CENTERSTAGE

CENTERSTAGE

Roy Trakin

by

TIME HAS COME TODAY

112

Los Angelos Sports Arena April 17-22, 1987

Somebody up there must really like U2. Of all their contemporaries, from the Psychedelic Furs to the Smiths, from Big Country to Simple Minds, U2 has emerged as rock ’n’ roll’s great torchbearers, the band to transport us back to a time when music really mattered, when being a rock star meant a little more than hawking yer wares on a Honda commerical. Yes, this stateside jaunt marks U2’s ascension to the mantle of Next-Big-Thingdom. In fact, all the elements are in place for a triumphant sort of homecoming (if you will)—a #1 album, a Top 10 single (both firsts for the band) and a sold-out five-night stand in L.A. which opened (when else?) on Good Friday.

Most pundits have been comparing U2’s messianic status to the similar devotion inspired by last year’s man for all reasons, Bruce Springsteen, but that isn’t quite accurate. Where the Boss started in lower case as a mere folkie singer/songwriter, colorfully describing a very specific Jersey turf, and only later inflating to preach “Everyman”-styled bromides, U2 have been playing to the back reaches of the balcony since their fire-and-brimstone debut, Boy. The band’s been aiming for the masses from the gitgo, so this current adulation comes as no surprise.

Of course, Joshua Tree, with its apocalyptic imagery and tone of sadness, is U2’s Darkness On The Edge Of Town, a clear-eyed statement of loss and sorrow which admits there are no solutions—no black and white—only shades of gray. And while the opening night concert starts as a raucous communion with "Where The Streets Have No Name” and “I Will Follow,” sandwiched in the middle is the sobering “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” Bono and the boys walk the edge between being vessels of hope and harbingers of doom as the band’s leader cajoles, arouses, calms, cuddles and even scolds one stage-crasher who lifts the singer in his arms, only to plunge head first back into the melting pot of the audience. From the adulatory noise level, even a non-believer had to be impressed with the interchange between performer and fan.

There’s no doubt that this tour finds U2 at the peak of their powers, not only as pop icons, but as musicians also. The show is virtually seamless, and except for minor order changes in the set, slickly arranged for maximum impact. No danger here, no taint of evil or taboo, but instead a goodnatured affirmation of rock ’n’ roll’s ability to provide community. Unforgettable Fire’s "Bad” incorporates a medley of snippets from “Ruby Tuesday,” “Sympathy For The Devil,” “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away” and “Walk On The Wild Side” while “With Or Without You” ends with a chorus from Joy Division’s "Love Will Tear Us Apart,” all providing an ironic commentary on the originals within the context of U2’s rock ’n’ roll heart.

On the final night, the band even comes onstage before the show begins, in broad spotlight, suddenly playing to John Lennon’s “Stand By Me” over the PA, taking the song in midstream and finishing it, as the crowd jubilantly sings along. It is during times like this that U2 fulfill the promises they’ve made to themselves and their fans at the outset, although the bottom line remains: the group must tap into the power of the past to fully ignite the present. Suffice to say, U2 is indeed the rock band of the moment. As for the future, / still haven’t found what I’m looking for, either.

ECHOING ECHO

MIQHTY LEMON DROPS St. Andrew's Hall, Detroit, Ml _March 6, 1987_

Dave Segal

by

The Mighty Lemon Drops. Lovely name. From England. Of course. Young, lean, talented men. They come onstage. They move not more than is required. Shy. Boredlooking faces. All wear black. Wishing they were invisible, perhaps. All wear black pointy-toed boots. Better to kick out the jams. No smiles here. No words between songs. Not even a thank you. Dull boys. Exciting music.

Good God! Those guitars! That bass! Awfully familiar. Ah yes. Heaven Up Here. Echo & The Bunnymen. Remember them? The Mighty Lemon Drops do. Obviously. Shamelessly. So what? They do it well. Plagiarism perhaps, but I’m not about to press charges. Listen to that. The slashing, ringing guitars on the swift ones (i.e., "Happy Head,” “Take Me Up”). The slow ones have a sexy jangle and surprisingly tender melodies (i.e., “Hypnotised,” “On My Mind”). The mid-tempo’d ones (most of ’em) are full of drama and tension and possess eminently hummable melodies.

Like the Bunnymen, yes. But the pretentious bits’ve been weeded out. No mystery to these songs. Song titles composed of banal phrases, i.e., “All The Way,” "Turn Me Round,” “Like An Angel.” Forgettable lyrics. Apolitical, unliterary and trad to the core. Shallow yet utterly sincere. Or so it seems. No humor, that’s for sure. Much chatter about angels and babies and girls doing something to disturb or please the writer(s). You know all about it. It doesn’t matter though. There’s a charming naivety here, like Woody has on Cheers.

You forgive them their trifling words because the music’s got a stabbing immediacy. And, to be sure, a degree of derivativeness. But complete originality’s a myth: everyone’s borrowing here and there from somebody. No, the Mighty Lemon Drops didn’t dazzle us with innovation, didn’t conquer us with volume or speed, or stun us by reinventing the rock song. These lads’re essentially conservatives walking the welltrod path of four-boy, guitar-oriented rock, which is, of course, the height of late 20thcentury culture. Their music’s comforting, in a way.

So. With a group like this, the music is all, because these’re uncharismatic chaps. They’d have trouble beating mike stands in a personality contest. Perhaps they’re homesick and scared witless because, in America, gunfire fills the air like Muzak in a shopping mall. Perhaps our junk food ravaged their intestines—hard to be ingratiating with grease-battered guts. Or perhaps they’re simply bland.

Yet. Yet. The Drops won us over. They gave us happy heads. They had us hypnotized. Only gimmick here was the shimmering firmament of guitars, guitars of such vibrant textures you forget that it’s been three years since the last Bunnymen LP. The Drops’re smashingly filling the void.

Of course, they tapped most of the megafab and sexy Happy Head (on Sire in the U.S., like Echo, fact fans), plus five as yet unreleased songs that augur well for the future of the world. The songwriting team of Tony Linehan and David Newton—while a long spit from Lennon/McCartney and the Reid Bros, in the Jesus & Mary Chain— appears to be a fecund if narrowly focused machine.

Sexier than the Smiths and Screaming Blue Messiahs combined, and simply better than the Cure, the Mighty Lemon Drops ought to be the Brit band to seduce enough suburban middle-class youths to become the Next Medium-Sized Tiling in our blessed nation.