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Concrete Blonde in Cambridge Last night remains a dream of whose reality I am reminded by my exhaustion and the ringing in my right ear. A few weeks ago, my friend Peter in Seattle told me he'd recently seen Concrete Blonde live, that they'd reunited and there was a new album. So I sought out the album and have been in GROUP THERAPY ever since. I missed the New York show, which would have been easier, though more expensive, to attend, and feared I'd be unable to catch them at all, but then, the Cambridge, MA show was switched from Thursday the 21st (when I wouldn't have been able to attend because of a rehearsal), to Wednesday the 20th, so I immediately reserved a ticket online through Ticketbastard. I managed to get out of the office around 3:45 yesterday afternoon, ran home to grab some money and some driving music, and set out on the nearly 150-mile drive to see my favourite band on the planet. They didn't disappoint. In their mid-forties, the three members of Concrete Blonde, who make guitar, bass, drums and vocals sound like all anyone could ever need live, have more energy and presence than any of the younger, mass-produced cardboard cut-outs currently selling out stadiums. Boybands and busty blondes be warned: Your days are numbered; your elders and betters, real artists, are coming to kick your ass, and when you are their age, you will be forgotten or remembered with derision. (You don�t believe me? A guy handing out flyers for an upcoming Leif Garrett show outside was laughed away.) Admittedly, Concrete Blonde are not music for the masses. They may cover George Harrison�s �Beware of Darkness,� but their music is steeped in it, and they know both its beauty and its terror well. These three individuals resonate to their very spleens with every note they produce; consequently, they remain fresh and vibrant while true to their roots. The comment may be in danger of becoming a cliche, but the band�s latest single, �Roxy,� could as easily be applied to their own career as to that of Roxy Music, to whom the song is dedicated. �Oh, Roxy, your golden boys make a beautiful noise. After all these years, you still bring tears to my eyes,� Johnette sings. And the audience sings back -- to her. Traffic on the way to Boston from New Haven mostly consisted of stupid American drivers rubber-necking where police had stopped other drivers, and was not nearly what it might have been had I been headed south. On arriving in Cambridge, I was reminded why it is my least favourite place on the planet to drive; becoming disoriented or misdirected among the sinuous one-way streets is a very real danger, and finding appropriate parking nearly impossible. Nevertheless, I found myself standing outside the Middle East, at the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Brookline Street at around 6.30, talking to a confessed autograph hound standing outside the tour bus. I�m not a big fan of getting autographs, as it strikes me as rude to interrupt a performer�s personal life as he or she is doubtless trying to focus on preparing the best show possible while coping with the exhaustion, disorientation and inconvenience of life on the road, but we had an interesting chat. Surprisingly, he didn�t recognise the band members as readily as I did. When I first saw Harry (Rushakoff, the drummer) approaching the bus, I simply made eye contact, nodded and smiled. When he re-emerged, I had pointed out to the fellow I�d been talking to that it was Harry, so we walked over. Whatever his foibles may be, Harry was wonderfully charming and gracious, dispersing my misgivings about bothering him by taking it as a compliment, while signing my copy of the new CD. He asked if we would be at the show (Hell, yeah!), and offered, had we not had tickets, to get us on the list, even though it was sold out. (Incidentally, the friendly autograph-hound had a copy of the recently-released �Classic Masters� disc, which Harry hadn�t seen and commented Johnette would not be pleased to know of its existence, so I recommend not buying it, as I don�t think the band are getting much out of it.) Paul Thompson is a great drummer, but I prefer Harry�s work with CB; he has a certain brutal, primal energy behind his playing that really drives the songs. That energy might be the source of my surprise at the fact that he seems such a nice guy. I was also surprised that I�m taller than he is, and he has remarkably soft hands (I always notice hands). His playing throughout the show was absolutely as aggressive as I�d expected, though, and I�ve never seen anyone seem quite so happy to be performing. Every time I looked at him during the show, he was grinning like a Cheshire from behind those red sunglasses, whether wearing that black cowboy hat, or with his now-shortened and somewhat spiky hair catching the lights behind him. Jim Mankey came out a few minutes later, but he seemed to be on a mission to the bus carrying his guitar case, so I didn�t want to bother him. After all, what would I have said? �Um, Mr. Mankey, I just wanted you to know I think you�re a god among guitarists...Could you sign my CD, please?