OnTour
Steve Martin, Lubbock, Texas
Ask comedian Steve Martin, and he’ll tell
you — it's lonely at the top. His picture was
splashed on the cover of Newsweek, he was
signed to do yet another hosting of NBC’s
Saturday Night Live, and he’s nearing the end
of negotiations for a feature-length film he's
written. On top of that, Martin had just
begun his second tour in four months, the
first netting him a cool million dollars.
Martin stands virtually unchallenged as
the “hottest comedian in show business,"
yet now it appears his career is challenged
by its own momentum. In concert, the old
Martin gags are getting older, and Steve
seems to have gotten his fill of saying, “Ex
cuuuuse me w hile flashbulbs pop.
While Martin is clearly to blame for using
outdated material, it is exactly what his
audiences clamor for. 1 hey show up at the
concert in full Martin-esque regalia, com
plete with arrows-through-the-head and
rabbit ears. Inside, they yell out, “Do
'Foggy Mountain,'" or “Sing the 'Grand
mother's Song,’ and sheepishly, Martin
obeys.
That was the setting for Steve Martin's
appearance in Lubbock. Running onstage
after his film short, “The Absent-Minded
Waiter,” Martin stepped into the limelight,
announcing, “I’m a Ramblin Guy. He
then watched with genuine concern as the
audience sang the words.
Like anyone with a mass audience, Steve
Martin has something for everyone. Balloon
animals, juggling, songs, and magic — all
are just facets of a multi-talented comedian.
Once Martin can assure himself that it s all
right to move on to new material, and grant
ing that his fans will allow it, a Steve Martin
concert will be a memorable experience, in
deed.
Kevin Phinney
DEN>
FoghatlEddie Money, The Forum,
Los Angeles
“They came, they boogied, they conquered
is probably the motto found on the Foghat
coat of arms. The veteran blues-rock quartet
has reached its present position by virtue ol
years of constant touring and a musical pol
icy of giving the audience exactly what it
wants.
The show at the sold-out Forum was a
typically workmanlike , crowd-pleasing per
formance. Compensating for its lack of
onstage charisma with massive sound and
lighting systems, Foghat blasted through
staples like “Fool for the City,” “Slow Ride
and “Home in M\ Hand' in a methodical,
professional fashion.
A touch of mindless boogie never hurt
anyone, but 90 minutes of the stuff has been
known to induce severe brain damage. Still,
Foghat has shown its willingness to put its
reputation where its roots are, so I’m not
about to begrudge ’em success.
With his debut album in the Top 50,
Eddie Money is clearly an up-and-comer to
be reckoned with. The New York cop
turned-San-Franisco-rocker served up a
very well-received collection of well-crafted
arrangements in a melodic hard rock vein,
true-love-and-heartaches lyrics and Eddie’s
own Stewart-styled vocal rasp.
Most of the material was quite listenable
— “Baby Hold On” and “Two Tickets to
Paradise” are excellent songs — but overall
the set suffered from a lackluster stage pre
sentation. The chief liability was Money
himself. He’s a very awkward performer —
imagine Herman Munster without the neck
knobs trying to be Rod Stewart — but that
might be one of his greatest assets as well.
Money’s appeal seems to be that of a rock
and roll version of one of Rotter's Sweathogs
— obviously flawed. But he wants to make it
so badly that if enough people identify w ith
his aspirations, Eddie might well realize
them.
Don Snowden
Grateful Dead, William and Mary
Hall, Williamsburg, Va.
It has been written that there is nothing like
a Grateful Dead concert. It would seem,
however, that there’s an essential corollary
to this rather audacious assertion: there is
nothing like a Grateful Dead audience. 1 his
particular Saturday’s drove of Dead Heads
was no exception; from the opening notes of
“Half-step, Mississippi Uptown Toodle
oo,” the faithful down front balanced upon
treacherous folding chairs, singing along
and rocking to and fro. It took a little longer
for the renowned Dead ethos to drift high
into the packed rafters, but by evening’s end
everyone was lit up for an encore. Few con
cert crowds are more consistently blissed out
of their skulls (!) than those who come to
sway with Garcia, Weir and company; here
even the air sports a lazy grin.
Given a crew so loyal it would be easy for
the band to become just that — lazy; but the
Grateful Dead display the class that sepa
rates the transient flashpots from the institu
tions in rock and roll. You simply don’t
amass audiences this huge, happy, or endur
ing by playing flaccid engagements. This is
especially true in the case of a band whose
studio efforts have all too often been anemic
reflections of their on-stage abilities. Before
their disciples (if you'll pardon the precious
metaphor) the Dead come to life, infusing
their intricate compositions with a snap and
ring only rarely pressed into the vinyl ver
sions.
