Setlist supplied by Stephen B
Live photo supplied by Erin C

Online review by 'Thoughts While Doing Something Else'
Concert review you’ll never find in a newspaper: Robyn Hitchcock and his acoustic-electric guitar and psychedelic imagination and the outside world and the whole damn thing, The 04 Center, Austin, January 16, 2026
If I may begin with a very tangential sidebar: I love surf music instrumentals. Who doesn’t? Does anyone actually think they’re not cool? By definition there aren’t any lyrics, so it’s like the songs are giving you permission to turn off your brain and free-associate. It’s Ventures therapy! Surf instrumentals are perfect to listen to while driving, as if you’ve got your own temporary theme-song soundtrack while roaring down the road. Surf instrumentals aren’t political, challenging, or depressing. They don’t ask you to change your worldview or take any action outside of listening to them, passively nodding your head in rhythm. I don’t recommend them as the only ingredient in a musical diet, that would be like trying to subsist on Snickers bars, but you’ve gotta admit they’re great mental palate cleansers.

And those titles! The Calhoun Surf. Wipe Out. Pipeline. Walk, Don’t Run. Diamond Head. Wild Weekend. Catalina. Beneath the Reef. Telstar. The Breeze and I. Let’s Go Trippin’. Mr. Moto. Penetration. Ad infinitum. All you have to do is look at the titles and the single-coil Fender Jazzmasters, Strats and Jags, maybe a Mosrite, will start in twanging clean and pure, then the saturated spring reverb and whammy bars come in immediately and the whole glorious composition starts playing in your head, right? By God, if there isn’t an app called Random Surf Instrumental Song Title Generator, there should be.

If listening to surf instrumentals while driving helps free up your own creativity, then by all means go for it; who knows where it could lead? (How’s that for a segue?) Anyway, last night my wife and I went down to the 04 Center in South Austin to catch Robyn Hitchcock, not primarily known as a surf guitarist but who is an OG alt-rock prince, master of musical imagination and keeper of the spirit of ‘67, originally from London, now running his game out of Nashville. It was my first concert of this already troubling year. Somebody has to be in the audience, after all; it might as well be us.

The last time I saw Sir Robyn play live was back in the mists of prehistory; well, either that or at the Paradise in Boston in 1986, which is the same thing, really. (To be cringingly accurate, I believe it was November 2 of that year; thanks, setlist.fm.) To me, he’s the definition of “eccentric genius”—as if there’s ever been any other kind. Underwater Moonlight is right up there with Pet Sounds, and I won’t be taking questions on that.

We got solo acoustic-electric Robyn rather than the full band, no Egyptians or Emma Swift to be seen, but no complaints here. It was a luscious, spiritual mid-January musical evening in a converted church in South Austin, among the converted faithful.

The question is, though: What good did it do, besides make Robyn Hitchcock some money?

Well, then: Given what’s been going on in the world and in my native land lately, focusing on “what a great concert I went to last night, people” might seem a bit myopic, but in terms of mental health it’s crucial, whether you’re playing up there or just listening in a crowd. (If you’re performing music and doing it well, you’re helping not just yourself but all of your listeners — okay, all except the ones who stepped out for a drink or to use the bathroom.) Art in all its forms is a very important tool in making people feel they’re not alone in feeling what they do, and also letting them know they’re not alone in their weirdness and have found themselves among their tribe in the (for example) Church of Robyn Hitchcock of Latter-day Alternative Music Saints. Like surf instrumentals, live concerts are self-care. This is especially true in this freshly minted yet already seriously bruised year as we begin the second quarter of this troubled century.

After over 39 years I was in the audience again for an evening with Robyn Hitchcock, and as soon as he started speaking I recognized him immediately: hey, it was him, with that voice and that unique brain. He was very funny, interspersing the songs with quips like “Sure, the world’s going to shit, but artisanal coffee’s getting really good,” “It’s a really interesting species, if you find yourself incarnated here,” “Okay, let’s bulldoze the mood with this one,” and, just before he left for intermission, “I’m going to lie in my lead-lined coffin for 17 minutes.” It’s all done with a knowing wink, as if he’s saying yeah, we’re all in on the cosmic joke here before this crazy planet blows up.

