The Magnetic Fields – review

Royal Festival Hall, LondonStephin Merritt, the droll, glum baritone bard of the Magnetic Fields, is throwing possibly his first ever on-stage diva tantrum. "Everyone else gets tea," he barks at a flustered roadie. "Where's my tea?" It's redolent of tonight's endearing book group atmosphere, of the good cop/miserable cop repartee between Merritt and pianist Claudia Gonson, and of these New York chamber-country-pop conceptualists' constant upturning of convention. They sing charming, honeyed tu...

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