CENTERSTAGE

CENTERSTAGE

DRIVE ME WILD

DRIVE AID

Radio City Music Hall, New York Feb. 20, 1986

Toby Goldstein

If the Live Aid concerts go down as the music event of the century, their latest offshoot, Drive Aid, equally deserves its stature as non-event of the year. A lotta folks forked out $20 for tickets to the Radio City Music Hall happening (but not enough to sell out its 6,600 seats), and we presume that Chevrolet, the show’s sponsor, will indeed channel the proceeds to relieve African famine. But the snap, crackle and pop which makes a showgoer gleefully exult, “I was there!” was sadly lacking in this case.

With a co-headlining bill of Kool & The Gang and Joan Jett & The Blackheads, Drive Aid may have immediately suffered from a split personality. As it turned out, a decent amount of Joanie’s legions stuck around to see and appreciate Kool’s dynamic performance, which didn’t even get going until almost 1 a.m. However, the sight of several hundred loyal metallians streaming up the aisles once Joan’s set ended didn’t exactly bode well for brotherly and sisterly support of all types of music.

Real or imagined racism, though, was the smallest of Drive Aid’s problems. For weeks, hype had surrounded the show which, let us not forget, was sponsored by a corporation. At the Philadelphia Live Aid concert, Chevy had gotten many of the show’s stars to sign one of its new models, which would then be given away to some lucky fan at—guess what—the Drive Aid concert. Since the eight finalists had been chosen through regional competitions, what really got our juices charged up was advance word that Don Johnson was going to present the car to the winner, and perform a couple of tunes from his forthcoming LP—a reasonable assumption, since Don’s Power Station buddy, Michael Des Barres, was in the lineup. Certainly, tidbits like that, and the rumor of Springsteen sitting in with E Street guitarist Nils Lofgren, churned up anticipation that fell flat on its face when none of the biggies decided to show up.

So with no special guests and two respectable but not incredible headliners, Drive Aid was forced to rely on its talent and the enthusiasm of its audience to make the night happen. For the most part, that didn’t fly either. The largely white, surburban crowd was content to remain in their seats, or to drift through the Music Hall’s cavernous inner lobby chatting with friends and buying last summer’s Live Aid buttons, T-shirts and programs. Only during Des Barres’s set did a few rampant Durranies squeal and clamber onstage, apparently overcome at being near a man who actually knew (and probably touched) John Taylor. Oh yeah, Andy Taylor was yet another special guest who was not in evidence.

Saddest of all, very few of the Drive Aid performances deserved much more than the polite response they got. The Textones, who opened the evening, proved that having a long-haired blonde lead singer isn't enough to overcome not having much originality or shading in your compositions, a flaw that was emphasized when former Textone and Go-Go Kathy Valentine appeared and brightened things up for two tunes. Michael Des Barres, in a lime green, chest-revealing suit, looked all set to become 1986’s Gary Glitter (or is it Bobby Sherman?) by his shameless manipulation of the crowd. Scarcely a beat of his set wasn’t punctuated by a bump, a grind, or a pelvic thrust. Only on ‘‘Somebody Up There Likes Me,” a tune co-written with his guitarist, former Sex Pistol Steve Jones, did Des Barres let the rock ’n’ roll speak for itself, rather than flatten it with an egotistical personality parade. I suppose you have to feel for the man, who tasted glory with Power Station and perhaps realizes that its success had nothing to do with him.

On the other hand, Darlene Love’s personality was just fine, and the years have flattered her as they have Tina Turner. Her voice still holds all the soaring, emotive power that it did during the Phil Spector years, when she fronted the Crystals and scored several solo hits. Her four-song set, including “He’s A Rebel,” was a joyous glimpse back to the goldenoldie era, but Love’s much-deserved comeback is not likely to occur until she, like Tina, finds the right modern material. Nils Lofgren, too, seemed frozen in time, in his case, the mid-’70s. After all, most of the audience was still in training pants when “Cry Tough” and “I Came To Dance” were on the charts, and he wasn’t about to start covering the Boss. Although competently played and featuring several shimmering leads, Lofgren’s material did suffer from a 10-year time warp.

