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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 7, 1979)
David Johansen, Mississippi Nights, St. Louis, Missouri Not a note had been sounded, but it was al ready clear that the energy crisis was not to be David Johansen's problem. Along the north wall he raced with his young, mas caraed band, crying “rock and roll” as soon as he bounded onto the low, darkened stage. Then, a w hite-blazered back to the audience — right arm up — left arm down — arid as the lights flashed on, he spun around and cut loose with “Cool Metro,” from his first album. Now he had a problem. Apparently hoarse to begin w ith, Johansen was shouting, not singing his lyrics as he does on his smooth, new In Style LP Theatrically, he was faring a bit better. Johansen’s resemblance to Mick Jagger (who, too, has been yelling his lyrics of late) is a strong one, especially the fist-on-hip swagger. It is also true that Johansen re mains the more sympathetic performer of the two — a clown whose control veers askew of automatic and whose stare is not Jaggeresque steely-blue devilry, but rather more that of a friendly but slightly dis turbed cocker spaniel. Johansen did have his serious moments, however, and because they emphasized How over drive, they became the night’s best. Building from the sixth song, the formidable “Flamingo Road,” he arrived, five steadily-improving entries later, at his masterpiece, “Frenchette.” “Is anybody here suffering from intel lectual starvation?” he asked, dubbing the many who responded in the affirmative, “m\ people” “This song is especially dedi cated to you and anyone else who’s on a diet.” Indeed, “Frenchette” was as meaty as one could w ish, developing from an acoustic opening that, like all of the set’s better pieces, included Johansen on guitar, into a gorgeous tapestry of tortuous trills and turns that featured the tandem efforts of guitarists Thomas Trask and Fred G. (Giardinello), and ending in a cooled down, talking-bluesy coda. “Frenchette” imparts a new sense of direction to the realm of extended rock music. Unfortunately, Johansen soon lost his honing instinct in a rah-rah version of The Four Tops’ eternal crowd-mover, “Reach Out, I'll Be There,” coincidentally in the current “live” set of another former ■glam” rocker, Tim Curry. Johansen lit erally lifted the song to the rafters, trek king out into the audience and scaling a roof support; but comparing this exhibi- | tion to Curry’s heads vocals and over whelmingly sexy presence — and Johan sen's band, w ho couldn’t stav together once their leader had left the stage, to the sea soned Curry crew — the Johansen rendi- j tion finished a sophomorit second. Patti Dewing Madeline Murray O'Hair, Social Sciences Auditorium, University of A rizona V>u haven't beheld the quintessence of dry ; sarcasm til you've seen Atheist Woman ! Extraordinaire Madeline Murray O'Hair recite a prayer. A big, dowdy grandmother, she hardly changed expression whether lecturing or acknowledging applause. But when O’Hair got to the meat and gravy, tax-funded religious practices, or the self deception of prayer, she was glee ful, animated, merry. And hei summary of the ridiculous ir relevance of prayer was undeniable. P rom war victory prayers to football victory prayers — God stops in his cosmic duties to enter the locker room and pi< k a winnah. But Murray O’Hair gets mired in fol lowing her principles completely: no more carols in schools, no more decorations on city-maintained streets, no religious music for state university orchestras. No Christmas? That’s going totxxi far. David Hancock Jane Fonda, Hotel Roosevelt, New York City Jan Fonda strode into the ballroom of the Hotel Roosevelt to a standing ovation of 500 wildly applauding women. The occa sion, Fonda’s support of Women Office Workers (WOW), was part of a nationwide tour the actress and husband Tom Hayden had constructed as spokespersons for their political organization, Campaign for Economic Democracy. With nods of recognition and periodic applause in the ballroom, Fonda re counted what she had learned while speaking to women office workers across the country. "Your lives are so drear), so serious. You arrive at the office first and you arc the last to leave. You lace every thin); from sexuuMiarassmeut to Kate hing the young kid you trained get promoted over you.” Her new film, aptly titled v to ?, would be an attempt to document these traumas. ‘‘ The only way I can tell your story," she said, "is to do it as a comedy. I think it will bring out howls of recogni tion.” Fonda urged a coalition ol women to Iran together and fight for their well-deserved pay increases, job security and promo tions. "It won’t Ik* easy and it won’t happen overnight,” she reminded. "But I've been called everything from a lesbian to a com munist for speaking out for what I believe in and you will Ik* called names too.” And then, with what seemed like an after thought. Fonda declared, “In time, history will prove you right." Bob Weinberger Triumph, Rtryal Oak Theater, Detroit Heavy metal music doesn’t want to die, even if detractors say it sounds that way. The bone-crunching rock of Van Halen has been one of the most successful of re cent rock & roll mutations, a