By Mark Jordan
Crows squawk, Metallica shimmers
Technical glitches -- one staged, the other supposedly real -- dominated
the two major concerts that came to town last week.
On Friday, the Counting Crows rolled into The Orpheum (still the best place
in town to see a concert) with opening act Fiona Apple. Apple played a solid-if-sedating
set of teen-girl-angst rock. Her arrangements were interesting, featuring
heavy doses of piano and vibraphones, but her introspective music did little
to separate her from better predecessors such as Tori Amos and Joni Mitchell.
Days after the concert, a friend of mine told me the story of how someone
had invited him down Friday to check out the Crows. But when he got to The
Orpheum, he was dismayed to learn that it was not retro-rockers the Black
Crowes but the Counting Crows who were performing. He was understandably
bummed for the rest of the night. But anyone who went to see the Counting
Crows expecting a night of relentless solemnity (something which, as their
latest release Recovering The Satellites shows, the Counting Crows
are very capable of) would have been surprised by the energetic show the
band gave.
Unfortunately, the band was undermined the whole night by technical problems.
Three songs into the show, the band screeched to a halt. The rumor is that
drummer Ben Mize broke the head on his best drum. Whatever the glitch, it
forced the Crows to move up an acoustic set, which did include a fine low-key
version of "Mister Jones."
The group never recovered from the the sound mishap, however. Several members
of the group seemed visibly shaken at having to deviate from the set list.
And the sound woes continued: Lead singer Adam Duritz's vocals, a struggle
to comprehend even on record, were totally muddled in the mix, and the now-repaired
bass drum was about the only drum that could be heard.
The Crows were undoubtedly better than I had expected. But on a better night,
with better luck, it might have been a much better show.
On Saturday, heavy-metal gods Metallica hit The Pyramid. This reviewer didn't
get inside in time to see opening act Corrosion of Conformity, because entrance
lines were stretched long due to a mandatory "pat-down" of each
concertgoer. ("You got any knives or anything?" "No."
"Okay, on your way then.")
Once inside, a lengthy set-up delay allowed for careful inspection of Metallica's
two massive metal stages. The floor area surrounding the stages was a standing-room-only
mosh pit, though just about anybody who did actually mosh was roughly yanked
by the burly security staff and forced to become a spectator. When the show
started, Metallica used its stage to great effect, making sure that just
about every part of the audience could see at least one band member.
For about two hours, the band ran through a good mix of old and new material,
with the popular opus "One" providing a powerful centerpiece.
The whole show was marked by a surprisingly loose, jammy feel. Bassist Jason
Newsted, in particular, was allowed to shine in a number of segue bass solos.
For their first encore, Metallica came out and played a couple of songs,
then launched into their hit "Enter Sandman," at which point the
theatrical shit hit the fan. While the band played on, one of the stage's
hydraulic lighting towers caught fire and was brought down. Then another
light malfunctioned and a "light tech" climbed the tower to check
it out. As the song came to a close, the whole stage erupted in fire. Lighting
technicians and set pieces collapsed to the stage, and the stage went dark
for several minutes while the flames were squelched and bodies evac'd. Determined
to continue the show, the roadies hung some work lights and brought out
simple garage-band amps, and the band roared on, as if to prove that they
didn't need all the lights and gimmicks to be a great rock-and-roll band.
And they were right. Of course, it was all staged shtick and cheesy as hell,
but it was also the most fun I've ever had at a large stadium concert. If
you're going to play a big, impersonal stadium like The Pyramid, you might
as well fill it with a bigger-than-life show.
Fat Saturday
Mardi Gras comes to Beale Street this Saturday, about four days later than
it does to the rest of the world. But then, Memphians have always done things
at their own (usually slow) pace. This Saturday's Zydeco Festival on Beale
Street is a way for the home of the blues to broaden its horizons a bit.
Ten clubs on Beale will be featuring some of the best zydeco acts around.