� I felt like enough of an idiot for babbling incoherently at Harry about how I can�t imagine having survived high school without their music and I�m positively over the moon that they�re back together and I love the new album. For someone typically perceived as composed and self-assured, I certainly turn into a blithering idiot when faced with someone whom I don�t know well, but who has had an impact on my life. By the time Johnette was spirited out (by security, I believe, and understandably), a crowd had gathered, so even if I�d had a clue what to say, I couldn�t have said it. Someone said, �Welcome back,� and she thanked them and said it was good to be back. And then, they were in the bus, and we were in the club. Two pieces of text struck me in the club. The first is documented in a photograph on the band�s website (www.concreteblonde.org); it was a hand-written sign which read, �To all our friends from foreign lands: You cannot smoke pot in public in the U.S.� The more shame to the U.S., in my opinion! The second was the text on the back of one of the tour t-shirts (I wanted to buy one, but they�d all sold out by the time I reached the table at the end of the show), which began something like, �You must fight for what you believe to be true...� It�s attributed to the band, but it reminded me of that passage from the Gospel of St. Thomas, �If you bring forth that which is within you, it will set you free; if you withhold that which is within you, it will destroy you.� At any rate, if anyone knows exactly what the text was, please e-mail it to me ([email protected]). I was front and centre at the small stage, in the second row of people, chatting with two very nice and rather dedicated fans with long blond hair (One was called Rob; I�ve forgotten the other�s name...sorry, dude) who�d met each other before at a show in �97, and some lovely charming people from Salem (Well, the tall blond fellow and the young lady (Dave and Sylvia, I think? I�m a disaster at keeping names and faces filed together properly.) were certainly lovely and charming; their third companion struck me as a bit of a kill-joy; perhaps it was merely an unfortunate impression. At any rate, the crowd was completely different from the one time I�d seen the band before (Autumn 1992 at the Boathouse in Norfolk, VA...I was sixteen; it was one of the first concerts I was ever allowed to attend without parental supervision), which was incredibly rude to the opening act (Chris Bailey, apparently a friend of Johnette�s) and moshed constantly throughout the show (even during �Someday...?�, which Johnette abruptly stopped to voice her disapproval). Johnette, too, was different; she was less talkative at this show, less political. With age, she seems to have found a means of focusing her rage, refining and turning it creative, rather than seeming a volcano of a woman, spewing forth destruction. I regret that I did not bring a dozen roses, as I�d considered doing (coincidentally, one for every year I�ve been a fan), but I figured someone else would do it. Oh, well...Next time, I promise. As to the show itself, Mojacar were amazing. Johnette introduced them with such admiration; it is clear that they mean a lot to her. Katerina adopts a fierce character onstage, and dances with such style and grace, imparting the stories of the songs with her movements alone. Ironically, she seems quite a petite and delicate lady offstage. I shook her hand after the show as she boarded her bus to express my enjoyment, as well as my surprise that clapping along would make my hands quite so tired. (I was taught to maximise clapping volume by a Jewish friend with whom I used to sing; unfortunately, this technique also tires the hands quickly...or maybe it was the cramped quarters in which we were clapping?) Stephen, the guitarist and songwriter of the group, is a phenomenal player. His simultaneous playing of melody and chordal accompaniment and his incredible sense of rhythm bear serious consideration, admiration. I stood transfixed through their set, wondering at what a refreshing way to open a concert this was. Johnette�s (si, si, Juanetta) vocal contributions on the two pieces she sang with them were fantastic; she made me wish I spoke Spanish so that I could understand precisely what she was singing. No precise translation was necessary, though, as the mood she and Katerina evoked against Stephen�s accompaniment kept the intention perfectly clear. When Mojacar had finished, crew rearranged the stage quickly, and ten or so minutes later, Katerina returned Johnette�s favour of introduction, rattling off a few quick phrases in Spanish before disappearing as Johnette introduced �Beware of Darkness.