Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun

The Itchycoo Park rock fest, held on the same Manchester, Tennessee property where Bonnaroo is now held, didn’t last as long as my series about it! More precisely, I’ve been talking (and talking and talking) about Living Legends of Rock and Roll: Live from Itchycoo Park, a DVD culled from that 1999 festival. And now, a fate worse than Living . . .

Starship featuring Mickey Thomas: In a departure from the earlier naming convention, Mickey Thomas is not of Starship, he’s featured. Not sure how, as the only returning members from their peak popularity, Farner’s role in GFRR differs from Thomas’ in the eyes of Image Entertainment, who released this thing. Or it could be that the competing Jefferson Starship—with Marty Balin, Jack Casady, Paul Kantner—was in operation in 1999 and prohibited Thomas and band from being billed any other way, although I’ve read that Thomas used “Starship” (in every sense), unchallenged.

[Mickey Thomas puts his best face on Starship's performance.]

In a departure from the rest of the program, the final act is allowed three songs in their performance. And I use the term in the same sense that a donkey show can rightfully be referred to as a “performance,” taking things that, on their own, may be harmless or even enjoyable, and combining them in an unspeakably foul act.

Two of the three songs done here by Mickey Thomas (as featured with Starship) are r’n’r classics (living legends, some would say), great records, and from the 60s/70s era this festival seemed to be targeting.

The other one is “We Built This City.”

This is a song that, like the previous-worst selection on this DVD, required FOUR writers to fully render to its ultimate magnificence. One of them, Bernie Taupin, outdoes his lousiest work for Elton with his lyrics for this atrocity.
(While Taupin has been involved with many great songs, close listening reveals that in most cases, the songs succeed despite his lyrics, not at all due to them. He has written some decent stuff especially on early Elton John albums, but by and large, I find his work abysmal and believe EJ’s music is successful in spite of the words.)

“City” is such a cobbled-together mess of a song that I grudgingly credit this Starship for their ability to render a recognizable onstage version of it. Unlike the rest of their set, the 80s-appropriate keyboard playing is at least intermittently audible here and the guitarist’s likewise anachronistic overplaying fits the song. It wouldn’t surprise me, based on this performance, if the band weren’t asked to audition with this piece and that this is the template for Thomas’ ideal Starship sound. They do close their segment with it. My sweet lord, though, does it suck.

Somehow Thomas inherited guardianship of the Starship; if the band were a kid, we’d be frantically calling Child Protective Services. It does appear that the Balin-Casady-Kantner Jefferson Starship were active concurrent with this, so perhaps the Airplane—Starship legacy was Thomas’ only insofar as the concert promoters were concerned. I mean, in the absence of Grace Slick, who is more entitled to perform “Somebody To Love,” Marty Balin or Micky Thomas? I’d rather hear Balin sing it, that’s for sure. Heck, I’d rather hear Jorma sing it. Or Papa John Creach.

Thomas’ singing on the Elvin Bishop hit (and speaking of, why isn’t this billed as Elvin Starship or Jefferson Bishop, featuring MT), however, always struck me as a pretty terrific blast of blue eyed soul. And the song is ok here, apart from the guitarist’s misguided attempt to trump Elvin Bishop’s style with his sheer volume of notes (and volume), so perhaps not a full-blown donkey show. So to speak.

What he and his ‘ship do with Jefferson Airplane’s defining hit, though, is a noisy, shrieky mess. It’s an ugly bludgeoning. Mickey encourages the stylistically inappropriate guitar solo by interjecting the admonition, “Suck it up.” Huh? Maybe I need to check closed captioning; he may be saying, “Sucks, don’t it?”

The band looks like Micky took pot luck from Central Casting’s notion of 80s rockers: a bassist in camo shorts, which is not only a contemptable look to offer an audience, but should be prohibited from civilian wear at any time; an encephalitic-looking shredder in a wife-beater on lead guitar; a corpulent drummer who appears to be the product of a mating between a walrus and Mr. Clean.

If you’ve read this far, I’m sorry, and you will not be surprised to learn that lead vocalist Mickey reminds me of another (far more bush league) singer I’ve known. The physical resemblance may be superficial, but both share a glazed, soul-dead look in their eyes and many of the same hackneyed stage moves. What put me most in mind of the singer I know, though, is when, at the end of their set, Mickey pulls himself away from the guitarist’s “good buddy” embrace to … raise his shirt and point at his nipple.

