review by: Tom
Orgad
Last month's "Legends of Rock" tour was more than
a mere collection of different hard rock shows, gathered on the same venue.
Its line-up, including Frank Marino, Ulrich Roth, Glen Hughes and Jack
Bruce, featured a batch of fascinating human figures, sharing a somehow
melodramatic common denominator: each of them with his own kind of burden
to bear, a myth to stand up to. It was a journey thorough the UK of four
quixotic middle-aged men, supported by their faithful players and crew,
striving for an approval of their legitimization as active, performing
artists in the eyes of the public, as well as of themselves.
Before getting to the review itself, a disclaimer: my coverage
of the two shows I attended is utterly non-journalistic. I didn't go to
the these shows as an objective reporter; I flew all the way from Israel
as a true fan of Ulrich Roth, going to see him for the first time of my
life. During the shows I was extremely excited; my cool, analytical judgment
attributes probably went temporarily blurred. Please take this review
as a description of a fan's impressions - nothing more than that.
This preliminary amplified tension factor imbued in the
tour's essence was further raised by some unsympathetic, unexpected incidents:
the bassist of most of the acts, Barry Sparks, had to cancel his participation
in the tour for tragic family reasons (and hereby let me express my condolences),
causing a Belgian bassist called Francois to join on the last minute,
having to learn the material of the different acts in a minimal amount
of time, almost (if not completely) without rehearsals; Michael Schenker,
who was also supposed to take part of the tour, cancelled his participation
(a rather common habit of his) do to "shoulder injury," thus
disappointing many of his fans in the crowd, who weren't sufficiently
informed of his absence. Plus, the drummer was no other than veteran Clive
Bunker (Jethro Tull), whose ability to withstand such an intense tour
was a major, critical unknown. Yes, this tour was everything but calm
and insignificant. And indeed, that starting point led to often incredible,
at times quite sad, sight to behold.
Prior to the start of the concert, Ulrich Jon Roth
(from now on to be called "Uli") went on stage to present
the main theme of the evening: according to him, the tour is dedicated
to the early years of rock, Attempting to re-capture the initial feelings
of improvisation, fresh beginnings and young creativeness. Did he fulfill
his own promise? We will sort the matter later on.
Then, for the opening act, went on Frank Marino.
The Hendrix-influenced, Canadian guitar player hadn't performed in the
UK for over 20 years. As he said, unless Uli had invited him to join,
he might never have done it again. So, the opening act of the evening
was obviously full of pathos and loaded with emotions; Marino played as
a man eager to prove the cruel music industry wrong, to show how mistaken
and artistically unjust the ignorance he had suffered thorough the years
has been. He seemed to be in a sort of personal trance; laying bluesy-psychedelic
soundscapes, revealing truly supreme technical abilities. He was floating
in a personal world of his own. Alas, the lack of interaction with the
crowd cost what troubled him the most: his pieces were too lengthy, much
over delirious and atmospheric for the impatient crowd of such festive
combined Rock concerts. A rather significant segment of the crowd had
left the show in the middle. While personally enjoying the show and admiring
Frank's spacy interweavings, mental states and playing abilities, most
of the comments I heard around me weren't as avid.
Next was Uli Roth. His set was composed
wholly of classical pieces: his own compositions, Vivaldi, Bernstein,
Aranjuez, and more. Seeing Uli playing his custom-made Sky guitar was
an unbelievable, unworldly experience for me, whose epitome no words may
possibly describe. While playing these magnificent classical pieces, Uli,
as some define no other than God himself, simultaneously embodies the
functions of ultimate cause, means and purpose. He lives his music. He
plays exaltingly, gleefully, ecstatically. The notes produced don't seem
to stem from the guitar, but to transcendentally shine outwards directly
from Him, to Him. He did make some technical mistakes, his playing getting
sloppy at times (also because an obvious lack of coordination with the
emergency summoned bass player), but it just didn't matter at all. I am
aware of this description probably sounding as a bunch of turgid clichés,
but, as I see it, this is the absolute truth.