This year's must-see is the appearance at Rum Boogie Cafe of Rockin' Sidney,
one of the elder statesmen of zydeco. A talented multi-instrumentalist,
he's been playing for more than 40 years and is the father of the
biggest zydeco hit ever, "My Too-toot." Also appearing will be
accordionist Wayne Toups at the New Daisy, one of the new generation of
zydeco stars who draw equally on rock-and-roll and traditional music, and
Roy "Chubby" Carrier a talented new player who will be doing double
duty at B.B. King's and Sullivan's. If you're worried about missing any
of the bands, don't: The zydeco fest will last all night (from 5 p.m. to
5 a.m.) and for $10 you can purchase a wristband that will get you in to
see all the bands.
by Jim Hanas
Australian singer-song-writer
Ben Lee doesn't really like talking about his influences.
"It's quite trivial," he says. "Unless someone asks specifically, it's not so important anymore."
But since writing about popular music is hopelessly tied up with seizing on such trivialities, I just can't help myself. I ask Lee about a line from his song "My Turntable," where he proclaims, "Jonathan never sounded so great." Sure enough, it's a reference to the ever-vulnerable Jonathan Richman, the quirky songwriter who founded the cult group Modern Lovers before fading into artistic eccentricity in the Sierra Nevada mountains
"He used to be a really big influence," Lee admits. "I mean, he was a pretty big influence just in the way each of his songs were about something. It just wasn't songs for the sake of songs. In every song he had a point he wanted to make, like there was a little story. You know, in that way. It's not like musically he was a very big influence; it was more just the whole philosophy behind what he was doing."
Not since Richman first managed to parlay corny sentimentality and naive wonder into earnestly catchy numbers has anyone come along who could do it quite as well. It's a tough thing to pull off -- baring your soul and airing your sappy side without inducing a chorus of groans. It requires cleverness without wit or sarcasm, traits that are often entertaining but seldom endearing. Lee, it seems, has reinvented that sort of boyish cleverness.
Admittedly, Lee's got the inside track on boyishness since he's well, boyish. Only 18 years old, he already has four years of recording under his belt. Lee was playing in the band Noise Addict when he caught the attention of the Beastie Boys' record label, Grand Royal. In 1995, Grand Royal released Lee's solo debut, Grandpaw Would, produced by Brad Wood, previously best known for his work with Liz Phair.
With songs of knowing innocence like "Pop Queen" and "Love Song," Grandpaw is the work of a then-15-year-old who can only be described as a prodigy. From the boldly honest themes of its songs to its relentless wordplay, the Richman hallmarks are unmistakable. All the more on the final track "My Guitar," where Lee croons over Richman's trademark "dum-de-dum" backing vocals: "For my guitar is love, and my guitar is all I need. My guitar's so special because it plays the songs, not me."
That resonance makes Lee as difficult to figure out as Richman, who is simultaneously praised (or derided) for being nakedly honest and wryly sarcastic. Lee's clever homage to the Lemonhead's Evan Dando, "I Wish I Was Him," is a case in point.
"When `I Wish I Was Him' and all that came out, [critics] described me as a cynic before my time," says Lee. "And then other people described me as just really honest and naive."
A review in Rolling Stone, for instance, described "I Wish I Was Him" as a "sarcastic ode to Evan Dando's seemingly charmed existence."
"I'm a very un-cynical person," insists Lee. "I'm just inspired, and I'm sort of gullible, too. People, the way they react to [my music] shows more about themselves than it does about the song. Like if they automatically hear my music and think it's being cynical, then they're a bit too thick-skinned."
Lee already talks about his debut album and Richman's influence in the past tense, explaining that his soon-to-be-released follow-up, Something To Remember Me By, will be something of a departure from the first record, with a folksier sound and a wider range of instrumentations. Lee also sees his already-formidable songwriting skills maturing.
"Grandpaw Would was a record about waiting for experiences and hoping and anticipating, you know?" he explains. "And this record is sort of about being in the midst of it and just dealing with it all."
When asked what fans can expect from his live show, Lee says he doesn't travel with a band but instead goes it alone, just him and his acoustic guitar. This conjures an image of the only other rocker I've ever seen who regularly does the same, stomping out the rhythms of "UFO Man" with his feet and interrupting the bridge to run through a chorus or two of "Hang On Sloopy." It's Richman again.
And again Lee humors me.
"I can sort of understand the concept of being like Jonathan Richman, but I think if you saw it, it's a bit different," he says. "It's a lot different, actually."