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