Maxwell photo by Rene Johnston / Toronto Star

The fault for a sub-par show ultimately ends up with the performer, but James Brown had a hand in Maxwell’s mediocre ACC date. The Godfather of Soul also dubbed himself the Hardest Working Man in Show Business, as though you could measure his talent in the sweat pouring from his forehead. Maxwell apparently thinks so, because while the R&B cult hero soldiered on despite a hoarse set of vocal cords that repeatedly let him down, I’m guessing most of the audience — particularly those who paid upwards of $100 for tickets — would probably have rather had him reschedule the show for a later date, when he didn’t sound like the Tom Waits of neo-soul.

Then again, better too rough than too smooth. Common is a master chameleon who can fit into almost any situation, from a rude posse cut like Kanye West’s “Get Em High” to Gap commercials to church services. That also means when confronted with a mature crowd expecting an R&B set, he can turn into a purveyor of third-rate smoove jams yammering more craven appeals than a used car salesman. Introducing “Punch Drunk Love,” the closest thing to a babymaking track on his comically bad new album Universal Mind Control, he drawled, “this one’s for all the beautiful couples out there.” He didn’t remind us to tip our servers, but with his band playing oily versions of “I Want You” and, naturally, “The Light,” the vibe onstage was a tiki lamp away from being the stadium equivalent of an airport hotel lounge.

Taking the stage after a brief intro showing off the four massive video screens he brought, Maxwell restored some semblance of class with his sharply cut suit, and a crack band that included celebrated jazz pianist Robert Glasper. Gliding through hazy arrangements both old (“Lifetime,” showing off his still-astonishing falstetto) and new (“Bad Habits,” a highlight from BLACKsummers’ night, his acclaimed new disc following an eight-yeart hiatus) and generally making women all through the ACC’s lower bowl squeal like Beatlemaniacs watching The Ed Sullivan Show. With a dark suit, white shirt, no tie and his once-wild afro cut short, he seemed to be going for a cross between Smokey Robinson and Barack Obama, though it’s hard to imagine either of them dedicating a song to the “sexy, beautiful women who don’t wear any panties.”



With D’Angelo gone from view, the neo-soul crown is Maxwell’s to lose, and he certainly seems to know what he’s doing. Even on this, the first show of his tour, the band seemed well-rehearsed, yet entirely relaxed and in the pocket; the stage moves — which included running out onto a Y-shaped platform that bisected the floor seats, disappearing into and reappearing out of chambers hidden beneath the stage and humping the floor during the steamy “Welcome” — were neatly executed and Maxwell himself pulled off most of the vocal acrobatics with a reasonable amount of proficiency. But it was the general vibe of uncertainty, from his repeated apologies for the hoarseness to the fact that his voice was clearly being mixed down so that it couldn’t be clearly heard, that killed the mood for both the fans and the couples smooching in their seats. The show wasn’t a total disappointment, but when you know it could be so much better, it’s hard not to feel somewhat cheated.

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