Review of concert from 1977-09-10: London, Crystal Palace Garden
Party - with the Attractions
New Musical Express, 1977-09-17
- Paul Rambali and Roy Carr
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Photography: Chalkie Davies |
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Storming the Palace... And Wilting in the Ozone
A LACK OF COHERENCE was the most outstanding feature of this year's
Crystal Palace Garden Party bill: one perennial big name and three average
ones thrown together in a ragged attempt to fill the 15,000 capacity.
Let's face it, few people could have been there through a desire to
see, for instance, both Elvis Costello and Brand X.
So it's just as well that Crystal Palace isn't too bad a place to kill
time - at least, not when the weather's good, which it mercifully was.
Bring your own distractions and wait for some on stage seemed to be
the mood of the day. As a jaded friend pointed out, there's no contact
high anymore.
Indeed, this year's Garden Party had a definite air of resigned sufferance
about it, both in the lacklustre bill and general concept. What is the
point of paying over the odds for the dubious benefit of sitting on
the grass to watch four or five bands you probably didn't want to see
in the first place while you wait for the one you did? Maybe it's just
an elaborate ploy to provide more time for perusal of the disposable
trinket stands, or maybe there isn't any point at all - just that old
habits die hard.
The latter could be one of the reasons why I arrived late and missed
most of Crawler's set, but we won't go into that. It could also be one
of the reasons why Crawler - who seem to turn up down bill to everybody,
like `77's Capability Brown (remember them?) - are plumbing an already
overworked vein of strident guitar-fired blues rock, but we won't go
into that either.
Suffice to say that they do what's been done before with marginal relief
from the style's previous tedium, and were received with polite disinterest
by the crowd.
Brand X, with Phil Collins back on traps for the occasion, fared decidedly
better. The warm, hazy and relaxed afternoon atmosphere worked to their
advantage, and I found myself forgetting that I'd heard a handful of
American bands do it just as well (this is in fact a compliment to Brand
X) and just soaking it up.
Brand X, as we all know, sound like Weather Report, with some of the
homogenous and stoic feel of ECM jazz mixed in. The main attractions
of their music are its mood and its technical dexterity. Individually
the band are all great players (especially the sweet and fluid guitarist)
but what they do together relies more on virtuosity than on any corporate
intentions as a band - a subtle difference between them and Weather
Report.
In many ways this kind of thinking person's approach to music, be it
jazz or rock or jazz-rock, has taken up the torch of progressive rock.
Most people I've talked to will claim so-and-so's undeniable instrumental
ability in its defence, which is fair enough, and as a criteria it's
one of the reasons why Brand X cut it where others don't. But in the
end it's merely an extension of the Is-Alvin-Lee-Faster-Than-Eric-Clapton
syndrome, and on that level it's just as boring.
After a special appearance by a plucky streaker, Southside Johnny and
the Asbury Jukes took to the stage. They looked resplendent, if a little
out of place, in their real sharp suits, and the crowd greeted them
like they knew they were in for a good time. Sad to say that the Jukes
didn't quite deliver.
This band is usually a better bet live than they are on record. The
revamped '60s soul revue makes sense in the sweaty environment of a
live gig, but just sounds like high quality nostalgia on disc. However,
at an outdoor, daytime affair all the in-concert qualities are lost,
and they ended up looking like a bunch of clowns wearing dumb suits.
Southside, without his shades because of the daylight, overplayed his
part to the point where the impenetrable New Jersey accent came off
as a big act; the stage antics of the rest of the band seemed equally
contrived. Deliberate high jinks that extended the excitement about
a foot beyond the stage and left the crowd as spectators on the Asbury
Jukes' time-warp.
This was no fault of their own really, since they played a good set
that was much the same as on their previous visit, but the environment
was definitely unsympathetic. Their music demands a spirit of participation
in the nostalgic exercise for full reward, and it didn't happen - as
was proved by the fact that they got less of a response when they left
the stage than when they came on.
Top. SANTANA
Bottom: ELVIS
Photography:
CHALKIE DA VIES
Brand X went over better because the mood of their music better suited
the afternoon's ambience. Curiously though, the best response thus far
and the first standing ovation of the day - went to the streaker. Perhaps
Roy Carr can explain why ...
