Finally free of the concert constraints places on us all by that dastardly COVID, I over the course of a few months, have gone to a couple of relatively high profile shows over the past few months. In April I addressed my annual post-Masters deflation with a set by Drive-By Truckers at the Imperial and just recently ventured to the Bell for an evening with Joan Jett.
They were both pretty good.
MORE: Dine And Dish: Happy House
Now, if that feel like I am damning with faint praise it is, in fact, because I am. I was entertained by the shows, but in the same way I might be entertained by a stolen afternoon spent watching reruns. It isn’t bad and I’m relatively happy, but I’m also a little fidgety and probably will have no real memories of the experience once a week has passed.
The problem for both acts, I believe, was similar, somewhat complicated and probably difficult to remedy. It comes down to inspiration.
Here’s a general outline of both shows. Band comes on. Plays a few hits. Plays some deep cuts. Plays a little new stuff. There’s a break when the band is introduced. The songs are played with skill. The banter is well-rehearsed. It’s a well-oiled machine. Smooth.
Smooth, but without spark.
There was a time when the Truckers were widely considered to be the most raucous rock band on the touring circuit. Likewise, Jett and her band the Blackhearts have built a reputation on being, well, unbridled. But that was not what I experienced. What I experienced was two veteran rock acts presenting a performance that felt, well, professional. The favored songs were sung. The right notes were hit. That’s about it.
I guess I understand. Both these acts have been around for more than a minute. The Truckers more than 25 years and Jett, whether with the Blackhearts or her original band the Runaways, has been a fixture since the mid-1970s. That’s a long time to sustain youthful rebellion. There comes a point, I suppose, where an artist doesn’t feel the need for those guitars to roar quite so loud, night after night.
MORE: Brand New Bag: Let’s Eat Together
But what happens to a rock act when they no longer really rock? When the inspiration and emotions that once fueled their desperate work just isn’t there? Is it, in fact, true that playing in a band is a privilege reserved for the young?
I do not believe so. But what I do believe is that an act needs to find ways to evolve. There’s no contract signed that states that Joan Jett must continue to play the slashing proto-punk style she discovered as a teen and the Truckers have certainly banked enough good will to experiment with song styles. They’ve released a fair share of concept albums so why not take the next logical step and go full prog?
I think, by the way, both these acts understand and recognize this issue. Jett recently put out a acoustic record – a far cry from her usual loud-and-proud side. And the Truckers recently released “Welcome 2 Club XIII” is an intentional step away from their recent political polemics in favor of song that look, both wistfully and wryly, back at misspent youth. A good artist always knows how to make the change that will reinvigorate. A great artist knows when to do it before it is too late. Here’s hoping both Joan Jett and the Drive-By Truckers can prove, once again, that they are great.
Does It Matter How You Book It?
There are, I admit, certain areas where I trend toward pretention. I get a little erudite, for instance, when I discuss ‘80s indie rock. I’ve also been know to become dismissive when people proffer preferences that do not match my well-researched barbecue ideal – pulled pork at Freeman’s in Beech Island, if you are curious. But where I am worst and at my most unbearable is the subject of books. Not what people read so much as how. All my life I’ve been a bookstore rat. I love a bookstore. I love everything about them. I love the smell. I love the unique way rows of exposed spines both reflect and refract the light. I love the heft of a well-bound volume and the sound of pages turning while being idly thumbed. I love that particular silence that permeates even while people are talking. I love bookstores and so, as might be expected, I also love books. I have a lot of them. I’ve read and treasured most of them. My feelings for them are strong. Very strong. Perhaps, I’ve come to discover, too strong.
The realization came to me recently while reading a newspaper. Brought for me by family visiting from England, I found myself struggling with the once familiar techniques required to manage broad sheets and tricky folds of a traditional paper. It had once been second nature. Now it was hard. The reason – I hadn’t read an actual paper in some time. I couldn’t remember the last time. Had it been months? Years? I couldn’t recall. What I could recall is a somewhat more callow version of myself deriding friends and family that didn’t read an actual paper. Sure, they still engaged with the news, just not in the same way I did. They were doing then what I am doing now – engaging in the news of the day from alternate – and mostly digital – sources.
MORE: ‘Matilda’ helps teens find their voices
Which brings us back to books. I know a lot of likeminded book readers who, like me, fetishize the physical. But I also know a lot of ardent readers who swear by tablets and even more who ‘read’ audiobooks. In fact – cue shameful admission music – I’ve been known to rock the Audible during particularly long commutes. Does that make me a bad man?
I’ve decided no. What I’ve decided is that I was focusing on the delivery system rather than the product. Drinking pond water out of a crystal goblet is still drinking pond water just as champagne from a chipped Flintstones glass still holds appeal. So I’ll stop giving side-eye to those who don’t carefully stack properly bound books by their bedside. It’s a pleasure for me but perhaps not for you. What’s important is that people do read. How it is done is just mechanics.
Buried Treasure – Get Smart
My three earliest television memories are the bubbles at the end of The Lawrence Welk Show, my attraction to the young woman who appeared on Sid and Marty Kroftt’s The Bugaloos and the title sequence to Get Smart.
Of those three, only my affection for Get Smart survives. Setting the still-excellent title sequence aside, there is a real genius to this bumbling spy satire. Created by uncontested comedy geniuses Mel Brooks and Buck Henry, it was pretty revolutionary when it premiered in 1965. While most television comedies were gentle family affairs where three sons or boys inexplicably referred to as the Beaver frolicked in suburbia, Get Smart embraced slapstick humor and subversive satire in a way that hadn’t really been embraced by either audiences or the networks. The result was a show that, while about espionage, became a reflection of an America interested in exploding comedy norms. Place this on a shelf with Dr. Strasngelove, late ‘60s Carlin and Pryor and the also shamefully forgotten Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour and you’ve got a pretty good template for everything funny that happened in the subsequent decade.
Time is Running Out
The submission period for the Augusta Press’s inaugural Press Play contest is quickly coming to a close. Get yours in by June 30 for inclusion in this year’s ballot. All we need is an MP3 of your entry and, if possible, a photograph. Easy as pie, or, to put it in a musician’s perspective – D-to-G-to-A.
The rules are simple.
- No profanity or slurs. Give us your radio edit.
- You must be able to perform the piece submitted in front of a live audience.
- One original piece of music per artist.
We will accept submissions through June 30 and open up voting on July 1. The three songs that receive to most votes and three critic’s picks will be awarded 20 minute sets as part of the Arts In the Heart of Augusta Global Stage opening night festivities. There, a panel of judges will award $500, $250 and $100 to the first, second and third place acts, respectively.
So let’s get those final submissions in. Get your song heard. Find some new fans. Help us remind people that Augusta is and always will be a music town.
Send submissions to songwriter@theaugustapress.com.
Steven Uhles has worked as professional journalist in the Augusta area for 22 years, and his Pop Rocks column ran in The Augusta Chronicle for more than 20. He lives in Evans with his wife, two children and a dog named after Hunter Thompson.
