Dijon Review – A dense, dramatic forest of future sound from the Grammy-nominated R&B composer | R&B

Dijon may have sold out two nights at the Brixton Academy, but the first one feels as if the audience is witnessing a joyful jam session between friends: musicians who completely care about each other and are not ashamed of their passion.

After an extensive US tour for his acclaimed album Baby – and ahead of next weekend’s Grammy Awards, where he is nominated for Producer of the Year thanks to his work with Justin Bieber – the American singer-songwriter grips the microphone as if giving it life, seemingly distracted only by the sounds around him. His music is a lo-fi but heavily produced R&B kind of thing, but his setup here is electronic rock material, with soundboards and decks, a wide range of synthesizers, a live kit, electric guitar and bass, violin and backing vocals. This ambition is matched by the tracklist: 21 songs in two hours played in quick succession.

Opening with Big Mike, another kid! More often than not, the new sandwiched with the old, Dijon plays bedroom R&B for his first-ever album with the experimental pop mentality of Baby. It mixes influences to the point of injury: Scratch is King Krull meets Simon and Garfunkel, with an emphasis on live banjo and tambourine.

A series of seven songs in the middle—including The Dress—begin to feel mundane, except for an Appalachian-sounding dance sung and played on violin by Sam Amidon after Annie. But after the verdict, smoke covered the stage and the lights dimmed: the first real use of stagecraft. The guitarists use synth pads, creating a strange, futuristic soundscape that swells and collapses into grungy chords: despite the instrumentation, this music is earthy, deep, and, in rewind, emotional to the point of anger. Performance Wake Up: TV Blues and Talk Down features industrial sounds as percussion devices, phased and filtered without consistent high beats, forming a cloying sonic atmosphere.

Yamaha, Automatic and Kindalove closed the show like the end of an 80s concert, mirror ball lights illuminating the starry-eyed crowd. But then a clarinetist plays the title track, “Rodeo Clown,” and the noise diminishes until all we hear is Dejon’s voice, illuminated by a single spotlight, in his familiar silhouette dangling from his microphone. Visually simple yet sonically rich, this show takes Dijon’s production to another level, which has been made almost unrecognizable by its fearless auteur.