Vintage-sounding soul has been having something of a renaissance of late, from the Chicano low-rider balladry of Thee Sacred Souls to the simmering southern protest of Curtis Harding or veteran crooner Ural Thomas’s remarkable rejuvenation. Amid such a crowded market, Bloomington, Indiana’s the Indications distinguish themselves by evoking a different epoch of soul than their contemporaries – the lush Philadelphia sound, the contoured passion of Luther Vandross – and by their elegantly charismatic frontman, Durand Jones.
While they’re gifted masters of their craft, and while drummer Aaron Frazer’s dulcet street-corner falsetto holds aloft the handful of songs he leads, the Indications wisely centre their show around Jones. He rises to the occasion in brown leather boots, white jeans, deckchair-striped shirt, shades and brown suede safari hat. The outfit is accessorised with a diaphanous handkerchief for mopping away sweat – even though Jones’ croon comes effortlessly, like a breeze. A classic showman, he asks if there are “any sexy people in the house tonight?”, drops to his knees whenever the moment becomes too much to bear, and dances with unselfconscious joy throughout. He maintains a canny balance of grit and velvet similar to Marvin Gaye, his smoky voice graced with filigrees of pain and redemption.
