Sunday, May 15, 2005
That's ENTERTAINMENT, indeed.
I’ve been looking in the mirror alot lately, I think I’m at that age. The bloom of youth is off this rose. My ever-expanding forehead is creasing in ways I couldn’t have predicted. Recently, I read a rock-journo comment that every man inherits the face he deserves by the age of fifty. (The man in question was Bono, his elfin features mirroring his evolution from rabble-rouser to distinguished elder statesman of rock. Okay, cards on the table. I’m never gonna be Lester Bangs, a fact I’m sure my girlfriend thanks her lucky stars for everyday. But that doesn’t mean I’m past my sell-by-date… yet.
The truth of that journo’s words hit me full force as Bladesy and I wade into a sea of the justly deserved faces inherited by middle-aged audience for tonight’s Gang of Four show at the Phoenix. Ooops, we arrive twenty minutes into the headliner’s set, original line up no less. (Bad form for a fanboy like myself I know, damn these early shows) These faces possess none of the cooler-than-thou record shop snobbery they once held. They have been softened and creased by the pressures of mortgage payments, tax bills, babysitters and life in general. What a drag it is getting old, et al. The show starts off with some plodding dirge-esque newer material. I miss some of the finer points of the songs as I jockey for position to snap off some shots. I scan the crowd. This is music with cred, as Bladesy points out, there are no kids in hoodies in sight. We are the youngest fans in the room. It’s quite refreshing.
The faces of the men on stage look more like the kind of hard men-bit players that would arrive in Weatherfield just to make Danny Baldwin’s life that much harder. However, tonight’s performance is living testament to the fact that getting old doesn’t have to suck. Jon King is in fine form. His Ian Curtis-inspired Morris dancing is strangely entrancing. Sure, his baseball bat cannot keep time on "He’d Send in the Army" and he forgets lyrics to "Natural’s Not In It" but the unbridled intensity with which he unleashes his inner twenty-something rock star is awe inspiring. I’ve seen 19-year-olds who don’t bring this much fire to the stage. Days of speed and slow time Monday’s, indeed. Andy Gill’s guitar is, to crib from Cameron Crowe by way of Almost Famous, incendiary. Gill’s inspired everyone from The Edge to Alex Kapranos. It is not lost on your humble correspondent that he produced The Futureheads eponymous debut. The rhythm section should not to be forgotton. Dave Allen’s supercharged-drivetrain base and Hugo Burnham’s martial drumming propel us forward 25 years to the world’s indie disco dancefloors. This is seminal work here. Entertainment, like Television’s Marquee Moon released two years before, created a template for today’s crop of angular punk-funk bands. I suspect Andy intentionally misfiled the template in the wake of The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ post-grunge star ascension. Rightly so.
The floor shakes for "At Home He’s A Tourist" and the show really takes off. Beer sales look pretty brisk, so I guess (on the disco floor) they really are making their profits. They run through all of the hits off of Entertainment. King doesn’t have the yelp of a twenty-year-old anymore, but the rough burr of his voice gives an intriguing new subtext to "This heaven gives me migraine". The three pronged vocal attack is in full effect. The shirts are fully open by this point, which is unfortunate but we happily forgive this indulgence. Bladesy and I are shocked and astounded to witness an unprecedented third encore. This proves to be rather controversial as they cover "Sweet Jane" but after the show they’ve put on you have to cut them some slack and anyways they must have run out of material by now. As Bladesy put it, "King could have come out and farted into the mic at this point and I would die happy."
Bladesy and I cap the night off watching Toronto’s International Bright Young Things engage in a tawdry affair at new Kensington Market hot spot Neutral. FACT! On the disco floor, they make their profits playing the likes of Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, The Futureheads, The Kaiser Chiefs and countless other fresh-faced young bands that wouldn’t exist if Entertainment hadn’t been released. I wonder what faces these kids will inherit in 25 years. ¶ 3:18 AM
The truth of that journo’s words hit me full force as Bladesy and I wade into a sea of the justly deserved faces inherited by middle-aged audience for tonight’s Gang of Four show at the Phoenix. Ooops, we arrive twenty minutes into the headliner’s set, original line up no less. (Bad form for a fanboy like myself I know, damn these early shows) These faces possess none of the cooler-than-thou record shop snobbery they once held. They have been softened and creased by the pressures of mortgage payments, tax bills, babysitters and life in general. What a drag it is getting old, et al. The show starts off with some plodding dirge-esque newer material. I miss some of the finer points of the songs as I jockey for position to snap off some shots. I scan the crowd. This is music with cred, as Bladesy points out, there are no kids in hoodies in sight. We are the youngest fans in the room. It’s quite refreshing.
The faces of the men on stage look more like the kind of hard men-bit players that would arrive in Weatherfield just to make Danny Baldwin’s life that much harder. However, tonight’s performance is living testament to the fact that getting old doesn’t have to suck. Jon King is in fine form. His Ian Curtis-inspired Morris dancing is strangely entrancing. Sure, his baseball bat cannot keep time on "He’d Send in the Army" and he forgets lyrics to "Natural’s Not In It" but the unbridled intensity with which he unleashes his inner twenty-something rock star is awe inspiring. I’ve seen 19-year-olds who don’t bring this much fire to the stage. Days of speed and slow time Monday’s, indeed. Andy Gill’s guitar is, to crib from Cameron Crowe by way of Almost Famous, incendiary. Gill’s inspired everyone from The Edge to Alex Kapranos. It is not lost on your humble correspondent that he produced The Futureheads eponymous debut. The rhythm section should not to be forgotton. Dave Allen’s supercharged-drivetrain base and Hugo Burnham’s martial drumming propel us forward 25 years to the world’s indie disco dancefloors. This is seminal work here. Entertainment, like Television’s Marquee Moon released two years before, created a template for today’s crop of angular punk-funk bands. I suspect Andy intentionally misfiled the template in the wake of The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ post-grunge star ascension. Rightly so.
The floor shakes for "At Home He’s A Tourist" and the show really takes off. Beer sales look pretty brisk, so I guess (on the disco floor) they really are making their profits. They run through all of the hits off of Entertainment. King doesn’t have the yelp of a twenty-year-old anymore, but the rough burr of his voice gives an intriguing new subtext to "This heaven gives me migraine". The three pronged vocal attack is in full effect. The shirts are fully open by this point, which is unfortunate but we happily forgive this indulgence. Bladesy and I are shocked and astounded to witness an unprecedented third encore. This proves to be rather controversial as they cover "Sweet Jane" but after the show they’ve put on you have to cut them some slack and anyways they must have run out of material by now. As Bladesy put it, "King could have come out and farted into the mic at this point and I would die happy."
Bladesy and I cap the night off watching Toronto’s International Bright Young Things engage in a tawdry affair at new Kensington Market hot spot Neutral. FACT! On the disco floor, they make their profits playing the likes of Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, The Futureheads, The Kaiser Chiefs and countless other fresh-faced young bands that wouldn’t exist if Entertainment hadn’t been released. I wonder what faces these kids will inherit in 25 years. ¶ 3:18 AM
