This is officially the most rock-filled week of my life. One would think I'd be rocked out by now, but hell, are you kidding me? The New York Dolls at a venue I wander by all the time? The New York Dolls? C'mon, of course I'm not gonna miss this one.
Me being me, of course I get the timing wrong and show up late: I missed the opening act and the New York Dolls were already 20 minutes into their set, so I grabbed a ticket ($30- more then I expected!) and went dashing directly into the ballroom.
The music hit me like a wave. This is a band that was built from the ground up for rowdy dancing. It's like time-travel: just like how B.B King offered a portal to the jazz dance-halls of the 50s, the New York Dolls will give you a glimpse of the New York rock clubs in the early 70s. You have to conjure the sticky floors, drag queens and drug dealers on your own, but you feel the mood.
And again with the bad audience karma. Round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows. The room was respectably about 3/4s full of mostly older white men and their mates. There were many Ramones-esque leather jackets in evidence. And the only people who were dancing were off to the left of the stage.
Well I sat through B.B's dance hall. Damned if I was going to sit through the Dolls. I also didn't want to be that dick who was jumping around amongst strangers who don't deserve it, so I needed to find some jumpers.
I finally found some in the very front row. That's how I ended up dancing with a goateed, handsome Russian boy who was very drunk and danced as badly as I do, so we were a good match. His sister arrived dressed in a self-made "Rock n' Roll Nurse" costume, which made me like her instantly. So I got my dancing in.
And I what a glorious soundtrack it was to dance to. This band is nothing short of fantastic live, and never let anyone tell you differently. So what if the drummer got ahead of the song on occasion? Train-wreaks are a Dolls tradition and no one does 'em with more flare. These guys strut, they pose, they preen, they wear gorgeous glammy trashy outfits and some stellar hats. David Johanson's throat is coated with sandpaper and honey, and with his heavy Staten Island accent and infinite swagger he can still kick your ass and look fabulous doing it. Technically speaking I think he's a better singer now then he was when he was young: age, smoking and tragedy have given his voice more texture and an edge of mortality that gives the slower songs their bite. He still dresses in low-riding jeans and women's blouses. He still owns the spotlight with the effortless charisma of a born star.
His partner in crime, the only other living member of the original Dolls line-up is rhythem guitarist Sylvain Sylvain: a short stout wiseguy with a vintage hollow-body and more enthusiasm for rock then a fourteen-year-old at a Jonas Brothers concert. the impression that he's a much better player then he chooses to be. He has got the technical goods, but for him style comes first, and his the bond between David and Syl is the beating heart of the band. David showed it too, always directing the spotlight Sil's way, declairing things like: "For this next song, Sylvain will play an acoustic guitar...and it will be so beautiful, that angels will come out of the walls and sprinkle angel dust upon everyone here." He was almost right.
Lead Guitarist Steve Conte (replacing the essentially irreplacable Johnny Thunders) wore a jaunty hat and his hair just so, and played his guitar like he could barely control it, even turned it upside down on one of the lights, rubbing the strings against the edge. The best thing I can say about him is he honors Thunder's memory while still having a kind of inept glory all his own. Sami Jaffa, the bassist, wore a pink waistcoat, a wide stance and a sneer. The drummer was bald, lofty, and aristocratic. They're as colorful a crew as you'll find anywhere.
It's hard to be objective about the Dolls. I have a soft spot for these guys so large it's not really a spot, it's like a huge bean-bag in my stomach.
When coming back onstage for the encore (orchestrated by Syl) David talked about how they'd never played this song live before. They were waiting for San Francisco, and I gotta hand it to the crowd: what they lacked in movement, they made up for in volume. He said to try and imagine what this song would look like. He said "This is an exorcism of despair!" and launched right into the rocking, which turned into "Personality Crisis," their single most recognizable tune/trainwreak and yes, it was magnificent.
Bruce Springsteen wrote that for a performer, your exhilaration is proportional to the void you are dancing over, and these guys (two of them at least) dance over the largest void imaginable everyday. These guys keep going out of love to their new band, as in synch with the spirit of the old group as you could wish. As important a group as they are (being the cradle of both punk rock and glam metal) they've never enjoyed the superstardom they deserve, and it's too bad because these guys are a masterful live band. Don't forget it.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
NiN/JA Tour : Shoreline Ampitheater: 5/22/2009
This one has been The Big One for me for a good long time. Ever since I tripped on a twitter and fell headlong into Nine Inch Nails fandom, I have been waiting for this show.
