Journalist, Author & Syndicated Columnist
In the four years it took to go from being an anonymous L.A. club band to America’s reigning hard rock kings, members of Guns N’ Roses have created more controversy and publicity by being themselves than most musicians could conjure with an army of PR flacks thinking things up.
There is such strength and purity to Luka Bloom’s music that a band could only diminish the conviction of his songs. Standing alone on a barren stage at the Park West Friday night with just his electro-acoustic guitar for accompaniment, Bloom gave a sly but powerful performance that ended all too soon.
“Yeah, I guess my next step is making a disgusting sexist video for MTV,” Luka Bloom said, laughing. “But my treatment would have to be very different. For an Irish rap song, we’d have to get green babes. No, I go for the pretty soft videos, which I hope aren’t too schmaltzy. But as long as it doesn’t get mistaken for one of Michael Bolton’s, I’m fine.”
It’s Christmas Eve and Trudy Davis is alone. Not a big surprise, considering she’s a xenophobic bulimic who views food as “unmasticated vomit,” duct tapes her microwave shut and stocks her fridge only with Evian water. Trudy is a woman who needs a little fun in her life, and when she puts Elvis Presley’s “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” on her stereo, the King’s apparition answers her self-pitying call.
There is a heartache in Matthew Sweet’s voice that pegs him as a romantic who knows both the euphoria of being in love and the pain of breaking up. On his first Chicago gig as a headliner, Sweet performed a tantalizing midnight show Saturday at the Cabaret Metro where he and his tight backup band channeled his wisely ambiguous lyrics with playful abandon, letting the audience know that though he may have been beaten up emotionally, he’s not a whiner.
It is a rare band that can make the kind of musical impact the British band James did Friday night at the Cabaret Metro. Starting off a little shaky, the seven-man group eased its way into a spectacular 90-minute concert that made it clear why the buzz is so strong about this unpretentious band. The buzz has been a long time in the making, at least over here.
Miles Hunt ticks off a lot of people. He thinks the majority of record buyers are lazy, that Elvis is little more than a joke and that the media play right into the hands of bands that have next to nothing to offer artistically. There are a lot of people who think Hunt is full of it, including Hunt himself, but the British vocalist for the Wonder Stuff doesn’t care. He’s just got to be him.
If they had to, the musicians in Teenage Fanclub could cloak many weaknesses with their sweet melodies and delicious harmonies. But when the vocals are as perfect as they were at the band’s Chicago debut Friday night at the Cabaret Metro, it really doesn’t matter how profound or inane the lyrics are. At their sold-out show, the group dished up the same savory vocals that are featured on its current LP “Bandwagonesque,” but with the added bonus of cranked-up instrumentation.
“Our producer told us that anyone can get good guitar or drum sounds, but the vocals identify you as individuals,” says Raymond McGinley, guitarist-vocalist for Scotland’s latest darlings, Teenage Fanclub. “That’s one reason why we all sing, even though I’m not particularly comfortable doing it.”
The only thing coy about Joan Jett Saturday night at the Cabaret Metro was the peekaboo lace catsuit she wore. With a guitar slung low on her hips and a sly sneer spread over her lips, Jett out-machoed the male guitarists she grew up emulating and took her fans through a gritty, 85-minute rock ‘n’ roll odyssey, where sweat and vitality were as essential to the show as a solid riff.
When an actor plays his role so well that his buddy’s mom refuses to speak to him, he knows he has done his job. “After the screening of `Juice,’ my mother couldn’t even look at Tupac (Shakur, who plays Bishop), much less speak to him,” said Khalil Kain, whose character, Raheem, has a tragic falling out with his friend Bishop. “Even though that’s an irrational feeling, I certainly understand it. Certain scenes between Bishop and Raheem were intense even for me, and I knew how everything was going to turn out.”
The banner behind the drum kit read “Be Silent. Consume. Die.” When Ned’s Atomic Dustbin made a return engagment Tuesday night at a sold-out show at the Cabaret Metro, the five young Brits took a similarly simple, minimalistic approach to their music, assaulting the audience with a barrage of sounds that joyously paid homage to punk, thrash and pop.
Joan Jett has been a part of the rock ‘n’ roll vocabulary for so long, it’s easy to forget she is just 32. She has been neither a trend-setter nor a follower in her 17-year music career. Even when critics dismissed her as a novelty, one-trick pony or, perhaps worst yet, “girl singer,” the raspy-voiced musician persevered and produced a string of anthemic records that hailed the primal joys of adolescence with rebellious vocal sneers.
Back when Ned’s Atomic Dustbin started, the five-man British group was lumped in with Jesus Jones and Pop Will Eat Itself in a genre called grebo rock. In English schoolyard lingo, “grebo” is the equivalent of “dork.” In pop jargon, it refers to a long-haired, smelly person. Either way, Ned’s considers the term appropriate.
As a pre-teen, Charlie Sexton studied guitar with the late Stevie Ray Vaughan. Now 23, the former solo artist is teamed up with two members of Vaughan’s band Double Trouble, as well as another Vaughan pupil.
“I wave a banner for Charlie (Sexton),” David Bowie said, calling from Liverpool, England. “I like him a lot. He’s a good kid and very talented. Yes, he’s very pretty, but he didn’t need to be oversold. (MCA) saw him as a one-man Duran Duran, which was a big mistake. Charlie’s a blues boy and that’s where he really shines. Arc Angels probably is the best thing for him at this point in his career.”
“I crush your head. I crush your head. You’re a flathead!” So cries the Head Crusher, a Brylcreemed loser in plaid pants and thick glasses who whiles away his days air-pinching victims’ heads between his thumb and forefinger.
It has been a long time since David Bowie has felt this good about himself. The former David Robert Jones, Ziggy Stardust and Thin White Duke has carved out a new musical niche without creating a new persona to play it out. Bowie is in Liverpool, England, on this day, congenially promoting his group, Tin Machine. He’s newly engaged to the model Iman, and sips on a cup of hot tea, his substance of choice these days. Mentally scanning his flamboyant 25-year career, he comes to the conclusion that his life, as that of most musicians, would make a boring film.
In Hollywood, where every other person claims to be an actor, singer, model or screenwriter, actor Woody Harrelson doesn’t raise too many eyebrows when he jams with his group Manly Moondog and the Three Kool Kats. But when the “Cheers” star takes his 10-piece band out on the road, he attracts a crowd that’s made up of music lovers as well as a strong contingent of curiosity seekers who want to know if “the boy can really sing.”
You wouldn’t think that a name like the Hoodoo Gurus would need dressing up. But when the Australian rock band formed 10 years ago, they billed themselves as Le Hoodoo Gurus.