� I believe this was in a different key than recorded, and unfortunately, some of Johnette�s vocals were a little too soft to be comprehensible during the verses, but she is an artist of contrasts, and her soulful wailing in the louder sections was all the more powerful as a result. (I think it was here that Johnette hit a stray note on her bass and apologised, as she �[couldn�t] see a fucking thing.� The lights? Her hair? The first of several giggles during the set.) �Roxy� followed with its nostalgic swagger (Initially, I�d thought the song was yet another reference to the 65-year-old Roxy who appears in �Still in Hollywood/It�ll Chew You Up and Spit You Out� and �Roses Grow�. Another interesting level of meaning to a song which already has at least one more than the intended); I just had to sing along, and I wasn�t alone. �God Is a Bullet� was a study in mixed feelings. Johnette made one of her few comments here, saying that normally, she�d be thrilled to write a timeless song, but that it was all too sad this song was still relevant. It�s hard to shout �Shoot!� during the choruses when you�re so aware of what you�re saying. She seemed pensive at the end, too, before swinging with both fists into the bile-rock of spurned �Valentine.� Next, after introductory floor-vibrating samples, came �Tonight,� and never has alien abduction seemed such seductive fun! This was where I began to really notice the energy with which Johnette was alternately dancing, prowling and running around in circles on the stage. It wasn�t the first time in the night I was impressed with her ability to play, sing and cavort without becoming entangled in her own cords. �Everybody Knows� brought kudos to Leonard Cohen for his Juno (Canadian Grammy Equivalent) nomination this year. They did the song in E minor/G major, rather than the C# minor/E major in which it is recorded. That meant that in the final choruses, Johnette was belting out a seriously sustained high D. I have absolutely no clue how she managed to produce any tone at all after doing that, but she seemed utterly unfazed. We all screamed our approval. (I�ve always wondered why they�ve never used the last two of Leonard�s verses to this; I�m quite fond of them.) Another sample, I think (or were Jim & Harry just creating amazing ambient noise?), began �Bloodletting,� obviously a crowd favourite; again, a sinister concept is turned on its side and sounds like one of the greatest pleasures imaginable. (Well, I�ve always had a bit of a vampire fetish anyway; I guess I�m not the only one.) Johnette retired to keyboard and Jim took bass for �Angel,� one of the more poignant songs on the new album, though it seemed a little lost on certain parts of the audience for its quietness (Perhaps the absence of the formerly-used performance artist rendered it a little static?). At any rate, Johnette certainly recaptured full control of the room during the last couple of choruses, on which she improvised a higher melody line, before taking us all on a wild and funky ride through the apparent soullessness of modern society with �Fried.� (Here was another example of how some of the songs from the current album have been tightened on the tour; they seem much more powerful live, particularly this one with the band�s closing unison declamation, �The doors of perception were the gates of Hell!�) Next we received a fast-talking and amusingly verbose introduction of the �Joey/Whiskey in the Jar� medley, in which the second verse of �Joey� was excised, and unfortunately, Jim�s guitars were a little too loud to make out some of the �Whiskey� lyrics, but the combination really played well, and the audience seemed to love it. �Days and Days� has always been a favourite of mine, so I cheered as soon as I heard the opening bass line. Jim�s guitar solo between verses was positively brain-searing, and Johnette coupled the latter two verses interestingly, saying, �And still the whining of the wheels comes closest to the way I feel, and winter comes and winter goes and always has and will. But every morning, when the light comes creeping in around my eyes, another future falls behind the one I had in mind.� This cut the latter half of the second verse (�Another hour, another day, another year you pissed away. Remember walking in the rain? I�m walking there still.�) and the former half of the third (�Like every heart to the beat before and every wave to kiss the shore, I�m not the first and not the last, and soon to be your past.