The fact that it has Street Sweeper Social Club is a surprise bonus. One reason, two words: Tom Morello. That guy is everywhere. This has got to be something like his eighth band and normally I'd mock him for that but this time I totally don't care because every show needs more Tom Morello! It's the law or something.
Street Sweeper has really gelled since I saw their premiere in Seattle. Boots Reilly has got some seriously happy feet and watching him dance is fun just by itself, but with the volume turned up, his rapping's like a cold fast river. The Freedom Fighter Orchestra (now wearing different uniforms) have really come into their own. Carl Restivo especially flaunts that Gibson like HE'S the star, which is a big change since the first time I saw him, looking stoned and slightly vacant in the Filmore in SF way back in October 2008. This band has come a long way. My favorite song of theirs is STILL a cover (M.I.A's "Paper Planes") but they've proven themselves a real band, not a vanity project.
Nine Inch Nails of course were who I came to see: Trent Reznor and his crew of less-buff but equally pale side-kick/minions. It hurts me to admit that I think they got upstaged. Don't get me wrong, I ENJOY Nine Inch Nails music hugely and wore myself out jumping around to "1,000,000," "Discipline" and "Head like a Hole" (A song I was anticipating, "Survivalism" ended up sounding a bit like a train wreak) but...well, I donno. Something was just missing.
It wasn't Ilan Rubin: NiN's current drummer is 20-years of human-shaped whirlwind: all curly hair and flying sticks, and watching him get up from his stool to...I can only describe it as "scamper" over to the keyboard during "March of the Pigs" then scamper back to his drums was adorable AND rockin'! And that's an irrestable combination for me. Look out Jay Weinburg, you're not the only intensely talented percussionista prodigy out and about these days.
As for Trent Reznor himself, all I can say is that if ever a man was born to do a job, Reznor was born for this one. He's the Dark Prince counterpoint to Springsteen's sacred radiance, commanding the black fires of the underworld like no other performer out there. Modern times have produced no heirs. If he's serious that this is his last tour, then the music-loving world is about to suffer a huge loss, because his mix of rage, ironic tenderness, and genuine raw musical talent is worth seeing at least once in your life and I'm glad I can now say that I've done it.
It was pretty good. I was happy. Jane's Addiction, it turned out, would leave me happier, and not just because the two ladies in front of me were smoking a lot of weed. The show was a fantastic three ring circus with a more colorful lighting design and some surprisingly non-intrusive integration of a shadow-movie screen playing clips from Natural Born Killers and other films I've never seen.
Perry Farrel is easily one of the best frontmen I've ever seen. He makes the task of getting an audience to love you look effortless. Where Reznor kept himself to his brief speach about this "maybe" being his last tour (simultanius response is "boo!" and "Yeah right") Perry Ferrel chatted away like he was everyone's long-lost friend. Topics of his speeches included going easy on Obama ("Give him a chance, he can't be worse then what we had") his love of San Francisco ("We'd be your house band if you'd have us!") Bill Grahm ("I knew him, I know two of his kids, and his spirit lives on!") age ("I'm fifty, I hope I'm still going to shows like this when I'm 60!") and "faggy clothes" as an expression of freedom ("I'd rather die then give up my corset!"). The crowd adored him. His voice, though slightly distorted by a heavy echo effect, has an element of boyish sweetness that clashes with his decadent attitude. He's just a character, and he LOVES San Francisco. He should come back so we can elect him mayor.
Dave Navarro is always worth a second look. He seems to be frozen permanently in his mid 30s, and plays with his buff tattooed torso on full desplay. His stance is as wide as any classic punk rocker, and with his blistering, generally high-pitched guitar he sounded like a scar of sound, or a blinding flash of light. His playing is what gives the music it's teeth.
