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A
well-respected man: Ray Davies at the Egg.
Photo:
Martin Benjamin
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Top
of the Pops
By
Paul Rapp
Ray
Davies
The
Egg, Nov. 23
Ray Davies comes from that strange time when rock stars were
skinny, wore tight pants, and were elegantly androgynous enough
to be dangerous. Free of ironic facial hair, ironic eyeglasses,
and ironic clothing. When rock stars were artists, wrote great
songs, worked the crowd, and cared. While most of his ilk
have descended into self-parody or sad pandering, or work
the sansa-belt retirement circuit, Davies still rocks it.
He’s still the best.
Monday’s show, before a packed house, was a curated selection
from Davies’ staggering catalog, picked to satiate the casual
listener as well as the die-hard fan. The set leaned heavily
on ’60s and early-’70s Kinks material and Davies’ excellent
recent solo work, and all but ignored the ’70s theatrical
and the ’80s arena-rock stuff. It was an endearing, heart-melting
show; and there were enough great songs left unplayed to populate
at least two more.
Davies laid the gauntlet down from the git, opening with seated
acoustic versions of “I Need You” and “I’m Not Like Everybody
Else,” two non-singles from the ’60s, which, like much of
the Kinks’ early work, have grown in power and significance
through the decades. For the better part of an hour, he remained
seated, dropping nuggets like “Waterloo Sunset” and “Better
Things,” and then the band joined him for “Celluloid Heroes,”
for my money one of the best songs written about anything
ever. The song sparkled; then things took off.
The remainder of the show went from delicate (the ultra-obscure
“Moments” from the Percy soundtrack) to as gloriously
loud and bombastic as anything I’ve seen at the Egg (“Till
the End of the Day,” “Where Have All the Good Times Gone,”
and the show-closing “Twentieth Century Man”). Davies was
in terrific voice, hysterical between songs, and, at 65, ever
the rock & roll trooper. The band were spectacular, with
drummer Damon Wilson taking no prisoners and guitarist Bill
Shanley ranging from Knopfler-esque sweetness to Dave Davies-like
crunch.
The long, long encore ramped it up even more. We even got
a little “Banana Boat Song.” But the moment came with the
elegiac “Days,” a 1968 single that didn’t come close to charting
here. First verse, sweet a cappella; second verse, quiet acoustic.
Just as the song appeared to be over, Davies started banging
on his guitar and the band simply landed, power- ballad-style,
with Davies thanking us: “Thank you for the days, those endless
days, those sacred days you gave me.” It’s been years since
I’ve been this devastated at a concert.
Which brings us to brother Dave. Ray touchingly brought him
up at least four times during the show; in some ways the show
was one long plea to Dave Davies. Ray wants his band back.
For the love of god, Dave, bury the hatchet and grant his
wish.
Upstate,
Plugged
Meat Puppets, Kirkwood Dellinger, Complicated Shirt
Valentine’s,
Nov. 20
The Meat Puppets are many things to many people: originators
of cowpunk to some, progenitors of alterna-nation to others,
one-hit wonders to most of the musically bereft. Hailing from
the peyote-vision wastes of Arizona, Curt and Cris Kirkwood
have always pursued their own wayward vision, reaching heights
of lysergic glory, other times bottoming out in rank despair.
From the first note to the last, the sense of appreciation
from the sizable crowd last Friday night at Valentine’s was
palpable—first, for deigning to visit the region after some
20-plus years away, but most importantly, for not fading away
completely. After plugging in and immediately rattling the
rafters, it was clear the guys came to play, the way seasoned
jazzers might—with a passion and honesty that is going to
have its way regardless of what anyone else thinks, even the
players themselves.
Which is easy when you’ve put in the hard work of writing
the songs. Right away they got into a deluxe hard-rock version
of “Oh Me,” then it was off to some Ulmer-esque excursions
from Curt, the sound emanating from Cris’ bass amp incredibly
indistinct but thudding in the chest with a comforting regularity
and rightness. They have Doug Sahm’s son Shandon back in the
band, an Iggy Pop-looking dude who plays with no finesse but
lots of power and chutzpah, actually bringing the elephant
swing of Curt’s beloved Stooges to the Meat Puppets mix, making
the swamp rock that much cooler for its similarity to garage
rock in its infancy.
The Puppets have always been known as one of the first postpunk
bands to own up to a Grateful Dead jones. I’ve never heard
the connection myself, but I do know that on the other side
of the jam continuum, Phish must have picked up a few moves
from these boys, the breakneck vocals and nimble picking of
the crowd favorite “Sam” being the most obvious example on
this night. “Up on the Sun” was stretched to the breaking
point, Curt’s “chikka-chikka” pick shenanigans and the kaleidoscopic
tussle of the bass and drums taking things way back home to
some gamelan-type hustle that then morphed into Jimi Hendrix
and Sonic Youth battling it out on Mount Kailash. “Light,”
from 1989’s Monsters, with its ragged but right harmonies,
was for me the best song of the night. From there on out,
covers of Freddy Fender’s “Wasted Days, Wasted Nights” and
a turn through the Jimmy Driftwood classic “Tennessee Stud”
were fun as tributes to the twangy sound that lies at the
heart of almost every Kirkwood number. Yes, they did end up
by playing their “hit,” but it was the more obscure selections
and expansive jams that made this one of the best all-out
rock shows I’ve seen at Valentines in quite a while.
Whatever talent displayed by opening band Kirkwood Dellinger
was overshadowed by the petulance put on display by the band’s
leader, Elmo (son of Curt) Kirkwood. One of the dangers of
even rock semistardom is that your kids are going to feel
they are owed their own shot in the ring. A much better fit
for an opening band was Albany’s own Complicated Shirt. Drew
Benton’s churning, detuned anthems of irritation and fury
are always compelling, his sound and aesthetic akin to bands
like the Flesh Eaters and the Germs, two punk bands who were
an inspiration to the Meat Puppets themselves back in the
day. The more things change . . .
—Mike
Hotter
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