The band presented a broad cross-section
of selections from their lengthy career, but
conspicuously absent (save for an altered
tempo rendering of “Friend of the Devil ’)
were the Dead’s signature songs (“Truc
kin’,” “UncleJohn’s Band,” and soon). In
stead, the band offered their interpretations
of some old standards like “El Paso,”
lesser-known album material (Bob Weir’s
“Weather Report Suite” from Wake of the
Flood), and a recent song or two from Terra
pin Station. This approach afforded them the
flexibility to explore improvisational
possibilities. Only once did this jam format
become tedious, when an otherwise
smoothly-wrought medley of “Playing in the
Band,” “Not Fade Away,” and “Morning
Dew” was overblown by too much unfo
cused instrumental rambling.
By the close of the second set, however the
adrenaline was on the way up again. Rhythm
guitarist Bob Weir was starting to get ex
cited on the rockier numbers anyway; when
he began to leap about singing the lead voc
als at the close of the set, the audience re
sponded in kind. I he single, long-awaited
encore brought back Weir on voice with the
rollicking “One More Saturday Night, a
fast slice of rock and roll from the old school
heightened by the singer’s energetic deliv
ery. It also brought a bit of a surpirse: some
of the crowd booed w hen the band failed to
return with more music. Robin McLeod
(Continuedfrom page 9)
Prokofiev: Peter and the Wolf.
David Bowie, narrator; Philadelphia
Orchestra; Eugene Ormandy, conductor
(RCA)
Plunging right into the record business’ cur
rent wolf mania, David Bowie’s latest re
lease is a reading of this Russian musical
children’s classic. (Benjamin Britten's Young
People's Guide to the Orchestra is heard, sans
Bowie, on the other side). Though everyone
from Peter Ustinov to Mia Farrow has read
Peter on record, the choice of Bowie is in
genious as well as commercial. His reading
holds the right amount of subdued drama
without condescension to his young listeners
— and he has that thriller for Americans of
all ages, an English accent. A more appeal
ing package design and more complete an
notation could increase the album’s appeal
still further; the green vin\l is a nice touch,
though. B.S.E.
Rachmaninoff: Concerto #3
Vladimir Horowitz; New York
Philharmonic; Eugene Ormandy.
conductor (RCA)
This is powerful proof that some giants still
walk the land. Horowitz restores all of the
drama and excitement bleached from this
romatic warhorse by too many perform
ances by too many midgets. £ q
Jean-Pierre Rampal, Lily Laskine:
Japanese Melodies for Flute and Harp
(Columbia)
Rampal’s silver flute substitutes for the tra
ditional wooden instrument, and Laskine's
harp Westernizes the sound of a koto in this
delightful, off-the-wall collaboration rec
orded in France for — originally — Colum
bia’s Japanese affiliate. 1 he melodies date
back, sometimes, hundreds of years.
Perhaps the music’s chief strength is the se
renity it carries. j £
Shubert: Symphony #9
Columbia Symphony Orchestra; Bruno
Walter, conductor (Columbia Odyssey)
The late Bruno Walter was the quintessen
tial interpreter of Viennese music. Shubert
was the quintessential Viennese composer.
The result is glorious music-making, at a
bargain price. £_C.
Stonebolt: Stonebolt ’78 (Parachute)
This chameleonic Canadian band echoes in
fluences ranging from the Fagles to for
eigner in a generally winning collection of
easygoing countryish rock. 1 he singing and
playing are for the most part fine, though
one wonders how much lasting appeal the
songs contain — no matter how attractive
they may be to the ear the first time around
Stoneholt's best tune may be the Allman
Bros.-like “Singing in the Street;' runner
up is “Sail On” — which is, I’m told, about
the band Heart. q p
Jethro Tull: Heavy Horses (Chrysalis)
It seems as though Ian Anderson is cur
rently indulging himself by writing for his
children about his own passion, the English
countryside. The album package contrib
utes strongly to creating a British atmos
phere somewhat between those of The Wind
and the Willows and Lady Chalterly's Lover, all
of which is lovely, if irrelevant to current
music. Most of the songs are about animals:
a mouse, a cat, faithful dog Rover, work
horses, and a weathercock among them.
“Moths” comes closest to what made Tull
great in their pr-Sontpfrom the Wood days. On
this album, the lyrics read like poetry but
the melodies don't sound like songs, and I
hear no musical hooks on either side.
B.S.E.
Wings: London Town (Capitol)
Wings has done it again: a great-sounding
record with adult production and grade
school lyrics. No matter what they say about
Linda, no one could ever accuse Paul
McCartney of not being able to sing. And
many of his tunes are so full of melodic
hooks that you just w ant to hear them again
and again. Which is good, as they’re on the
radio constantly. If the McCartneys' music
can render the juvenile quality of the words
unnoticeable, more power to it.
B.S.E.