By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
Pop music isn't designed for the ad-driven journalistic ritual of the fall preview, and good for pop music. Bitch all you want about TicketMaster extortion and four megacorps squeezing the art out of the biz they dominate. Or take the opposite tack and mock the young temps and old warhorses who make their if-you-call-that-livings faking orgasm with songs they know too well. The former are usually obscene, the latter pathetic. But don't get all indignant about music's brute capitalization or rote rationalization until you compare the book industry, where lists of highly intermittent literary merit are drawn up a year in advance, or Hollywood, where release schedules are laid down for months of Fridays, or Broadway, where the lowliest flop costs too much time and a million bucks, or classical music, where at this moment superstar draws are contracted into 2002.
I don't mean to be too unilateral here. Of course independent films can still sneak up on us, or Yo-Yo Ma make magic on a given night. But if surprise is of the essence in artistic pleasure, then the seat-of-the-pants m.o. of popular music's concert and club circuit (as it is called, though in New York it's as mazelike as the streets of a medieval city) could have been designed to provide it, in part because the m.o. wasn't designed at all. The simple fact is that we can memorize the engraved-in-granite schedules of the competitively prebooked arenas and the tentative advance sheets of the bigger clubs and not have any idea what the most exciting show of the week of October 15 is going to look like on October 8, much less whether it will fall on its face when the night arrives. The Go-Betweens reunion is the rock event of the fall from this desk. It should hit Gotham after Thanksgiving, when Sleater-Kinneywill also be touring, so that Corin, Carrie, and (sigh) Janet probably but not definitely won't be Grant and Robert's backup band. Either way, it could be a rebirthor it could never fully jell.
You never know. Black Uhuru's reunion with Sly & Robbie looked equally exciting, only the so-called original members turned out to include not Michael Rose nor Puma Jones nor even the unoriginal but effective Junior Reid. Caveat emptor. Will Tina Turner's valedictory prove a final triumph or reinforce the testimony of her recent records, which is that she should have retired when the movie came out? Will Barbra Streisand's rare and concomitantly priced concert epitomize diva drive or diva doo-doo? Will Emmylou Harris's equally rare cabaret appearance end up handcrafted intimacy or in-group zoo? Will trouper-songwriter John Hiatt's acoustic turn accentuate his melodies or hide his inability to support a band behind vocal contortions? Will we access John McLaughlinthe noodling jazzbo, John McLaughlin the self-abnegating mystic, or (would it could be) John McLaughlin the godlike electric improviser?
None of these questions are rhetorical, because in pop, you can never fully trust an old pro. Freshness and energy impact the music so decisively that younger pros like the cresting Moby and the indefatigable Ani DiFranco are paragons of reliability by comparison. But the young generate their own kinds of questions. Will the up-and-coming Le Tigre strive to stage a show as nonstop as its pleased-as-punch CD? Will the been-and-gone Bettie Serveert finally achieve a musicianship worthy of their musicianly concept? Will Robyn Hitchcocktake his lithium? Will Mark Eitzeltake his Zoloft? Will the Tragically Hip blow Travisout of the zeitgeist? Will Hanson? And most important, what band or crew or DJ or singer-songwriter we've forgotten about or never knew existed will materialize one crisp autumn night and render all such speculations into the dust they are surely destined to become?
Date and venue TBA
We are assured this will be a band, not just Grant McLennan and Robert Forster, solo acoustic or with backupa ploy just a touch song-dependent even for postpunk's greatest songwriting tandem. Except perhaps for Corin Tucker and Carrie Brownstein, who along with superdrummer Janet Weiss played with the Go-Betweens on the forthcoming Friends of Rachel Worth, but will not, it appears, on this tour. Which is sure to generate the huzzahs they always deserved, and almost sure to earn them. (Christgau)
Roseland, 239 West 52nd Street, 777-6800
These Scots get no points for originality or personality: Frontman Fran Healy croons like Jeff Buckley, writes only slightly smarter than Noel Gallagher, and performs with the self-effacing sincerity of countless faceless rock slugs. But the catchy Radiohead-lite charm of Travis's tunes is substantial, and it's to their credit that their flawless Britney remake is far more heartfelt than their Band cover. (Walters)
Blessed with that genius "Genie" song, Aguilera was off to a strong start, but her Mariah Carey-isms are rapidly taking over. Meanwhile, Destiny's Child have taken over from TLC, proving how fabulous songs, producers, and outfits can override personality conflicts, perfunctory voices, even personnel changes. Like Oasis, they force us to follow their implosion. (Walters)
'25TH NEW YORK SALSA FESTIVAL'
Madison Square Garden, 2 Penn Plaza, 465-6741