By Thomas Conner
© Tulsa World Beck looked out at the pogoing, crowd-surfing bunch gathered at the Cain's Ballroom on Saturday night and asked, "What would Bob Wills think of y'all smashing each others heads?'' Then he and his ace band — two of whom sported cowboy hats — eased into the country-fried "Lord Only Knows.'' Wills was smiling down on the party from his crusty portrait over the stage, and the smile could have been somewhat genuine. Back in the '30s, he was throwing parties like this on the very same wooden dance floor almost every week, and at times things got just as crazy, if not crazier, as "these kids today,'' smashed heads and all. Wills probably would dig Beck, not only for his frequent dips into prairie-born strum and twang but for his exceedingly populist campaign of good, good fun and music. Beck is the ultimate entertainer. His recorded music is one thing — a brow-raising and astonishingly fluid synthesis of funk, country, rock and blues — but his live show illustrated to a sold-out Cain's Ballroom this weekend what that music is all about. "It ain't about all that (bull),'' Beck repeated throughout the evening, it's about rocking the beat and having fun. Rarely has a performer connected with a Cain's audience the way young Beck did Saturday night. Actually, there was no connection to be made; Beck took the stage and launched "Devil's Haircut'' with the link already established. He was clearly a peer, not an artist high on yon pedestal. Just because there were squads of beefy security men keeping us from joining him on stage did not mean Beck was going to exclude us from the party (say par-TAY). He spoke to the crowd freely and in earnest, frequently referring to Wills and not mumbling "Hey, it's good to be in (tonight's city here).'' He broke into a few spontaneous dance moves, his favorite being the stop-motion, Herbie Hancock robot dance. He led the audience through every vibe, every nuance of the exciting songs. He was with us, and nothing spoke to that fact more than the absence of projectiles hurled at him. When bands are on those big stages at Edgefest or wherever, or if they themselves establish the barrier between performer and audience as a line not to be crossed, then the reckless audience tries to make that connection by lobbing lighters and cups and anything else at the players. When someone like Beck mirrors a jumping good time, then the only thing to throw is the funk. That is success in art, especially the debatable art of pop music. Beck's range is as amazing as it is entertaining. He rolls out sharp hip-hop, like "Devil's Haircut.'' He pushes the funk in hit singles like "Where It's At,'' which he played halfway through Saturday's set. (His music is so in debt to black styles, so why was the audience so uniformly white?) He screams frightening songs with vocals so distorted they sound like four minutes of, "I am the God of hellfire!'' He plays cool, traditional country, with a woeful steel guitar, in songs like "Road Hog'' (Wills was smiling for that one, surely). He even plays sincere guitar folk. He let his band take a break after "Pay No Mind'' so he could play a solo acoustic number and one that was simply him and his wailing harmonica. By the end of the set, when he declared that "tonight, Tulsa is make-out city,'' the whole ballroom was dancing, even the shy ones back by the bar. Definitely a good time had by all. Dirty Three — my personal raison d'etre at Saturday's show — opened the bill with a stunning performance of incredibly evocative instrumental music. By my earlier conclusion, we could say that this trio was perhaps not as successful at connecting with an impatient audience because they did dodge a few cups, ice cubes and what-not. (One more flying bit and drummer Jim White may have surrendered to his rage, leapt over his kit and walloped a few brats.) For those who listened, this performance was unparalleled in emotional fervor. Warren Ellis announces songs with quips like, "This is a song about waking up thinking you're Elliott Gould, but you're really Burt Reynolds, so you're (screwed).'' Then he hunches over his violin like a troll from the family tree of Robyn Hitchcock, playing much of the time with his back to the audience so that all we see is a black T-shirt, a disheveled mass of brown curls and the whipping hairs of a frayed bow flailing about one shoulder. With a kick from White, the jerky tempo of a Dirty Three song can suddenly go to warp speed, and then we see more of Ellis. He jumps up and down like a maniac, sawing at his violin as if it just won't die, and in a fit of pique — like a startled cobra — he spits at the ceiling. This was the greatest entertainment for the bored pre-teens waiting for Beck. During such a frenzy in "Hope,'' one particularly juicy loogie was flung at the ceiling and then, unbeknownst to Ellis, who was lost in his art perilously underneath the spot, gravity began to pull the syrupy substance back down. It stretched about two feet before breaking off and falling next to Ellis, much to the audible dismay of the crowd. When the song was over, Ellis realized what had happened and said, "Well, I'm glad we can provide some entertainment for you.'' He spit again during "I Remember a Time When Once You Used to Love Me,'' and this time it hit the mark, dripping back into his hair, and one wondered if Ellis hadn't positioned himself just right that time. If that's how he must suffer for his art, so be it. His music, although unfortunately placed on a tour with the wrong audience for it, is some of the most interesting of its kind. Comments are closed.
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Thomas Conner
These online "clips" reproduce a self-selection of my journalism (music etc) during the last 20+ years. It's a lotta stuff, but it only scratches the surface. I do not currently possess the time or resources to digitize the whole body of work. These posts are simply a bunch of pretty great days at the office. Archives
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