Natural Magnetism

The Magnetic Fields at the Cambridge Corn Exchange

James Roberts finds himself drawn to the Magnetic Fields' songs of attraction and repulsion

'So...' says Claudia Gonson as Stephin Merritt adjusts an earbud. 'Anyone read any good books lately?'

'Lemony Snicket,' someone in the audience offers.

'Yeah, that's a good one. Being made into a film. Starring Jim Carrey.' A pause. 'Okay, our next song...'

Despite the size of the venue, there was an unexpected intimacy surrounding the Magnetic Fields' performance at the Corn Exchange. Few songs didn't receive an introduction or a brief digression into good-natured bickering. The band stayed still at centre stage; Merritt himself sat dourly, absorbing even a ukelele into his glum aura. (The quota of strutting and posturing had been entertainingly filled by The Real Tuesday Weld in support, rolling out cocktail jazz retailored with a jaunty skew, sketches of Luciferan lotharios and the odd burst of scat, profanity and umbrella.)

But as a comedian's deadpan distils the humour into his joke, the Fields' reserve distilled the drama into their songs. Though they too were funny. 'So you quote love unquote me,' begins one. Another ('A Chicken With Its Head Cut Off', Gonson prompts) likens its lover to a chicken with its head cut off. Another ponders the many advantages of having an evil twin. Elsewhere love-song clichés are picked up and toyed with: after a shower of celestial imagery, Merritt wryly adds that 'astronomy will have to be revised'.

But, over a career-spanning set, Merritt showed that he deals doubly in fine lines. The wit of his lyrics teeters, as true wit should, between sincerity and parody, tragedy and comedy. To sing about a sad clown's unrequited loves is funny; it's also sad. 'My papa was a rodeo / My mama was a rock-and-roll band / I could play guitar and rope a steer / Before I learnt to stand'... in case we're still tempted to identify it with Merritt, the lyric then shifts fifty-five years forward. Though many personae drifted through the set, Merritt's rich, sombre baritone remained steadily him.

You only wished that a little more space had been dug out for that voice in the mix. For every brilliant line you could hear, there was another you couldn't. But, when words failed, the instruments were eloquent enough. A warm acoustic rendering, with a sharp ear for dynamics and a folksy tinge from Merritts ukelele and John Woo's banjo, brought out the songcraft of once-synthetic studio versions. At moments it was as if they weren't performing their own work, but playing age-old standards.

Yet, for all their crystalline detachment, the songs held real feeling that couldn't just be a product of craftsmanship. 'It's Only Time' ended the main set as proof. Only something deeper could raise the declaration of undying love, trodden into the mud of cliché by a thousand songwriters, not just to sincerity but to credibility again. 'Marry me,' Merritt sings suddenly, and your heart stops. 'Marry me.' Though it may not be Merritt who means it, and it may not be meant for you, for once - at last - it means something.