CENTERSTAGE

CENTERSTAGE

GOING ON THE RECORD

JOE JACKSON

Roundabout Theater, New York Jan. 25, 1986

Toby Goldstein

"I love this weather,” Joe Jackson was enthusiastically telling the enraptured audience of 400 or so, who were quietly drying out, the result of the first genuine downpour of the new year. "English blood is made up of rain, rain and beer,” Joe amiably concluded, before he got the OK-signal from producer David Kershenbaum, holed up outside in a mobile recording van, and launched into a regretful song, appropriately titled "Hometown.”

Not so much giving a concert as offering a rare look behind-the-scenes at the .mental energy a performer expends while recording an album, Joe Jackson had held out to approximately 2,000 fans the chance to be first in line to hear his latest compositions—potentially including warts. For years a musical innovatorusing British punk and old time music hall tunes, 1940s jazz and New York street rhythms as inspiration—Jackson decided to record his eighth album live, from the stage of the Roundabout Theater in his adopted home of New York, direct to a two-track digital mobile unit. Absent from touring for seemingly an eternity, Jadkson’s appearances would be guaranteed immediate sellouts, but the chance to actually participate in the recording process proved an irresistible lure.

Consequently, the audience for Jackson’s last-but-one appearance were so blissed out by the tickets they held that they minded neither the blustery weather nor the obligatory coat, bag and pat-down search designed to capture any concealed cameras or tape recorders (which presumably would then be ground to a pulp).

One further caveat awaited inside, when Jackson, a half hour late due to technical problems, asked the crowd to wait until the very end of each song before applauding. As the printed card signed by Joe and handed out beforehand explained, “We don’t want you to behave like you’re in church or something, but shouting and whistling during'quiet passages is not going to be appreciated, and anyone who thinks he’s going to be immortalized on record by shouting something at such a moment will at best be disappointed (since we won’t use it), and at worst be thrown out.” Remarkably obedient, only once did some hapless soul become so overwhelmed by a delicate passage—almost at the end, no less—that he whooped, cheered...and was silenced shamefully by black looks from everyone in the room, not to mention Jackson, who strained to keep his frustration under control, and went for the retake.

Besides having the rare chance to hear new songs long before millions will later enjoy them, the evening’s greatest fascination came from observing Joe when he wasn’t performing. In order to allow Kershenbaum the time to cue tape and remove any potential problems, Jackson had to ad-lib before each tune. This could not have been easy for an artist whose usual stage presence is either forbidding silence or putdowns of things that irk him, such as an audience that doesn’t look sharp enough.

Here, though, Jackson made an engaging master of ceremonies, politely narrating the story behind each song, acting very self-effacing—which won the audience over from the start. After opening the set with his warmup tune, ‘‘One More Time,” and forgetting a line, he displayed a lyric book for the new songs and stated, ‘‘In case I have a mental block and forget the lyrics...but it doesn’t usually happen this early in the show.” By graciously cutting himself off at the knees, Jackson enabled the audience to laugh with him, rather than at him, when the inevitable mistakes did come along. During the show’s most intricate number, an evocative mood piece called “Shanghai Sky,” Jackson’s voice broke on the first note, causing him to replay a lengthy opening instrumental passage. When it happened a second time, and Jackson sat despairing at the piano, he was encouraged, “take all the time you need.” The next take was flawless.

At regular intervals, Jackson and his pared-down band—guitarist Vinnie Zummo, bassist Rick Ford, and drummer Jay Burke—broke the tension of their labors by playing older numbers, among them “Fools In Love” and “You Can’t Get What You Want.” Although most comfortable performing cutting edge rock, the musicians showed their versatility at presenting Jackson’s love of foreign rhythms, whether the middle-Eastern trembling of “It’s A Big World,” the tango of “Tango Atlantico,” or the swaying, Eurostyle punctuations of “$50 Love Affair.” That song, incidentally, required Jackson to strap on an accordion, and prompted its share of giggles. “Let’s do some polkas, man,” cracked Joe, admitting that the instrument was not his favorite and threatening to dismember it after the final set.

By the time Jackson encored with yet a third take of “Hometown”—the first two sounded fine to us but not to the man in the van—and a bone jangling finale of “I’m the Man,” everyone was relieved. Joe Jackson may never become the most approachable human being in the music business, but his neighborliness and candor under the extreme pressure of recording his newest album in front of a bunch of strangers forged a lasting bond between him and this relative handful of admirers. And yes, he still managed to look sharp, even with a smile on his face.

HORSE PLATITUDES

GOLDEN PALOMINOS The Ritz, New York Jan. 9, 1986

Jeff Tamarkin

Jack Bruce phoned from Tel Aviv to say he couldn’t make it, but Carla Bley did show up to play Hammond organ. John(ny) “Call me/don’t call me Rotten” Lydon didn’t bother to call at all, but then again, he wasn’t even rumored. Richard Thompson was rumored and didn’t call either, but that’s OK, because Michael Stipe came by to sing a Moby Grape song. It was that kind of night.

Welcome to the supergroup of the ’80s. In the grand tradition of such incredible acts as Blind Faith and KGB, the Golden Palominos are ostensibly a loose aggregation of drop-in musicians, in this case assembled by drum pounder Anton Fier. First came an album release on the Celluloid label—your basic well-receivedcritically-but-didn’t-sell-shit job—called Visions Of Excess, which included all of the above. Then Fier took the show on the road, inviting whoever was in town to join in. If only the performance matched the credentials.

The basic band line-up was certainly inviting enough. Guitars were handled by Jody Harris of the Raybeats and Peter Blegvad, veteran of such too-weird-forwords art-rockers as Slapp Happy and Henry Cow. Former dB Chris Stamey, after opening the show with his own band in a mediocre set, switched from guitar to bass and joined the headliner. The aforementioned Ms. Bley, jazz artist extraordinaire, took care of the Hammond while one Lisa Herman, who’s worked with both Bley and Blegvad before, diddled the synths at the other end of the stage. Up front, Syd Straw, a long-haired diva who’d probably feel equally at home at the Grand Ole Opry, sang strongly but unintellegibly throughout the bulk of the set.

Which proved a neat match for Stipe, on temporary leave from R.E.M., who’s been known to mumble a few times himself. Never have more words been misunderstood by so many.

Behind this odd fellowship, percussion powerhouse Fier kept the beat and then some, as he’s done before for Mick Jagger, Herbie Hancock, and others whose spotlights he has yet to share. So why did the whole thing fall so flat? Why was this funk-metal-punk-jazz ultimately so bland, whereas the LP was a highlight of ’85?

Chalk it up, perhaps, to the age-old supergroup syndrome. It’s the difference between putting in years with the same bunch of cronies in a bar and stopping by for a free drink and a guest lick. Or, more appropriately, the difference between dropping in for a few quick vocals in the studio and devoting time and effort to working up solid material for a tour. No one would deny the sheer quality of talent assembled on stage at the Ritz, but a working band? Nah, sorry. Anyone remember the New Barbarians?

Granted, Straw’s voice is a kiHer, and undoubtedly she’ll be heard from again, even if the level of excitement did pick up noticeably here when Stipe replaced her. And you’d be hard-pressed to find a more on-the-mark drummer than Fier, who drove the thing home as best he could whether they were performing his material from the album, Blegvad’s own, or tunes by Richard Thompson or Peter Holsapple. (Don’t ask what Arto Lindsay, the Christgau-lookalike guitar murderer who came out for the encore, was singing.) And when it was over, you yawned, went home and went to sleep. Not much to write home about, eh?

Anyone remember Ginger Baker’s Airforce? The Buddy Miles Express?