Live

Rip It Up, Issue 105, 1 April 1986, Page 21

Live

Laurie Anderson Michael Fowler Centre, Wellington, March 17 Her songs may mention alienation and the “cold outside” but when Laurie Anderson asks “Is anybody there?” there’s no question: there’s a capacity audience out there loving it. The so-called “performance artist” gave a memorable “performance” with the “art” — or artfulness — of a seducer. She that allures. In Vaudeville tradition she danced like an acrobat, played a variety of instruments, told little stories with that intimate voice of hers and impersonated characters like a stand-up comic (with the aid of a vocoder). It was cute rather than “disturbing”. She brought a whole bag of tricks — most of them played phonetically or visually on throwaway words and jingles, and whether they were obvious or obscure the audience loved it. Why? Because she was so beguiling.

Get this straight: Anderson is a good old-fashioned entertainer — nothing to do with the “post-punk apocalypse" or“high-tech” label that has been put on her. She toys around with electronic sounds like so many other rock musicians, but her visuals are definitely 10-tech: crudely stencilled letters and murky black and white home movies.

However the “powerful images”

often described by critics are for real. As an example, at one stage she had a satellite dish revolving on the giant screen with her tiny figure spinning before it to the accompaniment of deep wailing noises. The image may not add up to much — no doubt it’s deliberately nebulous — but you took what you wanted from it until the next “image” came along. There was nothing vague about her actual performance. It was a two hour-plus show with two black back-up singers and a keyboard player, and no time wasted. The highlights — yodelayheehoo! — turned out to be the old songs from Big Science, notably the title song, which was sung with the stately grandeur of a requiem, to a mesmerising parade of passing traffic on the big screen. Jude Fahey

The Go-Betweens Goblin Mix

Gluepot, March 22

Strange goings-on at the remodelled Gluepot. Too muuch even for aaßßee — the full moon was a week away, therefore no (ir)rational explanation of events for him. An old hippy contented

himself with wandering around amongst the rest in a crazed stupor. The people, like the tables, were arranged in ridiculous long rows down the room, and it looked a strange place to be, alright... Many moons had passed since I myself had last seen Goblin Mix, a cheerie band of beatnik balladeers, and once the gremlins were gone from the drumkit after one song, they were hitting heights I have seen but rarely amongst local bands. They have fine drumming from Andrew Moon and fine songs from Dave Mitchell, Phil Moore and even one from Alt. Guests Brian Jones (a Dance Exponent) on violin and Norma O’Malley (Look Blue Go Purple) appeared for a wonderful Phil-song, and ‘Travelling Grave’ wound things up monumentally. Their record should kill. From Australia, the GoBetweens — four genuine weirdos: Grant McLennan with black suit, skivvy and waving arms (some guitars and songs); Robert Forster with physical height, glaring eyes and wilder gesticulation (another guitar and more songs); Robert Vickers, a Jittle boy-man, bouncing around the stage in a silly suit (bass); and Lindy Morrison,

a gaunt giantess she seemed to me (precise drumming). Songs old and new were played with the momentum of the set never slipping up. ‘Bachelor Kisses’, the vocal-swapping of ‘Unkind and Unwise’, sped-up staccato of ‘Man O’ Sand to Girl 0’ Sea’ and new single ‘Spring Rain’ standing tallest amongst a set without low-points. Between-song banter varying between hilarious and arrogant, and two encores that were so obvious, were they really necessary? But the Go-Betweens showed that they’re more than just world-weary smart-arses ...

Cos leaving with a strange afterglow to combat the cold of a still autumn night, I reflected that there are some stranger, some funnier, faster, louder, or more gently moving or technically wizard-like bands I could go and see, but as far as intelligent guitarbased rock ’n’ roll goes (ie, that what counts), the Go-Betweens are about the best group in the world right now. Paul McKessar The Damned Gluepot, April 3 Ask any spokesman from an international touring band what kind

of audiences they attract and they’ll say something like ‘‘Oh... we get all kinds of people these days actually — it’s quite pleasing." The Damned say the same kind of thing, but if the Gluepot was anything to go by, in their case it’s actually true. Skins rubbed shoulders with car boys, ingenues with hardened gig-goers, 30-year-olds with seventh formers. But it was appropriate — if their crowd was a mixture, the pamned were a mish-mash. / I arrived to find the Damned already started (missing, presumably, an early-played ‘Neat Neat Neat’), plodding through songs from Phantasmagoria. The sounds were not pretty — Dave Vanian looked quite out to sea as he croaked out* the lines while the anonymous young man at the side of the stage carried the melodies on synthesiser/emulator. He managed not to drop his cordless mike this night, but did catch himself a nasty blow in the ear with a flourish of the tambourine. Musical roles became clear — Rat Scabies was showpiece drumming man, not subtle, but the only one to even approach virtuosity. Beaky guitarist Roman Jugg was