Paul Rambali
AFTER YEARS OF BEING continually passed over, suddenly there's a great
danger that events just might be happening a shade too quickly for Elvis
Costello.
What gets 400 devotees off in the confines of the Nashville doesn't
necessarily transfer to 12,000 people with a vast lily pond acting as
a no-go area for all but a few skinny-dippers. It's all very well being
prophetic after the event, but (despite a handsome fee) Costello would
have been far better served nixing Crystal Palace until next year and
first playing either the Hammersmith Odeon or the Rainbow.
Furthermore, his position in the running order - being sandwiched between
two experienced outfits like the Asbury Jukes and Santana didn't help
none.
Costello himself seemed prepared for any eventuality - which you certainly
couldn't say about his band, The Attractions, or the guy who mixed the
sound were. For most of the set, both Costello's guitar and Bruce Thomas'
bass were practically inaudible, with the result that the over-abundance
of Steve Manson's pipe organ and Pete Thomas' drums evoked an impression
of surreal nostalgia reminiscent of The Mysterians.
From the moment Costello (garbed in tight black suit, dark blue shirt
and brown shoes) lurched into "Welcome To The Workday Week",
he gave the distinct impression that he was performing with repressed
anger.
This was the first time that Costello had come face-to-face with a
large audience, but there was to be absolutely no compromise on his
behalf. His obvious ploy would have been to re-play his album and ensure
a positive response. No way. Of the 14 songs he performed in quick-fire
succession, only "Less Than Zero", "Red Shoes",
"Miracle Man" and the closing "Mystery Dance" are
available on record.
It was almost as if Costello was putting both the audience and himself
to test. I'm not sure what his motives were - maybe he's masochistic
- but he sure as hell went about it the hard way.
The PA certainly didn't help. As the lyrical content of Costello's
material is very wordy, the impact of such newer songs as "There's
No Action", "Lipstick Vogue", "I Don't Want To Go
To Chelsea", "Lipservice", "Radio, Radio" and
the incredible "Watching The Detectives" was lost on the breeze.
Had Costello had more experience of working such a large audience he'd
have pulled the gig off without too much difficulty. As it was, there
seemed to be a certain degree of resistance emanating from both sides
of the pond, with the result that he scooted-off to a polite trickle
of applause and no encore.
On page three of the official programme, it gave a Santana line-up
of Carlos Santana (guitar), Tom Coster (keyboards), Raoul Ricklow (congas
/ bongoes), Graham Lear (drums), Gregory Walker (vocals), David Margen
(bass) and Peter Escovedo (timbales).
Turn to page nine of the very same programme and there's a missive
that states: "Rather than going into detailed biographical or historical
accounts of the group, SANTANA prefer to be judged on their music alone."
Who's kiddin' who? 'Cause the note then goes on to claim that Pablo
Tellez is playing bass, Luther Rabb sings and Jose "Chepito"
Areas handles timbales!
I dunno 'bout the rest of the guys, but Chepito wasn't within 3,000
miles of that gig.
It really doesn't matter who plays what anyway, because outfits like
Santana (Lynyrd Skynyrd are another) are custom-built for large outdoor
events like Crystal Palace. Designed like a B-52 bomber, they take off
at full throttle, quickly gain altitude, cruise at maximum speed and
then go for the flash finish, delivering their payload bang on target.
That's one analogy. At another extreme they can be likened to a premature
ejaculation. Having reached an orgasmic peak so early in their performance,
they then spend the next two hours going through the same motions, until
the batteries need replacing.
Building their programme around the more familiar highlights from their
first three albums, Carlos & Co also sprinkle their set with more
recent tracks like "Let The Children Play" and a thoroughly
bizarre latinised rework of The Zombies' "She's Not There".
However, long before the set reached its logical conclusion the incessant
rattling of pots and pans became somewhat overpowering. Aside from "Black
Magic Wornan" and an instrumental ballad (the title of which eludes
me), the only respite was C. Santana's stylish ability to overlay the
recurring rhythm patterns with regular forceful guitar breaks and sustained
sub-sonic one-note aerobatics.
Though I face a charge of nepotism, I must confess that the best music
I heard all day came much later at Ras Spencer's house-leaving knees-up.
Roy Carr