, and just a little joyless. But then his acoustic spot – including a gorgeous ‘Never Going Back Again’ – gave way to that run of three new songs, and it was all smiles from that point onwards, especially with ‘Tusk’ and ‘Go Your Own Way’ yet to come. It’s hard to overstate how incredible it is that new songs might lift a set from someone who has been making records for 50 years. Who last went to see McCartney or the Stones hoping for more of the latest material?

Also over from America and away from the band that made his name was Craig Finn, usually of the Hold Steady but here promoting his fifth solo album, A Legacy of Rentals. The Hold Steady play high-energy rock’n’roll while Finn sings about lives gone awry. Solo, his backing band, play a kind of freewheeling Americana, with sax prominent – a bit early Springsteen, a bit Van Morrison, a bit the Band. The Hold Steady are my first love, but Finn’s lyrics – he is the best lyricist this century – are a pleasure to hear in any setting.

The Moth Club is one of the loveliest, most atmospheric small venues in London, but its PA rendered large chunks of the lyrics indecipherable, sadly. Never mind: the band was cooking, Finn looked joyful, and the crowd – containing a disproportionate number of Minnesotans who were in town to watch Minnesota Vikings play at Spurs’ stadium (Finn is from Minneapolis) – lapped it up, many having arrived from the game in a state of prior refreshment.

And as the sombre ‘God in Chicago’ rang out, those brilliant lyrics came through loud and clear: ‘Her mom found her brother./ Then she found the container wrapped up in a newspaper/ Stuffed in a duffel bag with hockey pads/ And seven grand in rubber bands.’ Somewhere between Elmore Leonard and Raymond Carver, set to weeping piano. Glorious.