mainly dreadful — sometimes apparently unable to decide whether he was the Edge (di-dit-di-dit-di-dit-di-dit-dow-dow) or Jimmy Page (brrowwwbeedumbowowow). Bass player Bryn sweated and talked to the crowd down front and appeared to play his instrument hard — even if most of his basslines were drowned by the synthesiser’s. The Damned aren’t a band, they’re dodgy musical theatre, and as if to emphasise the fact they punctuated nearly every “tune” with aimless solos and umimpressive show-offs that crippled wonderful pop songs like ‘Smash It Up:

They each seemed to spend about a quarter of their time sitting at the back of the stage having a drink — small wonder under a lighting rig big enough to nurture a small rain forest.

The sad joke of it was the sight of a horde of new-age punks eagerly thrashing about with each other to the strains of such pompous, affected rock music. Is that what it's come to? The Damned’s pop orchestrations are amiable enough on record, but they’re ludicrous live.

But things did get a bit better — they finished off the main set with a rather good precis of the long, dramatic one on side three of the Black Album and in the encore answered the constant calls for ‘New Rose’ — a song with a riff so great that Dire Straits could play it and still sound urgent. The second en-

core... Rat played guitar (a lot better than Roman) and they did ‘Pretty Vacant’ and ‘Wild Thing: Vanian was showered with obligatory spittle and tried to look happy about it. Disinguished by a lack of solos, but I still think it's cheating to have the synth player in on yer spontaneous punk encore.

But it was more interesting and eventually numbing than unpleasant. After all, I only had to go to the bar and the toilet once each. Afterwards I went up to the Rising Sun to see some drunken happy Merkins clamber on stage with Crunchy Something. And that seemed a lot more like rock ’n’ roll. Russell Brown

Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble, Fabulous Thunderbirds Auckland Town Hall, March 14

After setting the audience on fire at the Logan Campbell Centre, Stevie Ray and the Fabulous Tbirds returned to Auckland a week later to stoke the embers at the town hall. Just like Wellington’s old town hall, it’s a much better venue for a rock and roll concert — if only the councils would let you get down (some of their paranoia is justifiable, admittedly — at a recent concert in Wellington, a George Thorogood fan crapped outside the mayor’s office). But there were no complaints from this bleary-eyed black Tshirted crowd who had come to boogie. Two more appropriate bands couldn’t be found, but the

evening was also a celebration of the guitar. It began with Stevie Ray’s personal guitar roadie Rene Martinez, who ambled out to give a demonstration of Flamenco guitar. Flamenco is an astonishingly complex style (Rolf Harris’s man was just a ham-fisted charlatan) and Martinez’s skills stunned the restless audience.

The Fabulous Thunderbirds lived up to their reputation as a strutting honky tonk band. These guys are the real thing. Barrelchested Kim Wilson is a strong singer and blues harpist, while Jimmie Vaughan plays an angry rockabilly-tinged guitar. But it was the rhythm section that had the real power, with Fran Christina twirling his sticks to the ceiling, and double-bassist Preston Hubbard anchoring the mix with the meatiest bottom this side of Divine. Particularly on their latest single, the T-Birds proved they are tuff enuff, but the perfect environment for them would be an intimate bar — not warming up a roomy hall at support band volume. The decibels were upped for the entrance of Stevie Ray Vaughan. Immediately he put his head down and out of his guitar gushed a dazzling display of wizardry. He looked like a sly Mexican bandito with his wispy moustache and flat wide-brimmed black stetson, and he spoke like one — when he finally looked up after three long and furious instrumentals. A few mumbled words then it was back to the pyrotechnics, ripping through his well-studied Hendrix moves: play-

ing behind his back, with his teeth and with the distortion and feedback, all heavily wah wahed. When the speed eased off, it seemed indulgent, and his band looked on detachedly with fixed smiles. The lengthy explorations would always be followed however by crowdpleasers such as ‘Lovestruck Baby’ but two and a half hours was more than enough.

