Albarn finds new focus after Blur

Michael Deacon reviews The Good, the Bad and the Queen at Trinity Centre Bristol

Damon Albarn is a Chelsea fan, and there's something of Roman Abramovich about the supernova line-up he leads out on the opening night of its first tour.

Strutting and posing with lapels upturned is Paul Simonon, the bassist in the Clash; beaming behind him is Fela Kuti's Tony Allen, exalted by Brian Eno as "the greatest drummer who ever lived". Staring combatively ahead is Simon Tong, the rhythm guitarist in the Verve: Albarn's less glamorous but solid signing, his Makelele.

Together they're The Good, the Bad and the Queen, or, strictly, the band that's just released an album of that title (they're officially anonymous; Simonon has declared that band names are merely for the young and "insecure").

Supergroup, however, isn't quite the word for them. What we're really hearing, as Saturday's Bristol gig makes clear, is a solo singer-songwriter who just happens to have assembled an almost superfluously gifted backing band. No doubt about it, these are Albarn's songs – looser, less glossy expansions on the kind of ballad he wrote in Blur.

The other three musicians adjust their own styles to fit in. For all their pedigree, here they look virtually like Albarn's staff, his personnel – or like ducklings, paddling obediently behind their mother. It's a curious move, recruiting a rhythmic genius like Allen just to pat diligently along to tunes as unfunky as most of these; like hiring Michelangelo to creosote the garden fence.

But all that matters, as Abramovich would say, are results – and tonight sees an assured away win. A stately Kingdom of Doom, an aptly lush Green Fields and, at the end, a joyfully scrappy cover of Guns of Brixton, sung – or, more accurately, muttered – by Simonon.

It's often been asserted that Albarn's music lacks soul. Perhaps his critics accidentally fast-forwarded through Blur's This Is A Low, Out of Time, No Distance Left to Run, Yuko and Hiro and To The End. Or perhaps what they mean – with a touch more reason – is that Albarn's lyrics don't quite extend to misery; he's written plenty of songs about break-ups and breakdowns, but their mood tends to be resigned rather than distraught.

This is true of his latest lyrics, about Iraq, the tsunami, a fearful London. But his heart's there – if not obviously enough in the words, then without question in his increasingly rich voice.

At 38, Albarn is no longer the Britpop pin-up. His eyes are ringed with grey, that guilty-wolf grin is missing a tooth, and his hair looks suspiciously like it's been combed forward over his temples. But in yet another band he's found new energy and life.