[Show us your ti-- no, sir, not you!]

For whatever unfathomable reason he did it, he (like this local singer) clearly has a mistaken impression of what people want to see 50-year-old white guys do on stage.

Keys = Is this BOB from Twin Peaks? If not, he could certainly play his stunt double. (Looks like he may be Phillip Bennett, who is listed on the “Starship” site as having been with them since 1995.)

His hair-flipping is off-putting, but his playing “technique” is compellingly bizarre, comprised primarily pressing down numerous keys (mostly inaudibly, seemingly at random) with rigid fingers held parallel to the keyboard. At the conclusion of one passage, he pulls away his hands from the instrument, as if he’s a conjurer revealing an astonishing feat of legerdemain. On “We Built This City,” he supplements his arsenal of kool movez with a cute little single-finger thing, simply adorable. Especially for a murderous demonic entity.

[Yeah, well, have you ever seen them in the same place at the same time?]

ROD = Here I was going to take my usual cheap shots at Thomas’ stiff, creepy, post-plastic visage when I learn that—well, he had his out of necessity. According to the account in Jeff Tamarkin’s Jefferson Airplane biography, in 1990 Thomas got into a dustup with then-Starship drummer Donny Baldwin,* resulting in Baldwin handing the singer’s face to him. Literally. Thomas required a “cranial facial entry,” or, as he says in Tamarkin’s book, “they took my face off and then reattached it, with 60 staples in the top of my head.” So I guess my comment about Balwin removing his face is, technically, inaccurate.
[*Could it be Baldwin didn’t take kindly to an instruction to “Suck it up”?]

Regardless, not even I am so callous as to wisecrack about his looks. The rest of the band, not so much decrepit as motley and untrustworthy looking.

And so, with the image of Mickey Thomas flashing his pale chest, the credits roll on the living legends of Itchycoo Park.

I’ve certainly given the impression that seeking out this DVD would be a monumental waste of time and money, and I sort of regret that. As of this writing, many of the Itchycoo performances I wrote about, including most of those I’d actually recommend seeing, are available for online viewing at:

http://vandalproductions.com/component/k2/item/288-itchycoo-park-99.html.

I definitely recommend taking a look at the Steppenwolf and Grand Funk, possibly the Iron Butterfly, depending upon your feelings about that song.

Maybe you will be able to make sense out of the arbitrary collection presented as Live From Itchycoo Park, with its inexplicable assortment of artists, its crappy packaging, and its producers’ indefensible notion of what constitutes a “legend.” If nothing else, the existence of this DVD attests to the insatiable demand for live rock and roll footage, no matter how shoddy or arbitrary its presentation. Now where is the footage of those 40 other Itchycoo acts we actually might want to see?

Thanks for reading all, or any part of this. It was a slog, I’m sure.

While I truly am a huge fan of vintage rock concert footage, and somewhat fascinated by the Itchycoo Park Fest video, I also confess to using the tens of thousands of words from these past few posts to air some of my lingering emotions about former friends and band mates in a manner that hopefully will not get me shot or beaten by them. Feel free to apply any of the unkind characterizations used here in veiled commentary about your own pasts!

Then send the links, so I can enjoy ‘em!

X, is this awful!

[No it's not your eyesight ... I'm having trouble getting Blogger to respect my authority regarding font sizes.]

What we’re doing here, if you just joined me, is going through the acts and songs presented on the DVD, Living Legends of Rock and Roll: Live From Itchycoo Park, a chronicle of sorts of the 1999 festival held on the current site of Bonnaroo.
That’s the what.
The why, still a mystery.

Christopher Cross (or, as I like to call him, Xopher Cross): On what Bizarro world is the kind of beige wallpaper yacht pop perpetrated by Xopher Cross considered a rock festival attraction? Same kinda world where this (in my IMO) vocally-challenged, reptilian creature can sell millions of copies of such thin broth as “Sailing,” “Ride Like the Wind,” and “Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do),” that last, far and away the worst thing Bacharach has his name anywhere near.

