Alice Cooper; Nebula, Stoner-Rock Kings; Kathryn Williams Knows the Power of Silence
It really is a Brutal Planet if you've never had the grisly experience of seeing Alice Cooper live in concert. Usually when I have the chance now to see music that's more than 20 years past its prime, I pass. No sense in going to see someone rolled out in a wheelchair, especially because I don't want to feel old myself. Fortunately I had the opportunity to see the Edgar Allan Poe of Rock on the most important day of days in Cooperland?Halloween. How could I pass that up?
Roseland is famous for being a sweatbox, where walking balls of infection like to rub against you and pinch your ass. Which is why I go to Roseland. Originally I was going to get dressed up for Halloween as a battered woman (with one black eye) but I figured there would be too much competition, and I was correct. Everyone in the crowd had their Alice makeup on, along with various Alice-appropriate costumes. I was surprised that nobody except my date was really making a big fuss about this show. None of my friends were interested in going, either. The new apocalyptic-themed album Brutal Planet hasn't gotten that much critical acclaim, though the recent release of the four-CD box set The Life and Crimes of Alice Cooper had been greatly anticipated. Along with a pay-per-view special and the rumored DVD release from the current tour, Cooper has done what he can to keep fans happy with the dream of a hedonistic lifestyle in songs filled with sex, money, death and teenage angst.
At the show I was more than excited to see some heads roll, and the guillotine didn't disappoint. Most acts either lose their schticks over the years, to grow as artists or for fear of beating a dead horse. Case in point is Kiss who, after taking off their makeup, didn't leave much to be desired?the shock value was gone. In Cooper's case, he can still hold his own musically, and he knows better than to destroy an image he worked so hard to create in the first place. How can you not enjoy seeing him break out rarities that he hasn't played in years?like "Ballad of Dwight Fry" and "Dead Babies"?while performing in a straitjacket, no less?
It was pure, simple, stripped-down fun, compared to the stage antics of bands that sell out stadiums. You felt like you were sort of involved in it all, because he made it seem intimate, almost personal. His band was adequate, and Alice really knew how to work the audience into a frenzy. Especially with that nurse running all over the stage giving him meds as her tits were about to burst out of her uniform. All eyes were on the stage at all times, waiting for what you were hoping was going to happen next. If there was an award for the best stage costume of all time, it would have to be Cooper in black leather thigh-high boots, purple hot pants and a BRITNEY WANTS ME t-shirt. I'm sure she does.
We all know Alice Cooper didn't get the musical and artistic credit he deserved after paving the way for how music is performed today. Even the Backstreet Boys should be tipping their hats to him. Maybe that's why he had to comment on a guy wearing a Marilyn Manson shirt in the front row of a show he recently played. Honestly, you can't compare the two, since Cooper is an act that Vincent Furnier outrageously plays onstage, while Brian Warner really believes that he's Marilyn Manson.
The set ended with "School's Out," of course, which was my anthem during second grade. Earlier, when he played "Only Women Bleed," I was surprised to see so many lighters flashing in the crowd; I hadn't seen that for a long time. During the encore, after throwing out money during "Billion Dollar Babies," Cooper performed "My Generation," which was great and surprised the hell out of me. The triple encore ended with "Elected," while he ran all over the stage waving the American flag. Perfect timing?he has definitely got my vote.
Allyson Schrager
For one thing, I wanted to check out the Zen-like symbiosis of Northwest and Northeast. There are many similarities (proximity to Canada being only one of them). Think logging. Think fishing. And think an immense potential audience of bored, stoned freaks. Portland has a vital scene when one gets into the dark recesses of its stoner-hick subculture. And the Skinny is the perfect place to explore and experience that. Situated on Congress, the main street that winds all the way through town, it's everything a rock club should be: dingy, dark and unpretentious. Having been an old movie theater, its slumping floors give interested patrons a somewhat egalitarian vantage point. It's the kind of place that probably, back home, guys like Nebula wouldn't mind hanging out in and, sure enough, just like in the old days, they were there intermingling among the crowd.
