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18
Ampersand
November, /V7V
The Curs, Paramount Theatre,
Portland, Oregon
I llioi Fusion, lead guitarist for the Cars
and ail expel I al looking like Mic k Jaggci 's
phoiogiaph on the cover of Black and Blue,
appeared briefly perplexed. Ihe prob-
lem: (he Cars were midwav through the
first set of a sold-out Portland show, and
theii sound system was obliterating one of
their songs.
Small wonder. When you've got two
hanks of speakers, eath the si/e and shape
of tile HoJIywinMt Squares I it -Ia< -Toe set on
either flank and you crank two or three
zillion watts of energv through both
simultaneously, you’re ImhiiicI to invite
audio overkill.
Knougli decibels were being pumped
out of those monsters, in fad. to create an
actual wind, t his didn’t seem to bother
their wall-to-wall stable of fans, however.
The Cars comprise one fat swell of the
New, Newer, Newest Wave and, considering
the health of that movement in Portland, it
would have been no surprise to have found
the place full up with all those young
|H’ople in lilac k and w hite w ho spend scads
of time reading Rimbaud and trying to
figure out what sex thev want to lx*.
But no. I he audience was a middle-class
crew. Demure. Adidas-ed young ladies.
Cuysmiffed with $20 Son-of-Farrah shags
and wearing football jerseys that said
things like H AWAII 78on the back. Pretty
split level.
And nobody seemed to mind that, early
on, the cacophony and distortion was such
that the band came across like the world's
loudest underwater all-electric ensemble.
Still, the sound was unfortunate because
the (lar’s lead singer Ric (Vasek is a genius,
and his long suit is constructing music that
is not only extremely powerful, but trickv
-.and precise. They were playing at the
Paramount, a beautiful art-deco
Disneyland-style ex-movie theatre, a
medium-sized hall that should have been
acoustically perfect. Big enough to handle
the Cars’ orchestral energy and small
enough not to force them to go batshit
power wise to make their point.
I he droll and tidy Cars are aggressive,
sophisticated studio musicians; their two
albums have established them as the sub
tle. snazzy archivists of Seventies popular
music. Carefully re-inventing lots of the
lx*st In Niks recorded over the last decade or
so. the Cars on record are at the creative
service of the ghosts of those* as diverse as
I Rex. Bryan Kerry, la hi Reed. Spirit, led
Zeppelin, Country Joe and His Ancient
Kish, Abbey Road-period Beatles, the
Seeds, and even the Association. (If you
don’t liclieve me on that last one, just listen
to the bac kground vocals on “My Best
Friend's Cirl.’’) Polished, creative, yet clas
sic I lunk of these guvs as the expensive
. Swedish furniture of rock. In Pm (land,
however, it’s possible they were slumming it
a bit. One of the lx*st tilings about the Cars
is theii packaging — the gorgeous Vargas
rendering on the cover of Candy-O, the
super-slic k production work, the artf ully
ciniI and obscure lyrics, and. hey. nodoulit
almui it, the Cars are all great dressers.
Piohahly everyone should dress just like
thev do on the jac ket ol that sec ond album.
Here, though, they were a little loose.
Co-lead singer Benjamin ()i r was the lx‘lle
of the lull, vamping around the stage like
the true tart we all know him to be. eluded
out in high-heeled cowboy booties, black
tights and a red sleeveless leopard-skin
pullover —the kind of threads J. C. Pen
ney’s might sell to an AC/DC ref ugee from
the Marvel Comics Outer Space Super
Hero series, lb his theatrical credit, how
ever. Mr. Or r is able to c onvey that spec ial
little secret something that lets us know;
IcMik. I’m not a raving fruitcake. Heavens
no!
Koui or five numlieis into the evening,
the (airs' sound lx*gan to cohere. And by
mid-show, when they launched into the icy,
wild and thumping "Living in Stereo,"
things started to get pretty entertaining.
Creg Hawkes co-wrote this stunner w ith
Ocasek. Hawkes, dressed in white shirt
and tie. looks like he might just be old
enough to joiti the army, but he knows
exactly what lie’s doing behind his
keyboards. He may be one of the few
people on earth who can overdub fake
strings intelligently/nr. Af ter “Stereo," the
music just got better and better. What
saved them, if nothing else, is that
— despite (lie fact tfiat lliev plav all original
material — the (lars have sc arcely a melody
to theii name that couldn't cut it as a suc
cessful single. They may lx asleep during
sound-check, but their material is uni
formly excellent. They closed the show
with two encores and. in total, a good time
was had hv all.
Mark Christensen
The Kinks, Johnny Cougar
McDonough Gym, Georgetown
University Washington, D.C.
Propelled across the stage and hack again
and again, showing off an hilarious fluency
in body language, Ray Davies made
everyone forget a miserably rainy night
outside. Renowned veteran frontman of
the Kinks, the red hot Davies was in abso-
lute command of the crowd from first note
to last.
