Watch that man

Last Friday, flanked by rows of books and the Blutack-flecked walls of the children’s section of Brixton Library, against a backdrop of wailing sirens, the brilliant Phillip Jeays played to a packed house, although he had mentally prepared himself for an audience of three, he told us. Jeays is a singer-songwriter but don’t let that put you off. He bears no resemblance to James Blunt. Think more Jacques Brel meets a young David Bowie then throw in a dash of Sondheim and a touch of Satan (but in a good way) — and still you wouldn’t quite have it. The man defies description. It’s amazing that his combination of barbed yet self-deprecatory lyrics and impassioned delivery hasn’t catapulted him into the big time. Then again, perhaps it’s not. Jeays is not the sort to co-operate with A&R men. The songs, which he inhabits rather than sings, are funny and mordant and tender by turn, and rail against hypocrisy in all its forms.