By Bob Ruggiero
By Hilary Hughes
By Peter Gerstenzang
By David R. Adler
By Devon Maloney
By Brian McManus
By Jessica Hopper
By Harley Oliver Brown
Despite the mirror-ball above the stage, the New Year's Eve double bill at Radio City Music HallCulture Club with Hedwig and the Angry Inchwasn't quite the Death of Glitter, but something like the death of Glitter II: the moment at which 1998 rock's trendlet of dramatic gestures and ambiguous sexuality was transformed from a reclaimed past into family entertainment and a nostalgia act. Assimilation has its delights, of course, and one of them was that the crowd was pretty intensely mixed. MTV babies and their kids bopped along with Hedwig cultists, dumpy gentlemen in their best pearls and lipstick, tourists looking for something to do that wasn't sold out yet, and enough nonspecific discophiles that, when "Lady Marmalade" came over the p.a., there was mass lip-synching, with hand gestures.
Hedwig and co. were playing as a straight-if-we-can-use-that-word rock band, rather than performing their musical, for a change. Without the narrative of the show to hold their set together, though, they couldn't quite manage the grand-scale glamburst they were trying for. John Cameron Mitchell has charisma to burn, and he made the most of Radio City's huge stage, but with the words and hooks buried in a wretchedly muddy, bassy mix, the band came off like a pretty good 1 a.m. Coney Island High act, or something that ended up getting cut from Velvet Goldmine.
Culture Club, on the other hand, were just plain cuddly. Boy George was wearing some kind of ludicrous, shimmery one-piece-including-crown, and fronting an expanded ensemble that, by some miracle of diplomacy, greed, or human forgiveness, includes original drummer Jon Moss, George's ex-boyfriend and former pincushion of choice. (The Helen Terry type on gospelized background vocals and George-proof high notes wasn't Helen Terry, though.) Their set was comfortably familiar to anyone who'd seen their VH1 Storytellers special: running through all the hits except "The War Song," detouring from the band's songbook proper to take in "The Crying Game," even repeating some of the same stage patter.
An encore of David Bowie's "Starman" was the grace note to the evening: a vision of a freer world, sweetly reinterpreted as an object of nostalgia's object of nostalgia. And the New Year's countdown was the occasion for this most sentimental of glam bands to play the ultimate sentimental song: "Auld Lang Syne," accompanied by a storm of confetti. It fell on the cheering crowd, for whom drag has become just another kind of fun, as if the glitter had turned into paper at the stroke of midnight. Douglas Wolk
The Death of Hippie
Hell is a human-and-concrete zoetrope lit by thousands of lighters and glow sticks. Such was the scene last Tuesday night at the Garden, day two of Phish's four-show stand for New Year's. Not that I'm not a Phish-head; hey, they used to play my boarding school's football field back in the day. And with 1998's The Story of the Ghost (Elektra), Trey Anastasio and gang finally made a great album: all funk no flux.
But the jam-band cult audience and their second-wave hippie shenanigans! MSG, unlike a grassy amphitheater, hardly lends itself to psychedelic phun. Sure, there were the milling, crusty hordes down from Vermont and points west, reeking of reefer and oils, questing after ticket miracles and hash-brownie profits, not undone by city rain. Within the inner circles of Hellthe hall itselfglow-stick tossers and rhythmless Gobi dancers prevailed beneath the polychrome spots and kaleidoscopic overhead projections. The desperation of a younger generation determined to replicate Woodstock Nation poses was palpable.
To quote the era's lingo: "They were nowhere, man." Those Touchhead kids would do best to recollect that the Aquarian Agers don't own all the good times. Phish has moved beyond endless noodling to rawk!: readings of newbie "Limb by Limb" and perennial classic "You Enjoy Myself" featuring the guitarists' jumping dance underscore this shift. And surprise funk surfaced in a cover of Stevie Wonder's "Boogie on Reggae Woman." The band seems to be evolving with the times, growing and innovating. Their sheltered fanatics need to remember that no hippie is an island and swim over to the polyglot shore.
Hell is a hell of a place though, dontcha know, when Phish run their acid-folk voodoo down. Kandia Crazy Horse
Happy New (Age) Year
It was billed as a 24-hour New Year's Eve trance marathon, but at Vinyl Thursday night, New York's trance community had a lot more to celebrate than just the arrival of 1999. The packed house at Vinyl proved that trance, once a fringe movement that clung to survival through tiny, makeshift parties, has now evolved into a full-blown subculture.
Trance's roots are typically traced to the free-spirited Balearic sound of late-80's U.K. rave, perhaps because its most visible face, Paul Oakenfold, was one of the first Brits to make the pilgrimage to Ibiza. But trance's origins are more firmly rooted in the psychedelic, all-night, acid-drenched outdoor parties in Goa and the cyberhippie lifestyle of European techno travelers.
And the sounds emananting from Vinyl, pounding, kick-drumdriven trance that avoided song structure or ravey gimmicks like snare-drum climaxes, would have sent the pop-minded Oakenfold packing. The music, provided by DJs like Matthew Magic and Israeli DJ duo Xerox and Freeman, was stunningly disorienting: often the bass would double up on itself, creating a majestic, rolling sound that evaporated dance music's 4/4 beats.