If there were any high-gear moments during Drive Aid, they belonged to the headliners. Kool & The Gang unveiled an action-packed, arcade-lit stage that echoed the Jacksons, but their hits— ‘‘Emergency,’’ “Joanna,” “Celebration,” and more—were totally their own. While singer JT Taylor charmed the stalwart stayers with melody, leader Robert “Kool” Bell led his players into lengthy instrumental takeoffs. And Joan Jett, newly sleek in a black and white polka dot tank suit, her natural brown hair softly layered, relied on sheer lung power and rock ’n’ roll energy to get her message across. In what would be the final Blackheads show for some months— while Joan makes a.movie with Michael J. Fox and guitarist Ricky Byrd testmarkets his own band—Jett gave the growd their favorites, with an accent on classics like “Cherry Bomb” and riproaring covers of “Fun Fun Fun,” “Everyday People” and her encore, “Shout.” But when Joan shouted, it was without pretense, a claim that couldn’t be made for anything official to do with Drive Aid.

As another group wearily said when they knew their time for forcing events was finally over, let it be. And without spontaneity and unprompted energy, a rock’n’roll charity event is nothing more than a boring testimonial, even if you don’t have to eat rubber chicken.

AYE, LADDIE—WE’RE OFF TO THE ISLE...

THE POGUES The World, New York _ Feb. 28, 1986_

Jeff Tamarkin

Ah, ye old United Kingdom, home of the eternal procession of next big next big things. Just when you’re sure you’ve seen and heard it all, along comes the next one. Jesus And Mary Chain didn’t shock you? Don’t worry; Sigue Sigue Sputnik is on the way. Half Man Half Biscuit, We’ve Got A Fuzzbox And We’re Gonna Use It, and Scraping Foetus Off The Wheel don’t have dumb enough names for ya? Well, hang tight, ’cause 3 Mustaphas 3, Yumme'r Yummer Man and Meat Whiplash are all ready to challenge Phil Collins for chart space. All of which makes the Pogues the most curious next big thing of all.

The Pogues, seven Irish laddies and a lass on bass, look as normal as lorry drivers, and I don’t mean Red Lorry Yellow Lorry. Regular haircuts, street clothes, even smiles, comprise their most unfashionable fashion sense. Hell, if they hadn’t been the featured band—responsible for selling out this place—they probably would’ve been refused entrance for terminal scruffness by the doorman at lower Manhattan’s latest trendy night hole.

As if to add insult to injury, the Pogues brought to the stage with them a bevy of instruments associated with traditional Irish folk music—accordions, penny whistles, mandolin, banjo—in addition to the usual guitars, bass and—yo ho ho—a couple of drums. Vocalist Shane MacGowan, who writes the songs and whose voice and teeth might give Joe Strummer a rum for his money, also brought along a bottle of ye old Irish whiskey, which he emptied in no time flat.

MacGowan, ya see, likes his grog. He also likes to write songs about drinkin’ and dyin’ and dismal stuff in general. But the Pogues’ strength—and the reason the World trendies suddenly took up the jig Feb. 28—is that the octet manages to twist this Irish version of roots-rock into something mighty cheerful. Nothin’ like a rockin reel to get ’em reelin’ and rockin’.

The Pogues performed a good many of the songs from their MCA LP, Rum Sodomy & The Lash, and soon-to-follow EP, Poguetry In Motion, at this U.S. debut. The Elvis Costello, whoops, Declan MacManus-produced material took on new life onstage, and though half the audience probably came only because they were expecting ol’ Aloysius Macstello to show up (his lookalike fiancee Cait O’Riordan is the sole female Pogue), few seemed disappointed when he didn’t.

Historical footnotes: Prior to forming the Pogues, MacGowan played in a punk band called the Nipple Erectors. The Pogues’ original name was Pogue Mahone, which is Gaelic for “kiss my ass.” MacGowan and friends coulda been contenders, battling it out in the dumb name wars with Terminal Crash Fear, the Potato Five and Yip Yip Coyote. Instead, they opted for inspiring, unpretentious, intelligent, good-time music for these rough times. What’ll these Brits think of next?