Perkins was playing in his underwear and hammering on two bass drums like he was two drummers glued together. He also couldn't resist mugging for the stage-camera to his left: he kept fixing it with deep stares, his head turned just so. Eric Avery, the original bassist and single reunion hold-out before now was the only one who didn't look like he was having an absolute blast. When Perry came to his side of the stage to bring the spotlight, Eric completely ignored him. He remained hunched over his bass, seemingly lost in the music and not really paying attention to anyone, even the audience until he decided to sit with his legs dangling off the stage. But he never lost the trademark Jane's Addiction deeply melodic groove, not even once, and it's easy to see how it just couldn't be the band it is without him.
The ignoring thing might have been in my imagination. Again, the ladies in front of me had a lot of weed. I left the venue feeling really good about the world.
This is being billed as Nine Inch Nails's farewell tour, and the comeback for the original Jane's Addiction (several attempts at replacing Avery have failed). Who knows what the future actually has in store for these two groups, but just this night, now was enough.
The fact that it has Street Sweeper Social Club is a surprise bonus. One reason, two words: Tom Morello. That guy is everywhere. This has got to be something like his eighth band and normally I'd mock him for that but this time I totally don't care because every show needs more Tom Morello! It's the law or something.
Street Sweeper has really gelled since I saw their premiere in Seattle. Boots Reilly has got some seriously happy feet and watching him dance is fun just by itself, but with the volume turned up, his rapping's like a cold fast river. The Freedom Fighter Orchestra (now wearing different uniforms) have really come into their own. Carl Restivo especially flaunts that Gibson like HE'S the star, which is a big change since the first time I saw him, looking stoned and slightly vacant in the Filmore in SF way back in October 2008. This band has come a long way. My favorite song of theirs is STILL a cover (M.I.A's "Paper Planes") but they've proven themselves a real band, not a vanity project.
Nine Inch Nails of course were who I came to see: Trent Reznor and his crew of less-buff but equally pale side-kick/minions. It hurts me to admit that I think they got upstaged. Don't get me wrong, I ENJOY Nine Inch Nails music hugely and wore myself out jumping around to "1,000,000," "Discipline" and "Head like a Hole" (A song I was anticipating, "Survivalism" ended up sounding a bit like a train wreak) but...well, I donno. Something was just missing.
It wasn't Ilan Rubin: NiN's current drummer is 20-years of human-shaped whirlwind: all curly hair and flying sticks, and watching him get up from his stool to...I can only describe it as "scamper" over to the keyboard during "March of the Pigs" then scamper back to his drums was adorable AND rockin'! And that's an irrestable combination for me. Look out Jay Weinburg, you're not the only intensely talented percussionista prodigy out and about these days.
As for Trent Reznor himself, all I can say is that if ever a man was born to do a job, Reznor was born for this one. He's the Dark Prince counterpoint to Springsteen's sacred radiance, commanding the black fires of the underworld like no other performer out there. Modern times have produced no heirs. If he's serious that this is his last tour, then the music-loving world is about to suffer a huge loss, because his mix of rage, ironic tenderness, and genuine raw musical talent is worth seeing at least once in your life and I'm glad I can now say that I've done it.
It was pretty good. I was happy. Jane's Addiction, it turned out, would leave me happier, and not just because the two ladies in front of me were smoking a lot of weed. The show was a fantastic three ring circus with a more colorful lighting design and some surprisingly non-intrusive integration of a shadow-movie screen playing clips from Natural Born Killers and other films I've never seen.
Perry Farrel is easily one of the best frontmen I've ever seen. He makes the task of getting an audience to love you look effortless. Where Reznor kept himself to his brief speach about this "maybe" being his last tour (simultanius response is "boo!" and "Yeah right") Perry Ferrel chatted away like he was everyone's long-lost friend. Topics of his speeches included going easy on Obama ("Give him a chance, he can't be worse then what we had") his love of San Francisco ("We'd be your house band if you'd have us!") Bill Grahm ("I knew him, I know two of his kids, and his spirit lives on!") age ("I'm fifty, I hope I'm still going to shows like this when I'm 60!") and "faggy clothes" as an expression of freedom ("I'd rather die then give up my corset!"). The crowd adored him. His voice, though slightly distorted by a heavy echo effect, has an element of boyish sweetness that clashes with his decadent attitude. He's just a character, and he LOVES San Francisco. He should come back so we can elect him mayor.