The opening act was Heidi. As I was standing on the balcony drinking a $1.50 PBR?which seems to be the house beer in many of the bars I've already explored in Portland?I saw the girls from Heidi angle through the crowd with their matching domino schoolgirl uniforms. Within minutes they were onstage gyrating like ensembles consisting of 23-year-old girls usually do. The guitarist pulled some cool Veruca Salt type moves?swung her hair in a way that I guess was the female equivalent of the Neanderthal gestures practiced by bands like Nebula. They finished with a song whose chorus, "I love hating you," had the bass player and guitarist screaming backing vocals until they were literally hoarse. Heidi showed a lot of enthusiasm?that's usually a polite way of saying they had nothing original to say, and while that may be true if we were really getting analytical here, it didn't matter. They were inspired by what they were doing, and that was enough.
The second band was Roadsaw, who, like Heidi, hail from Boston. This was actually their last gig ever, and they didn't let the fans down. Their sound is deep and grinding, with a lot of accelerated tempos and meanspirited venom. But they had enough of the redneck quotient to appease the yokels. Some musical antecedents would probably include Metallica and Black Sabbath, and you can't get more redneck than that. No fault of those bands'; it just seems like hicks really appreciate the aggressive tendencies in their music. Then again, I saw plenty of girls with Misfits emblems, too. It all has been melded into a mythic power struggle of organic versus synthetic music and prefabricated Christina Aguilera types.
Nebula's mantra-like performance only confirmed this. Like a harder version of Nirvana, the three-piece swung their hair around and produced a massive wallop of sound based on pulverizing Sabbath riffs. It's Monster Magnet for the oughts?the same stoner/loser vibe and Christ-like demeanor. Despite the fact the boys were hindered by sound problems during the second song, they performed admirably. It may sound a little like Sabbath, but not to the point of being an outright ape-job. The fact is, any band who plays hard and heavy is gonna get compared to Sabbath, as well as Zeppelin, 'cause they wrote the book. And that's just the way it is. But bands like Nebula have added even more sinister connotations because they're basically grimebags on an outing that could turn into an odyssey, as opposed to store-bought "entertainers" who in the end are no more "rock 'n' roll" than Michael Jackson. Nebula actually get down in the trenches. And if Portland is anything, it's a trenchtown?a beachhead for every kind of twisted loser who lives on the fringe. No wonder Nebula felt right at home Saturday night at the Skinny.
Joe S. Harrington
It's almost a shame that Williams feels she has to portray an illusion of uncertainty onstage, though. She's clearly in control of her craft, and relishes telling surreal stories about visits to the psychoanalyst and obsession. Most important, she has worked out her melancholy sound to perfection: not overdone, not boorish or clumsy or loud, just a few strummed chords on the acoustic or the sweep of a double bass or cello's bow to sweeten such magical moments as "Soul to Feet" or "Fell Down Fast." It has a subtlety, an innocence and an almost mystical air. Less is more, as clothes designers always simper.
The magic that Williams' breathy, haunting voice possesses is mostly down to this restraint: like Cowboy Junkies and Mazzy Star before her, she's learned the power of silence. "You said cliches come from the truth of beauty that every one feels they can own," she sighs on the haunting "We Dug a Hole"; "is then truth being rubbed out or watered down?" You can almost feel the consternation in the audience: middle-class, socially aware Guardian readers to a woman. You can hear the mutters of recognition? Oh yes, that must be true. Her magic is all the more startling, as everything about her is so homely. She has none of the poetic wastrel look of Alanis or Beck. See her band standing there looking on as she whispers. How wonderful. Misfits all, they look torn from the cabaret circuit and are gently playing their hearts out in gratitude.
The juxtaposition of the dreamy, helplessly romantic Williams with the mundane and simultaneously beautiful is often quite bewitching. She has many fans now, despite the fact her new?and only widely available?album Little Black Numbers has been out for just a few months. So that's what being nominated for the Mercury Music Award and having the ubiquitous lazy comparison made to Joni Mitchell can do to an unassuming Newcastle art student's career.
Everett True