However, his choice of material was a bit problematic. By
completely ignoring his rock background and sticking to classical music,
he didn't only disappoint his crowd (who, with all due respect to the
great renowned arcane compositions material, longs for some Scorpions
oldies), but also violated the aforementioned concept of the evening,
namely contradicting his promise to return to the roots of rock, choosing
a pompous, traditional set instead. I enjoyed this act sublimely. Most
of the crowd probably also did, but to a definite lesser extent.
The third show of the night was of Glen Hughes.
And then it all became clear. As Glen and his band went on stage, the
crowd suddenly came alive. The bar was left unmanned, while middle aged
refugees of the 70's Golden Age of Rock struggled through vast amounts
of youngsters for a place near their Deep Purple idol. Indeed, he clearly
appeared to be the main reason for the attendance of a crucial part of
the evening's crowd. And what a boost to his ego was. Glen Hughes, whose
career, as well as personal life, reached all-time lows during the 90's,
had seemingly regained his yearned motivator, his eternal trigger: the
crowd support. And exactly as the crowd demands, he completely disregarded
his later solo materials, and, supported by excellent guitarist JJ Marsh,
delivered a whole set of old Deep Purple tunes, featuring a cheerful show
of screams, wails and associating with the crowd as one only manages to
do on his own British home court. He had earned what he came for, a notion
that for him seemed much more valuable than any financial reward: the
recognition of his own vital validity. When, during "Mistreated,"
the power went off, and a gigantic part of the crowd worshipfully, full-throatedly
kept shouting the lyrics with surprising unity, precision, and, most of
all, intensity, he was obviously overcome with joy.
Personally, as a quite mild Deep Purple fan, I found the
material a bit problematic. Unfortunately, Hughes joined the band after
it has reached its creative peak. Therefore, I felt that attending his
show was like viewing a successful Deep Purple cover band, with a notably
unsatisfying choice of material. But concerning this, my opinion doesn't
really matter. The crowd did go wild, upgrading the overall impression
of the evening to a much higher level.
Unfortunately, the next show tranquilized the euphoric mood
swiftly and efficiently, featuring Jack Bruce, supported
by Uli on guitar, playing old Cream pieces. Jack Bruce was the tragic
figure of the evening; appearing as an almost paradoxical inversion of
the preceeding act, Glen Hughes, Bruce looked old and worn. He did make
his most sincere efforts to interact with the crowd, but, although supported
by another virtuoso set of Roth (in my opinion, mocking the original guitar
performances of Eric Clapton), he couldn't stand up to the minimal standards
of the energetic live show. His playing was stiff and boring; he looked
as a gnarled, gray-haired reflection of his old self. Most of the crowd
apparently shared my opinion, as the hall had increasingly gone embarassingly
empty during the show. This was an evening of four men on a mission; Jack
Bruce failed to complete his, not being able to prove himself fit to proceed
his live-performing musical career.
Afterwards came some encores, on which Uli and Marino played
their rooty interpretations of Hendrix, while Bruce only worsened impression
he made during his set by singing "Eleanor Rigby." Finally,
the whole line-up came on stage to play "I Feel Free" and "Whiter
Shade of Pale." Nice.
The evening was concluded with an encouragingly triumphant
cheer of optimism and a genuine sense of accomplishment and fulfillment.
Regardless of the mixed crowd responses during and between the different
shows, it seemed that the artists truly believed that their deliverance
was conveyed and performed thoroughly and fully, a proper implementation
of the love and passion all of the above share towards the music, the
crowd and the whole good old counterculture spirit. The crowd, most of
which only enjoyed the evening partially, got carried away with the waves
of enthusiasm and honoured the artists with admiring (hopefully not compassionately)
feasts of cries and salutes. And me? Don't ask. I came to see Uli.
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