Dave Navarro is always worth a second look. He seems to be frozen permanently in his mid 30s, and plays with his buff tattooed torso on full desplay. His stance is as wide as any classic punk rocker, and with his blistering, generally high-pitched guitar he sounded like a scar of sound, or a blinding flash of light. His playing is what gives the music it's teeth.
Perkins was playing in his underwear and hammering on two bass drums like he was two drummers glued together. He also couldn't resist mugging for the stage-camera to his left: he kept fixing it with deep stares, his head turned just so. Eric Avery, the original bassist and single reunion hold-out before now was the only one who didn't look like he was having an absolute blast. When Perry came to his side of the stage to bring the spotlight, Eric completely ignored him. He remained hunched over his bass, seemingly lost in the music and not really paying attention to anyone, even the audience until he decided to sit with his legs dangling off the stage. But he never lost the trademark Jane's Addiction deeply melodic groove, not even once, and it's easy to see how it just couldn't be the band it is without him.
The ignoring thing might have been in my imagination. Again, the ladies in front of me had a lot of weed. I left the venue feeling really good about the world.
This is being billed as Nine Inch Nails's farewell tour, and the comeback for the original Jane's Addiction (several attempts at replacing Avery have failed). Who knows what the future actually has in store for these two groups, but just this night, now was enough.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Kings of Leon at Bill Grahm Civic Auditorium, San Francisco: 5/21/2009
Some things are all about timing.
I've seen obscure indy bands rock bars, playing to crowds that exist only in their starry-eyed dreams. I've seen veteran rockers raise the roof like they were born to do it.
I've never before seen a band like this one. They've been rock royalty for years now in places like England and Europe but an American breakthrough always eluded them, until now. Their 4th studio album finally produced their first bone-fide radio hit, and sent them on this current tour, their first head-lineing arenas across the country, and they clearly relish their new status as stadium rockers. They've finally made good, they're touring hard and partying harder, their crash is still pending. This is what a band at the very hight of it's abilities looks like.
It looks really good. Kings of Leon are what you would get if you threw southern swamp rock in a blender with gritty urban sleaze and just a twist of high technology. It's the restrained antidote to overblown flyover rock, and it's convinced me that West Coasters like me don't really know what we're talking about when we talk about "southern music." There's something dark and almost cosmic in their sound that's unlike anything else I've ever heard. In a world before the music industry collapse, they would have been headlineing eons ago.
Kings of Leon is a family band consisting of three brothers, plus one cousin, all named Fallowill. Caleb Followill is the lead singer, and as such did most of the interacting with the audience. He was falling-over drunk, but it didn't seem to slow him down or affect his now-famous, counter-intuitive old-man wheeze of a singing voice. He kept thanking the crowd, remembering how they played San Francisco a few years back... as an opening act. "We were always opening acts." And latter, "I know there's a lot of stuff you can spend your money on right now, so thanks for spending it on us." It was all very well-intentioned. He even mentioned that the group has the day-off tomorrow, so they might end up partying with some of us. Well not me: I'm heading off to see some NiN/JAs. But it's fun to imagine anyway.
But mostly the stage banter was disposable. He gets points though for saying "This one goes out to all those people sitting down...you guys in the front, you probably don't give a shit about this one." They were wrong. Everyone cares about "Sex on Fire." It's the stuff we came for. It's mind-blowing.
Have I mentioned the show rocked? Some groups, you see them once, and you know you'll be a fan forever. That's it.
Who knows what the future has in store for Kings of Leon, but they've proven there's at least one real band left in the world who made their fortune the hard way and now get to reap their reward.
I've seen obscure indy bands rock bars, playing to crowds that exist only in their starry-eyed dreams. I've seen veteran rockers raise the roof like they were born to do it.
I've never before seen a band like this one. They've been rock royalty for years now in places like England and Europe but an American breakthrough always eluded them, until now. Their 4th studio album finally produced their first bone-fide radio hit, and sent them on this current tour, their first head-lineing arenas across the country, and they clearly relish their new status as stadium rockers. They've finally made good, they're touring hard and partying harder, their crash is still pending. This is what a band at the very hight of it's abilities looks like.