The great preponderance of mediocre acts, at worst, grate on my nerves only when I’m trapped in an enclosed environment with their issue, say, in a car with someone else controlling the tunes or in the dentist’s chair. I will confess, however, Xopher’s music makes me not just ever-so cross, but outright angry.

The year he hit big, 1980, was possibly the worst to date in pop music since Elvis debuted. It was not only this guy’s pop pap, but such treacle as Air Supply, Kenny Rogers’ “Lady,” and Hall and Oates embarrassing remake of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” were crowding Elvis Costello and the Clash off the charts. It was a year in music that was capped off, in December, with the murder of a Beatle. THAT’S how bad 1980 was.*
[* If that weren’t enough, Professor Longhair also died that year, another tough knock to an aspiring piano player.]

And the plaintive, reedy, paper-thin voice of Christopher Cross (real name: Christopher Charles Geppert) was absolutely inescapable. Even when his material was passable, as with “Sailing,” his abrasive articulations render it unlistenable. I’ve talked here before about my disgust over the film, “Arthur.” The thought that it required four experienced composers to craft the two awkward verses and one incessant, ludicrous chorus—none of which make much sense even with a knowledge of the film—is testiment to the lazy songwriting that characterized the early 80s.
Plus, my band had to learn to play “Sailing” for a gig we should never have accepted, and which was as dismal as a prom with a Xopher Cross theme could be.

Like Styx and Steppenwolf before him, Cross is given two selections on the DVD program and, of course, they are “Sailing” and “Arthur.” In some weird affectation that must pass as his live performance style, Cross compounds the inherent annoying qualities of his voice by biting off the ends of most of his lines of lyrics. Bad as I think his voice is on his recordings, live, it is simply awful, lacking in any kind of timbre or sustain.

He at least has an interesting, competent band, featuring two very presentable women on keys and drums, who serve as a welcome relief when they cut away from their band leader. The bass player’s vocal harmonies bolster CC on the verses of “Sailing,” and the others chime in on the chorse, to nice effect. I could see myself enjoying the band if I were a couple martinis into a mellow cocktail lounge experience. At a massive rock fest, so much less so.

To recap, nothing about Christopher Cross, from his huge success to his inclusion at the Itchycoo Festival or the DVD, make one particle of sense to me. At least part of this performance is available on YouTube, as of this writing, so judge for yourself, if you like.

[Cross was recently interviewed on PopDose and, to my amazement, seemed personable and reasonably modest, for someone whose debut album earned a Grammy for every chubby finger on his hand, and talks about approaching his newest album “from a real guitar place … ‘cause that’s where my roots are from.” Although he acquits himself nicely on guitar at Itchycoo, but where in his hit singles are his “guitar place” roots at all evident? And he can’t possibly be nice enough to compensate for the blight he and his kind inflicted on pop culture.]

[<--- Xtopher Cross, with the band, Flash, showing where his roots "are from"]


Keys = As noted, an easy-on-the eye woman who plays quite well, if sometimes from an awkward semi-crouch, due to the inadequate level of her lower-tiered instrument. Big deal like Xopher, and yet, too chitzy to spring for a proper keyboard stand. (I really am a jerk when it comes to this guy, aren’t I.)

ROD = Not sure any of the band looks exactly contemporary with the big guy up front. They all look tip-top, though. Xopher himself would have been around 50 when this was shot and, as they would have said at one time, he cuts a prosperous figure. From this appearance and contemporary photos, he either fails to adequately protect his fair skin from the sun or is working on some righteous gin blossoms. In general, he looks like most overweight 50-year-olds I know who live the high life with too much money. I’m just so proud of myself for getting through a thousand words about the guy and not once typing “porcine.”

Legendary rating = What I said about Styx, only more so. Chris Cross is the poster boy for wretched 80s schlock culture. Sure, he’s legendary. So is Lakehurst, New Jersey.

Next, and finally, a triple “dose” of Mickey . . .

Don't Go Chasin' Firefalls

When we left off our look at Living Legends of Rock and Roll: Live From Itchycoo Park, we’d just taken in a rendition of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida featuring Brian Wilson on Hammond organ.

Let’s continue, shall we?