In keeping with the multimedia era, here are two videos I took from last night, The Queen of Eyes and Tonight, both from Underwater Moonlight:

The Robyn concert was very much a 21st century psychedelic happening, with swirls of color in the room putting us on the inside of a lava lamp and the artist on stage playing the likes of I Saw Nick Drake, covering the early Pink Floyd song See Emily Play (from ‘67), and offering up a good selection from Underwater Moonlight. A highlight was I Wanna Destroy You from that masterpiece, which he dedicated to “the people in power…I’m not going to say their names, but you know who they are….This is a protest song against human nature. America isn't a fascist country, but it has a fascist government. Fun times, people!"

He ended the show on a perfect note, leading the entire audience through the Beatles’ A Day In The Life (which he called “Hymn 56”; all of us, of course, knew the words) as he strolled and strummed his way up and down the center aisle.

Speaking of self-care, perhaps that also applies to street protests, as long as you’re not being assaulted by the thugs of the state, although in that situation there’s no reserved seating, cover charge or encores and it’s MRO, marching room only. You’d be well within your rights to argue that street protests accomplish nothing in terms of changing official stands, guidelines and laws, especially on the federal level, but if you’re looking to confirm that at least you and your cats aren’t the only ones who feel the way you do, saddle up and join the crowd.

The shooting and killing of Renee Good, a 37-year-old white American woman poet — gay, married, mother of three including a six-year-old son, kind of liberal — by an ICE agent in Minneapolis on January 7 is the latest litmus test for empathy or the lack of it. In my book she’s very relatable in the way of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I, as if she could have been a neighbor or, in another universe, even my daughter. A new line has been crossed: They’re emboldened enough to kill nominally Christian white women too, now? Even women who win poetry prizes?!! So much for one’s assumed privilege! It’s up in our face: If they can kill Renee, they can kill anyone. The federal government, led by you know who, has declared an unholy war against its citizens that’s still ramping up every day. The message being sent is very clear: Yes, this means you. Better keep your head down, keep your papers on your person and don’t cause trouble, or we’ll shoot your ass.

Like the death of George Floyd in that same city five and a half years ago, it’s brought out the best and the worst in people. Some hold up the deaths as completely avoidable murders of innocent victims, which, to my mind, is accurate. Others actively working in the MAGA Martyr Cancellation Department (MCD), a cottage industry dedicated to delving into the victims’ pasts and analyzing microscopic details of the event in question, argue they weren’t very nice people, criminals and/or deranged Antifa domestic terrorists who didn’t “comply” and deserved what they got. (Who among us would survive such scrutiny and propaganda attacks from these amateur prosecutors of the keyboard?)

It all comes back to how much empathy you have, which is beginning to seem to me to be a better cultural dividing line than political parties. Are you capable of seeing yourself in the face of a stranger, even one who lives far away, maybe speaks another language, and doesn’t look like you? Are we all in with diversity and tolerance, supporting people struggling against oppression, or have we decided to go along with the Ayn Rand crowd and laugh at the wounded and dead like a high school bully in the corridor? The US government has, in fact, been run by a bunch of high school bullies for what seems like forever now, and there seems to be no depths to which they won’t plunge.

In the face of all this, some of us have been feeling a bit guilty about living comparatively safe and comfortable lives. Even then, the public blood that’s been spilled has been dripping over into our personal lives. Certain musicians I follow online have even been asking themselves whether, in the face of all these horrors, it’s still appropriate or seemly to plug their own upcoming gigs, that it seems trivial and shortsighted now. That they’re even asking this question should be proof enough that they possess copious amounts of empathy (a desirable trait in anyone, perhaps especially for artists).

Lately, more out of emotional exhaustion than anything, I’ve been asking myself these questions:

“What difference does it make whether or not I feel sorry for a stranger?”

“What difference does it make if I ‘stand in solidarity’ with an oppressed people I’ve never met and am not a part of?” (Hello, Iran, where people are currently trying their best to have the power.)

“What difference does it make if I march in a demonstration?”

“What difference does it make if I have opinions about anything? Nothing will change, in any case.”

The best answer I have to this would be that if you feel it makes a difference then it does, if only to yourself and anyone who might be influenced by your example.

I know: it’s exhausting, and these days the treadmill of despair seems as endlessly repeating as a NordicTrack. But we persevere because we must. So my personal recommendation would be to keep doing the live music thing, on whichever side of the stage you find yourself. I know that in any case, Sir Robyn Hitchcock will.