Material for the show was diawn from
the two most i<k king |h*iiods of the Kinks'
twenty-fivc-plus album career, their ear
liest stuff and their latest. I hcv'vc put awav
most of their mid-period reclusive liallads
and rec lusive silliness onstage in favor of a
tight and glorious statement, a little renais
sance in hard rock. A key factor in the
transformation is the redevelopment hv
Ray's brother Dave of tfie buz/saw guitar
technique that made "Ybu Really (lot Me"
such a grahlxi in 1964 and so often im
itated in the years since.
Slrrpu<alkrr, Misfits and l.mc Budget, their
last three albums, combined with vigorous
touring, have won the Kinks one of rcxk’s
broadest audiences. Manv in attendance
were local hiskoolers too young to pro
nounce "radio" when the Kinks first hit
big. And at least one University of Virginia
professor braved the elements to catch the
show.
Singer Johnny Cougar and his band
began the show almost two hours late.
They claimed power problems, an ironic
excuse for D.C... and went on to deliver an
uninspiring set of hard rock punctured, to
poor effect, by Cougar's commentary. "I
Need a Lover Who Won't Drive Me Crazy”
has Ixen picking up airplay, so the band
wisely stretched out the song's well-
modulated, catchy guitar duet intro in
concert. Wisely, because Cougar is Ixtween
pcH»r and fair as a lyricist/singer and worse
than that as an emcee; his unnecessary
speeches interrupted many songs in
mid-measure. Cougar needs more dues-
time in front of a friendlv hometow n audi
ence instead of angry, rainsoaked
Washingtonians.
John Krout
I hr Wild Tchtnipitimlas, New Orleans' singtngrst Indians
Mardi Gras Mamho, lioxy,
Los Angeles
At heart, this was the* Meiers’ Mambo. A
secure grasp cd essential New Orleans
K&B made that group, whic h once opened
a Rolling Stones tout and appeared on do
zens of other peoples hit records, a deeply
influential unit.
Art and Cvril Ne ville, formerly the* Met
ers' keyboard and percussion nucleus,
again established the music al bat khoiie lot
a niglit ol variously-styled New Orleans
performers. 1 hough die stinging guitar
and poly rhv thmic drumming of ex-
Meters Leo Noncentclli (now with Rolxrt
Palmer) and Joe “Zigaboo" Modeliste (re
cently with Ron Wind's New Barbarians)
were missed, the Maidi Cl as M.iiiiIh » was
the Ixst display ol R&B music to hit Los
Angeles since the last visit of Clifton
Chenier and his louisiana Hot Band.
Woiking from an old-style R&B Revue
format, the show opened with the New
Orleans AU-Stars, a melding ol the Neville
Brothers Band and some of Fats Domino's
current sidemen. "Caravan," their first
song, interwove tenor sax and trumpet
lines into a vcmhIcmi ihumha. Art Ne ville's
swampv, Ixhind-thc-lxat oigan c holds led
tempo shifts all the wav into light swing.
Next, an upbeat blues vamp served to
showcase the reed men.
Karl King held court lot the second
segment, suffering from a slight case of
lary ngitis. Vet his guitai playing — with
honking, pushed-up block chords —
combined lead and ihvthm into a single,
arresting stvle. "Triek Bag." his tradetn.uk
song, was a crowd pleaser despite the
gruffled vocal delivery.
Up next was Aaron Neville, so smooth-
voiced he made Marvin Cave seem like a
hoarse shouter by comparison, yet so slick
he almost came oil like a lounge-singing
weasel. Nev ille over-used his supply of vel
vety vcxal quivers, but still triggered a col
lective swoon when the audience recog
nized his early Sixties signature hit, “Tell it
Like It Is." Singalongs greeted each
chorus.
After the third distracting stage c hange.
the Neville Brothers Band took over and
the show reached lioiling point. Opening
with “Fire on the Bayou," the chunks title
track from one ol the Meters’ Warner
Bros, albums, the band served such a
persuasive gumlm that dancing lines pop
p'd up between tables. Leading their set
thiough a red-hot version of l ittle Willie
John's "fever" and a dow ni iglit insane take
on "Hotieydipper," die Neville Brothers
Band hiicflv made (lie night as festive and
hy pnotic as anv Crescent (litv Music en
thusiast could have wished.
Framed with extravagant plumage and
sequined breast-plates, looking like a
humanized blend ol llamingo, ostrich,
jukebox and '58 Buick. the Wild
Ic hopitoulas next demonstrated Mardi
Cl.is costumery al its most llamlMiyani ex
treme. I fieii performance was more showi
than go, although Big ( hie! |ollv and Ills
tribesmen chanted with spirit, patticularlv
on "Meet the Bias on die Battlelront."
t hough not necessarily a show for the
current pop music audience, the Mardi
Cias Mambo's peak moments captivated a
chibful of black and white listeners more
pleased to revel m c lassie R&B than pursue
the Next Big I hing. New Orleans music, a
bottom-heavy blend of all that's danceable
from several musical and lacial n adit ions,
proved again that in the long run casting a
spell is more effective than sinking a hook.
Tom Vickers
Byron Lsursen