It looks really good. Kings of Leon are what you would get if you threw southern swamp rock in a blender with gritty urban sleaze and just a twist of high technology. It's the restrained antidote to overblown flyover rock, and it's convinced me that West Coasters like me don't really know what we're talking about when we talk about "southern music." There's something dark and almost cosmic in their sound that's unlike anything else I've ever heard. In a world before the music industry collapse, they would have been headlineing eons ago.
Kings of Leon is a family band consisting of three brothers, plus one cousin, all named Fallowill. Caleb Followill is the lead singer, and as such did most of the interacting with the audience. He was falling-over drunk, but it didn't seem to slow him down or affect his now-famous, counter-intuitive old-man wheeze of a singing voice. He kept thanking the crowd, remembering how they played San Francisco a few years back... as an opening act. "We were always opening acts." And latter, "I know there's a lot of stuff you can spend your money on right now, so thanks for spending it on us." It was all very well-intentioned. He even mentioned that the group has the day-off tomorrow, so they might end up partying with some of us. Well not me: I'm heading off to see some NiN/JAs. But it's fun to imagine anyway.
But mostly the stage banter was disposable. He gets points though for saying "This one goes out to all those people sitting down...you guys in the front, you probably don't give a shit about this one." They were wrong. Everyone cares about "Sex on Fire." It's the stuff we came for. It's mind-blowing.
Have I mentioned the show rocked? Some groups, you see them once, and you know you'll be a fan forever. That's it.
Who knows what the future has in store for Kings of Leon, but they've proven there's at least one real band left in the world who made their fortune the hard way and now get to reap their reward.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A Night at Benders
First off, Benders in San Francisco is a GREAT place to play gigs, get drunk, dance around and see live music. I've been in a number of bars, this is my favorite. And not JUST because their grill was still open at 11:30, allowing me to get meself a much-needed belly full of cheeseburger.
Really good vibes in this place. It's in a more residential part of the Mission district and it's got bike-racks, a low stage, tables, and the bar is right next to the door so that those who just want to duck in and get a beer don't jostle too much with those who are there to listen to the music and bounce around. The whole place just seemed like a happy place, and it was a good-sized crowd to, better then I've ever seen at Kimos, for instance. And people were DANCING.
I was there because I knew Inferno of Joy was playing again. I befriended these guys during one of their Kimos gigs, blogged about it here. They are still really good. They whip themselves into crazy sweats during their 40-minute bar sets. That frontman still wears the vest, the boa, the workshirt, the vinyl. Their dirty glam sound wouldn't have been out of place in the New York City the Velvet Underground and the New York Dolls inhabited, and I can't help it, I'm a sucker for a group that clearly cares so much about the show they put on. Guys, check these dudes out if you ever can.
There was only one other group on the bill called "He Who Must Not Be Named." This "He" was a shirtless, skiny guy in a Mexican wreastling mask who made a big show of being unable to talk in anything other then groans and squeals. This meant his band-mates, a female bass-player all in black with doc martins and two-tone hair, and a guitarist with an S.G, a cowboy hat, a cigarette, fine black leather loafers and a little black dress (Not a night out in San Francisco if there's not at least ONE man in a dress), had to translate his stage banter for him. It would have worked better if "He" wasn't suddenly singing coherent English after presumably having his will interpreted by his band-mates. But oh well. Also, the drummer was wearing a yellow afro wig made of These guys were a pretty straight up hard rock band: playing loud high on the fretboard and keeping up a pretty fast tempo for their entire set, which lead all the kids in what looked like a mosh. They even kicked over the drumset when they left. Rock and roll.
Short post, short evening. Oh well. Beddy time.
Really good vibes in this place. It's in a more residential part of the Mission district and it's got bike-racks, a low stage, tables, and the bar is right next to the door so that those who just want to duck in and get a beer don't jostle too much with those who are there to listen to the music and bounce around. The whole place just seemed like a happy place, and it was a good-sized crowd to, better then I've ever seen at Kimos, for instance. And people were DANCING.