The final encore did show Stevie Ray has some sense of humour though — he fought with elder brother Jimmie over who got to play a double-necked guitar (one of about two dozen on stage) ... they ended up both playing it, simultaneously, seamlessly shifting from rhythm to lead — so the audience left still shaking their heads. Chris Bourke Roy Harper His Majesty's Theatre, March 26 In brief, the man is brilliant. I was lead through a night of legends and tales, as each song unfolded another page and opened another door. Harper proved himself an impassioned player. He tore through his angrier pieces and brushed through the gentler. He laid his soul bare, and at no expense. One of those characters that despite blowing you away, you realised he was capable of so much more. On stage with guitar and voice, he layered melody with harmony and phrase on phrase. A guitarist with an amazing combination of left and right hands. A vocalist with soul and an astonishing blend of style. Stunning stuff — believe it. ‘l2 Bars of Sunset’, with its drifting peace and stillness. ‘South Africa’, a message of love to the buggered country. And ‘Unknown Soldier’, phaser turning the entire mix from wall to wall of His Majesty’s.

The evening grew angrier with a beer under his (and my) belt. ‘One of These Days in England) off his recent album Bullinamingvase, lifted a weighty reaction from punters with its searing guitar work — and I’m talking feel. First encore ‘Hangman) with its nerving touch of tremelo, drew a similar reaction. How would you like to have your head pulled off, incarcerated O.H.M.S.

What amazed me about Roy Harper was his selfless and direct approach. Love, laughter, sorrow and pain. Not only an orator, song-

smith, superb musician, but an incredibly warm human being. Anyone that refers to Roy Harper as a folk musician is an oaf. Barry Caitcheon

The Front Lawn Presents: The Reason For Breakfast Little Maidment Theatre It’s happened. And it’s about time it happened too. Here’s a band you can look at, it’s music you can watch. And what do you watch? People playing. It’s interesting that one word describes what children do, what musicians do and what actors do. Play is what The Reason For Breakfast is all about. It’s a combination of music, acting and ordinary kids’ play. The show is fun. It has silly, often slapstick, comedy routines. It’s fresh and spontaneous and sometimes it looks like Don and Harry are making up their own rules as they go along. As musicians, Don and Harry play superbly, both together and alone. Don McGlashan is a bit of a musical institution. He played drums with Blam Blam Blam, percussion with From Scratch and for the Laura Dean Dance Company. Who else could turn a kitchen table into a drumkit? Harry Sinclair is better known as a Theatre Corporate actor than a musician, but his song ‘Put Me In Your Pocket’, both haunting and memorable, almost stole the show. Together they work brilliantly, weaving together theatre and music to make an hour and a half of fun.

So, you may ask, what is the Reason For Breakfast? It’s a variety show, a compilation made up of Don and Harry’s Songs From the Front Lawn plus the title piece, ‘The Reason For Breakfast’. A curious mix of spontaneity and perfect timing, with a distinct New Zealand flavour. Impossible to describe, but if you’ve never seen anyone play split nienko nienkoplutz, go along and find out. I don’t know when these two are playing next, but I look forward to seeing them. Sienkyew. Edwin Simperingham

Rainbow Warrior Festival Mt Smart Stadium, April 5. You could tell it was going to be a friendly day — the crowd relaxed, the sun shining. Is it the lack of booze or the Cause that brings about the good feeling? Herbs opened the show. They

warmed the crowd up — the hippies were out doing their Kate Bush and Stevie Nicks imitations by the 4th song. The harmonies came through nicely and the antinuclear theme was set in motion wjth authority. ' John Grenell (Hore) had the mumps so we were given Brazier, McArtney and Lyons (Hi there Sailor...) doing a Robert Johnson song, slide guitar and all, definitely one of their less offensive performances. The acoustic versions of ‘Gutter Black’ ‘You Bring Out The Worst in Me’ and ‘Fugitive’ were superior to the usual band treatment. /

A Greenpeace rep came on to a warm welcome and reminded us in a few words what Greenpeace stood for; non-violent direct action against unnecessary pollution of the worlds ocean and atmosphere; preventing the abuse of critters such as porpoises, sealions, whales and turtles. He received a big cheer when he stated that “N.Z. is a nuclear-free country."

Graham Nash borrowed a few of Jackson Browne’s band members

and began with ‘Military Madness: This was the most up-tempo the man would get today. ‘Just Before I . Go’ (old CS&N song) saw the mood shift into that syrupy, edgeless sort of feel the ecologically minded seem so often to gravitate towards — lots of tinkling electric piano. Boy is this West Coast music. -Magical Child’ — a song for his first born Jackson (so they are old buddies?). This man is supporting Greenpeace and he loves children too, but why so wistfully? To close Nash moves back on to electric guitar for ‘Teach Your Children’ and gets the audience clapping and singing along. The Topp Twins were their usual dynamic selves. A varied set beginning with their Rainbow Warrior song, then into ‘Country Music’ — All their songs went down well, ‘Radiation Burns’ taking the tone from fun to the forlorn with great skill. What a beautiful, scary song.

