San Francisco, April 28th, 2007 - the Fillmore
Eleven years on, Jarvis Cocker comes on like R. Crumb possessed by Mick Jagger. To the hugely approving roar of the crowd, the man hits the stage of the Fillmore wearing a smart drab blazer, a tasteful earth-tones buttondown plaid, dark denim and a bright, very large, eye-catching ornate belt buckle.* Still skinny as a whip. Self-possessed to within an inch of his life; every gesture, every sweaty head flip, every laid-back-cocky rock pose struck with such assurance as to seem pre-ordained. Singing not so much with passion as with sincerity - lank forelocks dangling in front of his chunky black-framed glasses, he peers out across the crowd intently as if searching for a friend. By the end of the night, he'd found a roomful of them.
The guy is a bit of a puzzle, though. I say he sings "with sincerity," and I don't doubt that whatever he means, he means it. But what it is that he means, and then again, what he means by it, is open to question. I didn't dwell on such pedantic questions, though - not in the face of the onslaught of JARVIS. His opening number, "Fat Children Took My Life" had everyone jumping in unison as the venue floor bounced like a trampoline. I figured it would hold. Down through the storied history of the Fillmore, surely they'd hosted bouncier audiences than this crowd of once-hipsters pushing their collective expiration date of cool.
No surprises in the set list. With all of one solo album to tour in support of - no Pulp nostalgia here - Mr. Cocker played every song on the disc, plus non-album tracks "Big Stuff" and "One Man Show." Even ace "hidden" track "Cunts Are Still Running The World" was pressed into service as the first encore. For the second encore, they played a cover song which I suppose I should have recognized and which might have been called "Novocaine." Or it might not. After that he thanked us all and bid us good night, insisting "that's all the songs we know."
Don't worry, J.C. It was enough. There was no sense of lack of material, or of the material being lacking. Every song went down well. From the raunchy stomping glide of "Don't Let Him Waste Your Time" to the stunning "Black Magic" (which makes great use of its "Crimson and Clover" sample), to the transcendently dingy uplift of "Tonite" and the matter-of-fact creepy "I Will Kill Again," to the brittle thin-edged menace of "Disney Time"...there was no lack of impact numbers. And the gaps between the highest peaks were effectively bridged with good, absorbing, engaging songs; songs by turns disconcerting, wishful, joyous, faux-dopey, and barbed with sarcasm. A varied dramatic and emotional palette, served up by our gracious host: deft of patter, poised of pose, generous with his presence. His manner embraced the crowd and his own Rock-Starness as one, constantly reaching out to grasp outstretched hands from the front rows - even at one point after a post-song collapse, scuttling forward on knees and elbows to let the lucky few grope his sweaty head for ten glorious seconds while the band drew out its crescendo.
Not bad for such a reputed emotional cripple! Maybe that was just a rumor I heard, started by tawdry unsophisticates vacuously interpreting lyrics as memoir.
I loved the show. I was surprised and knocked out. I'd always thought he was a great songwriter - I never agreed with those who'd brush him off as merely "clever." He's clever as a bloody stiletto. His wordplay is a delight, true, and many listeners stop there and go no further. But beneath that facile layer are worlds of shamed pleasure, sad truths, and perfectly-observed terrors. His look at the world is seemingly detached and without judgment, and maybe it is without judgment. Except that he knows one thing: if you look closely enough at anything for long enough, you will shock yourself with the things you hadn't noticed. In his songwriting, Cocker gives you that stuff right up front, all casual-like.
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that he could put it across so well live, but I was. I mean, I knew Pulp were a world-class band, and he certainly had a reputation as a performer to match. But his current boho Clark Kent look belies that. I thought maybe people were grading him "on a curve" - grading him based on how hard you'd expect a dude who looked like that to rock.
Don't you believe it. He's a debauched Rock God, just with better taste in books.
1 comment:
a GREATLY-BELATED appendium: the review to the creditable opening act, who acquitted themselves, comported themselves, and in all other ways rep-riz-zented admirably:
Opening was a Berkley (Berkely? Berkeley?) band called Honeycut. Whoa! Their keyboardist was not only the best guitarist I've seen lately (fake guitarist, he was shredding all the guitar parts via his big red synthesizer), but also, his dance skills were every bit equal to my own. He just wouldn't quit - a nonstop improvised dance routine throughout the whole show! In terms of perpetual motion he was the keyboard version of Angus Young. Only - necessarily - more sessile.
And their drummer - he just stood there in front of a big black box on a platform, hitting it with his fingers! A live drum machinist.
Despite the bassist being the only player with a "real" instrument, they did rock pretty convincingly. They were a lot like what Jamiroquai would have sounded like if they took their cues from early 70's funk-rock instead of from late-70's disco and soul.
Actually - wait - one more real instrument. On the last song of the set, the lead singer pulled out a harmonica and just DESTROYED it. In terms of slamming us with a rocking harmonica solo. Saskia said, "wow - that's pretty impressive that he can play harmonica so well!" I said, "wow - that's pretty impressive that he had the good sense and restraint not to do that on every damn song." Because, a lot of lead singers, just because they can play harmonica decently, they think that means they HAVE to.
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