Nelson (or, The Nelsons, as the DVD box would have it): Let’s review. There were 40—50 acts slated to play the Itchycoo Park Festival, including Felix Cavaliere, Blue Oyster Cult, Leon Russell, and Blood, Sweat & Tears.

And we’re settling in to hear Nelson. Not even a one-hit wonder, more of a one-hit huh?

The cynic in me suspects that the novelty of the boys being identical twins, along with their family’s show-biz influence, had as much to do with their success as their talent. In the interest of accuracy, I must point out that “(Can’t Live Without Your) Love & Affection,” the number they do on Itchycoo, wasn’t their only Top Ten hit (“After the Rain” was the other, and they also had two other Top 40 singles), just their only #1.

[ ... and their mother dresses them funny]

I distrust songs with long parentheticals in their titles, unless they’re “I’m Sorry (But So Is Brenda Lee)” . . . or my own “I Feel Good (But So Does James Brown).” This one is as mild and nondescript as its title, and not from the not 60s, 70s, even the 80s, but from a record released in 1990, further confusing me about the concept and target audience for this DVD.

What is impressive is that Gunnar (I presume, although I’d single his name out regardless because it amuses me) sings pretty decent harmonies while standing and playing a cocktail drum kit. Kind of puzzling, they sprung for a lead guitarist, but wouldn’t shell out for a proper drum kit? Or a guy to sit in back, playing it?

Keys: None. Hell, they only got half a set of drums! Like they’ve got room in the van for an electric piano!

ROD = Before digital TV, the Nelsons probably came off as pretty well-preserved here. On a modern screen, they have a faded debutante air in their closeups, and Gunnar seems pretty wiped out by the end of the song. And he doesn’t even play “Wipe Out”! Giving them a 6 on the decrepitude scale, just above average. Hey, compared to most of these acts, the boys are spring chickens—they ought to look like infants in this company.

Legend rating = Hardly, even if their dad was one. Sadly, not a living one. In comparison, Ricky Nelson starred in one of TV’s longest-running comedies, had a couple dozen Top 40 rock n’ roll hits, and went steady with Lorrie Collins! His boys managed a few nondescript singles, and one of ‘em can play drums and sing at the same time.

Rare Earth: There were three distinctive characteristics to Rare Earth: Pete Rivera’s lead vocals, frequent use of saxophone (and sometimes flue), and being the first successful American white rock band on Motown’s Rare Earth imprint. (The Rare Earth label also released Love Sculpture and Pretty Things albums, and Rustix were probably the first American band signed.) Rivera is long gone; the Motown connection only in that the song they do here, “Get Ready,” was probably their first hit only because of Berry Gordy’s insistance on his artists covering other Motown material; and while the sax player (Gil Bridges) is the original, his instrument is part of the song for maybe 30 seconds.

My tortuous point being, these mopes have a pretty tenous connection to the band that had those hits people remember and, presumably, came to hear. As much as the organist or the bassist, or drummer, or rhythm guitarist wants to tell him- or herself that he or she is vitally important to a band’s sound—to its very survival—I have a spot of bad news: to most listeners, everyone other than the lead singer is interchangeable and dispensible. The rest of you simply don’t much exist.

Think about it. To the world at large, Mike Love is the Beach Boys, and not only because he keeps dragging around the band’s festering corpse, but because he sang lead on their biggest hits. You think the average karoake barfly could tell Brian Wilson from Brian Williams?

Pete Rivera has a fairly distinctive voice, arguably Rare Earth’s signature sound. His replacement by the time of the Itchycoo festival, Floyd Stokes Jr., is a decent singer, but does not possess a voice that I could pick out of a lineup. Stokes’ vocal performance here is a little nasal (although I’ve heard live YouTube clips where he doesn’t have this issue) and both his drumming and singing are a bit stiff, possibly constrained by his dual drumming—lead vocalizing. He certainly drums with more flair when he’s not singing.

In the interest of full disclosure, I may be less-than-impartial toward both the drummer and bassist here because both remind me of people I know, not especially nice people and don’t care much for. The bassist also doesn’t endear by taking a solo. There may have been bassists who should take solos—Mingus, Jaco. As a rule, the bass guitar is not a solo instrument, as this guy ably demonstrates. On the other hand, it appears that he was promoted from the band’s roadie to the bass spot, which is pretty admirable, on his part as an achievement and on the band’s, for giving him a shot. He's from Lansing, Michigan, so he's probably a nice guy.
He just creeps me the hell out.