I was there because I knew Inferno of Joy was playing again. I befriended these guys during one of their Kimos gigs, blogged about it here. They are still really good. They whip themselves into crazy sweats during their 40-minute bar sets. That frontman still wears the vest, the boa, the workshirt, the vinyl. Their dirty glam sound wouldn't have been out of place in the New York City the Velvet Underground and the New York Dolls inhabited, and I can't help it, I'm a sucker for a group that clearly cares so much about the show they put on. Guys, check these dudes out if you ever can.
There was only one other group on the bill called "He Who Must Not Be Named." This "He" was a shirtless, skiny guy in a Mexican wreastling mask who made a big show of being unable to talk in anything other then groans and squeals. This meant his band-mates, a female bass-player all in black with doc martins and two-tone hair, and a guitarist with an S.G, a cowboy hat, a cigarette, fine black leather loafers and a little black dress (Not a night out in San Francisco if there's not at least ONE man in a dress), had to translate his stage banter for him. It would have worked better if "He" wasn't suddenly singing coherent English after presumably having his will interpreted by his band-mates. But oh well. Also, the drummer was wearing a yellow afro wig made of These guys were a pretty straight up hard rock band: playing loud high on the fretboard and keeping up a pretty fast tempo for their entire set, which lead all the kids in what looked like a mosh. They even kicked over the drumset when they left. Rock and roll.
Short post, short evening. Oh well. Beddy time.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Chris Cornell at the Grand Ballroom: San Francisco 5/1/2009
I wasn't going to write this blog. But hell, if Hard Rock Chick can say it, so can I.
For those of you who have stuck with this since the beginning (thanks Dad!) you might remember that the first show I ever blogged about was Chris Cornell in Santa Cruz. I enjoyed it: it was loud, the band had fun chemistry, and Cornell's kid-friendly charm and effortless charisma carried the day. I hadn't heard much of his stuff (some Audioslave, some Soundgarden, and "You Know my Name") but I had a good time.
A lot has happened since then. "Scream" came out: you can read my opinion of it here. I ended up getting banned from Chris's forum for reasons still unclear to me (though some...'ahem, "spirited" debates might have had something to do with it.) But the most significant thing was that I've seen, in person, Chris's old bandmates. I've seen Tom Morello play three times. I've seen what a glorious monster he is. Pete Thorn and Yogi are excellent guitar players, but with their powers combined, they can't come close to the unholy might of Morello's infamous "Arm the Homeless" and when they play those Audioslave covers, damned if you know it.
And I saw Soundgarden. Soundgarden as a beast without a head, but a living beast. It was nothing less then astounding.
Chris played two of the three Tadgarden songs. They were fine.
Really, that's how I describe this show. To sum-up: it was fine.
Chris's backing-bandmates are more fused with each other and with Chris. They have the feel of a group with serious road-miles under their belt. They were fine too, but I couldn't help but wonder if, and why, they were jostling with Chris for the spotlight. Or why Chris would give it to them. They're HIS backing band, after all. I guess the respect-your-bandmates stage instinct hasn't entirely left him, which is to his credit actually but it makes for a confusing live experience: who are you supposed to watch? Why would you watch someone you didn't come to see? Who are these musicians anyway?
They deserve better. Yogi in particular is a lovely player with a fluid, effortless style and I hope that very soon he will have better gigs then this one.
Okay kids, today I am going to tell you about something called "Frontman Syndrome." Every music fan knows that you can't have a great band without having a great frontman: he's the face of the group, the one the audience is going to project onto. The best frontmen have charisma and personalities that become intertwined with the group's sound and identity.
When band's break up (happens sometimes) and those frontmen go solo, they often find they're suffering from the blessing and curse of being literally unable to open their mouths without conjuring the ghost of their old band. Or both of their old bands, in Chris's case. This is "Frontman Syndrome." It's nostalgia on such an unconscious level that it's often mistaken for something else, and the danger becomes when the singer himself doesn't know that he's cruising on someone's fond memories instead of current reality.
Chris Cornell has justified all the covers he plays by pointing out he wrote all the music for them anyway, but it doesn't matter who wrote them when that essential, insubstantial something is missing.
He'll keep touring. With each show he'll get more easy, more confident, more comfortable. And I suspect my love of the old stuff is strong enough to keep me comming back.
But don't go looking for rock fire here. It's like the brief, breathtaking pose that Cornell struck with his acoustic: legs wide, head down, hair flying as the band kicked in at the end of his solo acoustic set.
