PROUD TO LIKE BRYAN

PROUD TO LIKE BRYAN

BRYAN ADAMS Madison Square Garden June 18, 1987

Jim Feldman

Bryan Adams sure is cute. And sexy. Onstage at Madison Square Garden, he’s the rock ’n’ rolling (yeah, I’ve read the bio) all-American (wet) dream in the flesh, grey T-shirt, and old jeans rolled up at the cuffs.

I guess I should point out that in a recent issue of this hallowed rag, Richard Riegel also described Adams as all-American—but on the downside: “in a displayed-at-the-checkout sense." Me, I’m thinking of Huck Finn, Ricky Nelson, Wally Cleaver, My Three Sons’ Robbie Douglas. He bounces around the stage like the scrappy kid next door, whose uncontrolled energy invariably leads to some pretty cool mischief; when he stops, he curls himself around a railing, peeks at some fans through hanging cables, and grins his way through a sweat-from-the-brow maneuver. But he’s also a guy even your mother likes to have over for dinner; he’s charming and considerate as he accepts a bouquet from a girl down front—“Thank you for the lovely flowers. That’s very nice of you.”

Anyhow, as fellow scribe Jim Farber and I are discussing the things we’d like to do with Bryan Adams, .we notice that most of the women in the crowd (more college-age than teen) are thinking along the same lines. As for the male contingent (somewhat in the minority), there undoubtedly are those who know whereof we salivate, but most of the guys seem to regard Adams as one of their own—regular and unpretentious. And those characteristics, of course, are no small part of his (sex) appeal. I realize that if (a) simonized fashion victims (b) “macho” arena Journey(type)men, or cuke-carrying, metal drag queens fit your idea of rock dreams and/or role models, then you haven’t the vaguest... But let me ask you, do you really get off on all that leaden effort and calculation and posturing? Isn’t (sex) appeal most powerful when it comes across naturally and spontaneously? For sure, Adams is no Candide: he must have a mirror and he knows what (show) business he’s in. (All performers must have the one and know the other—you’ll remember that Brooooce’s career grew to mega proportions along with his biceps.) But, again, like a kid, he doesn’t really bother with that stuff; he just wants to have fun. Therefore, so do we. You bet.

So when do I get to the concert itself? Soon. But first, consider that since rock is mostly about sex and romance, ultimately so is the artist. All the above is, then, my stab at reality in reviewing, a corrective to reviews and criticism by straight male writers, who are essentially scared to death to factor male artists’ (sex) appeal into their observations lest their readers question their sexuality (the writers’ sexuality that is: the artists, you may as well know, are all gay— EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM). And when they do deign to use their eyes, the results are pathetic: In past CREEMs, John Mendelssohn practically quivered off the page writing about Springsteen’s live version of “Fire”—“I suspect I’d find (it) unnervingly sexy if I were a woman or gay”; and, even worse, Chuck Eddy had to tell us “I’m no queer” before commenting on the Beastie Boys’, uh, lack of good looks.

OK, it’s review time. Really, though, there’s not much to say except that Bryan Adams and his solid band deliver two hours of highly enjoyable music. Most critics put him down for sticking to generic arena rock, and, frankly, his last couple of albums earn the tag (which is too bad, since he started out as a strong pop writer). In concert, though, his material benefits from his personality and his point of departure. His only agenda is to have a good time—closer to 30 than to 20, he is still the enthusiastic fan, and his spirit invigorates even the least of his songs. Drawing mostly from Reckless and Into The Fire, he breaks up the rockers with occasional ballads; the latter have their place, but a Stones-y “She’s Only Happy When She’s Dancin’ ” and muscular versions of “Somebody” and “One Night Love Affair,” among others, prove that he’s not bound by the nature of his material. Jim Farber points out that it’s Paul McCartney’s birthday (45!) today, and that’s fitting, because McCartney is Adams’s great rock hero—and before you smirk, I’ll just remind you that "Get Back,” a classic rocker, was not written by John Lennon. Adams—to quote the other Jim F.—“takes hard rock things and makes them cute.” But with abundant energy and enthusiasm and professionalism, he transcends the limits of such a stance—without opce pretending to be other than who he is. That’s all. And that’s a lot.