The crowd surges forward. Jackson Browne’s on stage. This is West Coast music enlarged upon — and by one of its originators. Even with the band playing full-on you can make most of the lyrics out.

‘Candy’ is from the new album Lives in The Balance. There’s quite a bit of screaming guitar and lots

of deep dark sounds coming from various sources, very dramatic. A duo from Nash and Browne follows. Very political.

Into the old stuff now with ‘For Everyman’ from his first album. No cheers — mostly newer fans here. On ‘Late For The Sky’ Jackson honours us with a mistake. He forgets a whole verse. “I guess this song is a lot older than I realised...”

he confides. Jackson was much more of a performer than I thought he would be. The long and very effective introductions to some of his song and his political declarations drew us in — "I love my country and it grieves me to see some of the things it’s done” — and to NZ — “Keep on with it, it means a lot to people in the United States. Gives us some hope.” Fist up, desperately sincere, he closes with ‘Running on Empty’. It’s been a long set, $18.50 worth for this act alone.

The very likeable Neil Young is into long political speeches also, only heavily tinged in ironies, quite humourous. Neil and his guitar fills the stadium. He achieves a crazed intensity as a song builds then delights the crowd with off-the-cuff endings to songs. ‘Come A time’ — the people around me have lapsed into spontaneous song on the first

verse. He dedicates ‘Sugar Mountain’ to all the kids at the gig. I never before realised that the strange percussive thumping sound on some of his records was actually his strumming hand against the body of the guitar. When he leaves the stage the urging of the folks to come back on is very genuine. And so “hey hey my my”. . It’s late twilight and so now lights are in on things. The crowd is ready for Split Enz, especially after Tim Shadbolt’s teasing time-filler. ‘History Never Repeats’ is good opener. On ‘Six Months in a Leaky Boat’ Noel Crombie does a whistling break — not like Vai Doonican but like a budgie — and Tim gets the pioneer spirit going by conducting a sing-a-long at the songs end. They’re looking out over a Sea of Waving Arms — a friendly sea. A fitting end for a show dedicated to the Rainbow Warrior. J. Hickling McGarrigle Sisters Michael Fowler Centre, Wellington, March 12 The McGarrigles are two Canadian sisters in their mid-30s, whose songs have been covered by dozens of artists including Maria Muldaur and Linda Ronstadt

(’Heart Like a Wheel); recently they toured the United States with Dire Straits. McGarrigle music is unique, but also eclectic — it borrows from influences as unlikely as Stephen Foster ballads, 17th century French chansons and traditional folk laments. The sisters manage to apply these influences to thoroughly contemporary topics as they examine the feminist conceptions of love, racism in the southern US, childhood in the 1980 s and the human condition in general. Their New Zealand debut as part of the Wellington Arts Festival seemed jinxed at the start. Through no fault of their own the sisters were almost half an hour late, and an elderly gentleman with his fur-clad wife began the slow hand-clapping. They left not long after the concert began, discouraged by the volume of the performance. It’s intriguing to speculate on why such people would turn up at a show like Kate and Anna's, and there were quite a few superannuitants there. There were also the folk contingent, yearning for the early songs — songs like Kate’s clever infusion of love into chemistry, ‘NaCI’, Anna’s serenely charming 'Complainte Pour St. Catherine’ (the patron saint of single women), and

the unforgettable ‘Talk To Me of But the sisters had just completed an American tour which consisted entirely of acoustic performance. They had brought a band with them to Australasia and they wanted to rock. There was nothing wrong with that, and some of the new material which formed the bulk of the concert was fine, but there were flaws. The drummer was too loud, the guitarist was both loose and loud, the electric violin tended to drown out the sisters’ piano and accordian contributions. It’s praiseworthy that Kate and Anna are committed to experimentation, but often the result is that a buncti\of men behind them do their best to annihilate the subtleties of the music. Still the songs themselves are pretty indestructible, and the McGarrigle harmonies were as glorious as ever. Even the folkies were vyon over in the end, and there were three encores.

The McGarrigle's approach to their career has been one of goodhumoured aloofness from the pop maelstrom, and consequently they have become reluctant cult celebrities. But if you’re lucky enough to come across a Kate and Anna McGarrigle record in the sale bins, snap it up.

Jim Mora