Seeing him in that pose, just for a moment, that acoustic is a skuzzy black Gibson. That hair is even longer. You see the shadows of Kim Thayil, standing a mile high, and Ben Shepard's cool swagger. You hear the ghost of Cameron's extra drums and flying sticks. And for a moment, a brief moment, you get the smallest glimpse of the stuff musical legends are made of.
Then it's gone.
What you're left with is just fine.
Also, those hecklers were back. You know, the ones from Tom Morello's show. I couldn't believe it. They started a goddamn fistfight right in front of me. Thank God they didn't recognize me. Dreamer's bad audience karma: will it ever end?
For those of you who have stuck with this since the beginning (thanks Dad!) you might remember that the first show I ever blogged about was Chris Cornell in Santa Cruz. I enjoyed it: it was loud, the band had fun chemistry, and Cornell's kid-friendly charm and effortless charisma carried the day. I hadn't heard much of his stuff (some Audioslave, some Soundgarden, and "You Know my Name") but I had a good time.
A lot has happened since then. "Scream" came out: you can read my opinion of it here. I ended up getting banned from Chris's forum for reasons still unclear to me (though some...'ahem, "spirited" debates might have had something to do with it.) But the most significant thing was that I've seen, in person, Chris's old bandmates. I've seen Tom Morello play three times. I've seen what a glorious monster he is. Pete Thorn and Yogi are excellent guitar players, but with their powers combined, they can't come close to the unholy might of Morello's infamous "Arm the Homeless" and when they play those Audioslave covers, damned if you know it.
And I saw Soundgarden. Soundgarden as a beast without a head, but a living beast. It was nothing less then astounding.
Chris played two of the three Tadgarden songs. They were fine.
Really, that's how I describe this show. To sum-up: it was fine.
Chris's backing-bandmates are more fused with each other and with Chris. They have the feel of a group with serious road-miles under their belt. They were fine too, but I couldn't help but wonder if, and why, they were jostling with Chris for the spotlight. Or why Chris would give it to them. They're HIS backing band, after all. I guess the respect-your-bandmates stage instinct hasn't entirely left him, which is to his credit actually but it makes for a confusing live experience: who are you supposed to watch? Why would you watch someone you didn't come to see? Who are these musicians anyway?
They deserve better. Yogi in particular is a lovely player with a fluid, effortless style and I hope that very soon he will have better gigs then this one.
Okay kids, today I am going to tell you about something called "Frontman Syndrome." Every music fan knows that you can't have a great band without having a great frontman: he's the face of the group, the one the audience is going to project onto. The best frontmen have charisma and personalities that become intertwined with the group's sound and identity.
When band's break up (happens sometimes) and those frontmen go solo, they often find they're suffering from the blessing and curse of being literally unable to open their mouths without conjuring the ghost of their old band. Or both of their old bands, in Chris's case. This is "Frontman Syndrome." It's nostalgia on such an unconscious level that it's often mistaken for something else, and the danger becomes when the singer himself doesn't know that he's cruising on someone's fond memories instead of current reality.
Chris Cornell has justified all the covers he plays by pointing out he wrote all the music for them anyway, but it doesn't matter who wrote them when that essential, insubstantial something is missing.
He'll keep touring. With each show he'll get more easy, more confident, more comfortable. And I suspect my love of the old stuff is strong enough to keep me comming back.
But don't go looking for rock fire here. It's like the brief, breathtaking pose that Cornell struck with his acoustic: legs wide, head down, hair flying as the band kicked in at the end of his solo acoustic set.
Seeing him in that pose, just for a moment, that acoustic is a skuzzy black Gibson. That hair is even longer. You see the shadows of Kim Thayil, standing a mile high, and Ben Shepard's cool swagger. You hear the ghost of Cameron's extra drums and flying sticks. And for a moment, a brief moment, you get the smallest glimpse of the stuff musical legends are made of.
Then it's gone.
What you're left with is just fine.
Also, those hecklers were back. You know, the ones from Tom Morello's show. I couldn't believe it. They started a goddamn fistfight right in front of me. Thank God they didn't recognize me. Dreamer's bad audience karma: will it ever end?
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