beacon for new groups wanting to make it on the roc k circuit. Triumph, a relatively young 'Iiuronto based trio, proved to a packed audience in hard-rock Detroit that they’re contenders for a slice of the persistent metal market. triumph's focus, both musically and visually, rs lead guitarist and vocalist Rik Kinmett. Dazzling the mostly high schcKrl age crowd with his lightning speed and impressive versatility during an extended solo, hmrnett showed a style that met its the term "attack.” trekking repeatedly from one end of the tonal spectrum to the other. Whatever F.mmett c hose to do set the mood of the evening, whether it was strumming a soothing ballad on an acous tic guitar alone on stage with lights dimmed, or assaulting his electric (nlrson. It minph also trotted out some spec tacular, blinding special effec ts. I he ap preciative crowd was treated to ever ything from flash pots, flames and explosions to dry ice smoke and the band’s name in Irold, towering letters at the back of the stage. Over w helming the audience is the name of the heavy metal game, and F’riumph gen s at it w ith the energy of a neophyte band and the professionalism of a seasoned en semble. Tim Yagle Anthony Braxton, Kingston Coffee Shop, Portland, Oregon At best an unaccompanied solo-musical performance is a parlous endeavor; at worst it involves a musician playing com pletely for himself, stark, cold and private. Saxophonist Anthony Braxton’s recent sets in Portland illustrated those risks, pointing up the dangers that dog all sol oists, but Braxton in particular. Braxton says his aim is to establish a “spiritual and composite vibrationary affinity-arena of world culture,” but his playing is all too of ten detached, impersonal and ab stracted. As an instrumentalist and an im proviser, Braxton descends from Col trane, Dolphy, Ayler and Coleman, but while their playing had strong melodic underpinnings — Coltrane’s fervent lyri cism, Coleman’s roots in the blues, even Ayler’s passion for folk forms, gospel and marches—• Braxton’s music is incur an strrc and keeps us antecedents more con cealed. I lie ic-siilt is that Braxton plays a jaz/ in ss luc h the soloing is a monologue while his predecessors engaged in dialogues with theii accompanist* and the received tradition. Most cd Braxton's compositions are identified l»v symbolic mobile*, compli cated-looking designs full of geometric shape*, numbers and swooping arab esques, rather than song titles. I hey arc disconcerting, an Apollonian reserve and introspection in a Dionysian landscape, hut they're also appropriate; Braxton's preoccupation is with experimental in quit it s into the strut tutal possibilities and textures of his writing rather titan with melody, rhythm or mood. Much of his playing was based on displacement* of rhythm and silence, dissonance and counterpoint. Braxton is capable of warmth and emotion; his formalism is a mattei of choice and convic tion. Braxton strives to combine the improviser and the composer, to reconcile freedom and form. His sets al the Kingston could have used a lot moie anarchic intensity and less constraint. Peter Sistrom Van Morrison, SIU Arena, Carbondale, //, Ills tuhby iippeatame tit l hr last H 'alti should con v i nee i he public t li.it Van Mor rison is challenging Paul Simon for the “music al at list most likely to lie mistaken loi an insurance* salesman** award. One honest lisint to "(laravan." Morrison's eon !Dilution to the* Band's swan song, should likewise convince them of the* accurao of German him directm VVim Wendei * as sessment ol Ins inusu : “I know ol no musk that is more lucid, leelahle. hearable, sec able, touchable, no music you can expc lienee more* inlcnseh than this.'' How then docs one explain the tact that there were several empty seals in this 10,000 seat arena? I hat cprestion nagged me tight up to the moment Morrison I legal) "Kingdom Hall,” that most perfect of opening songs. As he sang "So glad to sec* vou, so glad you're here...* the cjues tion gave was to abject pity for those* not present. Backed by the band bom Ins latest WB release, Into the Music, Morrison hied ofi a ninety minute reaffirmation ol his ability to arrange horns, w rite* tunes with more than three 01 four chunky c hotds, and deliver vocals with the kind ol soul" that makes the wend seem ludic ions in any other context. I he set inc hided six songs from the new album, from the uptempo, infectious “Bright Side of the Road" to the haunting “Troubadours.” But the crowd was most attuned (and w hat c rowd isn't) to the songs they had lived with for years, and when backup vocalist Katie Kissoon look a verse of “Moondance" or Pee Wee F.llis and Mark Isham leaned into the horn riff on “Into the Mystic ” one sensed the apptccna tion before the applause began. “Wavelength” faded into “Tupelo Honey" to officially close the show, and then the transcendent moments of the evening began: encores of “Brown-eyed Girl,” “Wild Night,” and 1965's “Gloria.” As the crowd jammed the stage chanting G-I.-O-R-I-A and keyboardist Pete Wing field did an impromptu jig on his Steinway, I noticed a inid-thirtyish professorial type in a state ofdevotion-c uin-ec stasy doing what could only have been the frug. It was that kind of night. Terry Gtoe