�). I was surprised at the number of voices I could hear singing along to �When I Was a Fool,� which followed. Clearly, this is destined to be another crowd favourite. The world exploded with �Violence,� which left me pensive, contemplating the lyric and not only its portrayal of the American psyche, but also its prescience with regard to world events which have transpired since its composition, and the close of the main set with �Your Haunted Head.� Harry simplified his solo towards the latter part of the intro, and Jim tirelessly cranked out rapid-fire early punk dissonance with a passion that belied his air of coolness. Johnette singled out Harry and Jim for praise, and an extended period of thunderous applause & cheers followed their departure from the stage. After what seemed an eternity of a crowd of 500 or so making noise one might mistake for a much larger gathering, the band returned to the stage, and slid into a brilliant, almost slinky, slowed version of �Scene of a Perfect Crime.� �Someday...?� became a full-fledged sing-along, and the final, anthemic �Still in Hollywood� found Johnette improvising, �I don�t give a fuck; I could be living under a truck. But instead, I�m in a band! I guess it�s just my luck...� For all her seriousness, she knows how to laugh! And finally, Harry & Jim left the stage, and Johnette began to intone, �It is complete now; two ends of time are neatly tied...� We sang �Tomorrow, Wendy� together a cappella. As with all tunes during which the audience claps along with no one to restrain them, the tempo sped a little, and the key changed several times, but the really remarkable thing was the sense of love and longing, rather than anger and irreverence, in this song. It is worth noting that Johnette didn�t sing the third verse, but replaced the confrontation with the priest with a repetition of, �Only God says, �Jump,� but I�ll set the time, �cause if He ever saw it, it was through these eyes of mine, and if He ever suffered, it was me who did His crying.� She turned the microphone to the audience, allowing us to carry much of the song, quite a change from the mid-song tirade about the AIDS epidemic, and the description of a girl who contracts the virus at her first sexual experience and is doomed, which I heard ten years ago. Finally, Johnette shouted above the crowd something along the lines of, �Tomorrow, we�re all going to get up and go on living and breathing and loving and remembering those of us who are no longer here.� As she had done at various points throughout the show, she expressed her gratitude, and then she was gone. I decided to hang around outside the venue for a little while (about a half hour) after the show to see if the band would stop and talk to fans. When they headed for the bus, there were only about 10 of us remaining, but they didn�t stop. Johnette seemed to be practically being carried, and Harry & Jim seemed pretty exhausted, too. When it began to rain, and the bus driver made it clear the band were not coming out, I decided it was time to go. Some fans felt cheated, I suppose, but they�d given us what we came for, what we paid for, and a hell of a lot more than most bands would do: A completely draining euphoric rollercoaster of a show, into which I�m convinced they poured every ounce of energy they possessed. Shouting and knocking on the bus door is not something of which I want to be a part; tt�s inappropriate, invasive, and rude. Certain boundaries must be respected. Obviously, they�re not doing this for the money, as $20 times about 500 tickets only equals $10,000, and out of that has to come the salary of club employees, consideration of club expenses, pay for the bus and its driver, the crew, and lastly, the band. Having spent some time working in the arts, I know very well how difficult it is to turn a profit. Johnette, Jim and Harry are out here because (And how many people can say this?) they have something to say, and they love what they do. Acknowledging that we have no right to their personal space should be one way in which we express that we love them for it. So I returned to my car (amusingly, the tour bus and I reached the traffic light at the Mass. Ave./Brookline St. intersection at the same time, though from different directions. I got to go first, so I honked and waved, not that anyone noticed.), stopped for gasoline, coffee, and Gatorade, and began the treacherous and lengthy drive (I am grateful to the guy outside who told me how to get back to 90 West.) through the driving rain toward home, where I arrived at about 3.30 a.m. Johnette said this would be their last show for awhile. I can only hope they won�t be gone for long.
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