Journalist, Author & Syndicated Columnist
“Our producer told us that anyone can get good guitar or drum sounds, but the vocals identify you as individuals,” says Raymond McGinley, guitarist-vocalist for Scotland’s latest darlings, Teenage Fanclub. “That’s one reason why we all sing, even though I’m not particularly comfortable doing it.”
The only thing coy about Joan Jett Saturday night at the Cabaret Metro was the peekaboo lace catsuit she wore. With a guitar slung low on her hips and a sly sneer spread over her lips, Jett out-machoed the male guitarists she grew up emulating and took her fans through a gritty, 85-minute rock ‘n’ roll odyssey, where sweat and vitality were as essential to the show as a solid riff.
When an actor plays his role so well that his buddy’s mom refuses to speak to him, he knows he has done his job. “After the screening of `Juice,’ my mother couldn’t even look at Tupac (Shakur, who plays Bishop), much less speak to him,” said Khalil Kain, whose character, Raheem, has a tragic falling out with his friend Bishop. “Even though that’s an irrational feeling, I certainly understand it. Certain scenes between Bishop and Raheem were intense even for me, and I knew how everything was going to turn out.”
The banner behind the drum kit read “Be Silent. Consume. Die.” When Ned’s Atomic Dustbin made a return engagment Tuesday night at a sold-out show at the Cabaret Metro, the five young Brits took a similarly simple, minimalistic approach to their music, assaulting the audience with a barrage of sounds that joyously paid homage to punk, thrash and pop.
Joan Jett has been a part of the rock ‘n’ roll vocabulary for so long, it’s easy to forget she is just 32. She has been neither a trend-setter nor a follower in her 17-year music career. Even when critics dismissed her as a novelty, one-trick pony or, perhaps worst yet, “girl singer,” the raspy-voiced musician persevered and produced a string of anthemic records that hailed the primal joys of adolescence with rebellious vocal sneers.
Back when Ned’s Atomic Dustbin started, the five-man British group was lumped in with Jesus Jones and Pop Will Eat Itself in a genre called grebo rock. In English schoolyard lingo, “grebo” is the equivalent of “dork.” In pop jargon, it refers to a long-haired, smelly person. Either way, Ned’s considers the term appropriate.
As a pre-teen, Charlie Sexton studied guitar with the late Stevie Ray Vaughan. Now 23, the former solo artist is teamed up with two members of Vaughan’s band Double Trouble, as well as another Vaughan pupil.
“I wave a banner for Charlie (Sexton),” David Bowie said, calling from Liverpool, England. “I like him a lot. He’s a good kid and very talented. Yes, he’s very pretty, but he didn’t need to be oversold. (MCA) saw him as a one-man Duran Duran, which was a big mistake. Charlie’s a blues boy and that’s where he really shines. Arc Angels probably is the best thing for him at this point in his career.”
“I crush your head. I crush your head. You’re a flathead!” So cries the Head Crusher, a Brylcreemed loser in plaid pants and thick glasses who whiles away his days air-pinching victims’ heads between his thumb and forefinger.
It has been a long time since David Bowie has felt this good about himself. The former David Robert Jones, Ziggy Stardust and Thin White Duke has carved out a new musical niche without creating a new persona to play it out. Bowie is in Liverpool, England, on this day, congenially promoting his group, Tin Machine. He’s newly engaged to the model Iman, and sips on a cup of hot tea, his substance of choice these days. Mentally scanning his flamboyant 25-year career, he comes to the conclusion that his life, as that of most musicians, would make a boring film.