The guitarist is unobtrusive, and somewhat reminiscent of less-demented Creed Bratton. Saxophonist Gil Bridges, an original member of Rare Earth since they were known as The Sunliners, not only isn’t allowed a solo, he is mostly relegated to playing tambourine. Great head of hair, though.

In keeping with their general tribute band vibe, this “Rare Earth” offers a presentable cover, even if allowing a bass solo (and it being the only solo in the performance) is as inexplicable as it is inexcuseable.

Keys: Where to begin. What kind of knucklehead goes to the trouble and expense of lugging around an honest-to-god Leslie cabinet, then runs, not a Hammond of even the modern miniature type through it, but some manner of dinky, toy-like, plastic synth through it. If he’s who I think (a fellow named Mike Bruner), he’s an accomplished guy, a published author and possessor of an undergraduate degree in organ (which is not what you would possibly think on first reading that phrase). He seems capable of playing the thing, albeit with abundant, superflous hand-slaps at the keys and other overly-theatrical flourishes.
His dopey, bar band demeanor is compounded with his “Dad’s on vacation” white pants—Hawaiian shirt combo, Prince Valiant bowl cut, and salt-n-pepper disco ‘stach. He owes the rest of the world’s keyboardists and apology; he is what society is lashing out at when they receive their regular beat-downs.

ROD = Bridges is an original, and the guitarist (Ray Monette, presumably) has logged a lot of years with the band, and they both look pretty fit and well-preserved in this video (which is, granted, over ten years old). They get high marks.

Legend rating = Look, I own the Rare Earth box set, and even I don’t think a few hits constitute a “legend.” Here, they are represented by an iffy tribute band doing a song that was a cover when the “real” Rare Earth recorded it, hardly a strong case for legendary status. And I really wanted them to show up strongly on this DVD.

Firefall: If you start scratching your head over this one, you may never stop. For instance, how can a band of guys who used to play with the likes of Spirit, the Flying Burrito Brothers, and the Byrds make music this horrifically bland? Who actually likes this tepid music? How can anyone be so dead set on including Firefall on this DVD that this person could overlook Rick Roberts’ flat, beyond-his-range singing?

[Firefall, available in a variety of sizes!]

From his corny, inconprehensible dedication to “all the sun-baked ladies here this afternoon, you know who you are” through his strained vocalizing, Roberts displays all the wit, charm, and talent of that badly be-rugged reprobate playing the downtown cocktail dive, who sends “Do Ya’ Think I’m Sexy” out to your wife. The rest of the band proves itself capable of reproducing the studio version of “You Are The Woman” (and what else were they gonna play*) admirably, if there is anything to admire about this flavorless aural gelatin, further emphasizing the maddening question: what were musicians this hot doing making sounds this lukewarm?
* “Just Remember I Love You,” I suppose. Isn’t it actually the very same song, though? According to the band’s official Web site, they had several other hits, including “the smash hit ‘Strange Way’” which, along with their others, apparently enjoyed their great popularity during that decade when I was hermetically sealed away from all cultural influences, because I don’t remember ever having heard them. And according to their site, everything Firefall did was brilliant!

Keys: None, but they have a flute, which rivals the “keyboard” on the scale of lame. The two often slap it out over which is lamer.

ROD = Seems like Rick Roberts looked reasonably fit and youthful, but in a formaldahidic way, like that alcoholic “drunkle” you remember from your youth. I can barely picture the rest of this band, they are so forgettable. Not memorably decrepit, either, so rate them average.

Legend rating = I wouldn’t be surprised if Byrds/Spirit/Burrito Bros. fans haven’t altered Wikipedia to destroy any trace of these guys belonging to those storied bands. (Oh, I know. Alter Wikipedia to make the facts appear to support a delusional representation of history? Prepostrous!) Firefall is what people are talking about when they mention how sucky Seventies music was. And not even legendarily sucky!

Next: Warning! Christopher Crossing Ahead!