Electrafixion: June 1, 1996

Electrafixion was a short-lived band featuring Ian McCulloch and Will Sergeant of Echo and the Bunnymen. They only put out one album before reforming the Bunnymen, which Mac had left in the late '80s. Released in 1995, Burned, Electrafixion's one and only full-length release, was a sleek, confident update of the Bunnymen's sound. Although it came nowhere near the level of those blissful classic Bunnymen albums, it proved McCulloch and Sergeant still had some oomph left in them -- which hadn't been apparent in the Bunnymen's one Mac-less release or McCulloch's solo work.

One funny thing I recall about this show was how I got the tickets. I won them at another show from a DJ who offered them to the first person to identify a song he played. All my years of being a couch potato paid off when I immediately recognized Quincy Jones' theme from Sanford and Son and sent my friend running to the DJ booth.

The show was pretty great, at a much more intimate venue than the one the Bunnymen had played on their (seemingly) final tour with Mac. They seemed in good spirits and played a couple of Bunnymen songs, including "The Killing Moon," which inspired a middle-aged female fan to leap onstage and gyrate, much to the band's bafflement. This show is a memory I hold especially dear since Ian McCulloch was a cranky hot mess when I saw the reformed Bunnymen in Chicago over a decade later.

James Brown: July 6, 1996

I saw James Brown just once, ten years before his death. He was 66 years old at the time, and I wondered beforehand how his onstage prowess might be affected by his advanced age. After all, this wasn't an artist who sat on a barstool and sang; this was the Godfather of Soul, known for getting up, getting down, staying on the scene like a sex machine. It turned out I needn't have worried.

The show was at Chene Park, a beautiful venue on the Detroit River. While Brown performed we could see the lights of boats passing by behind him. The opener was Jimmie Walker, the comedian best known for playing the cartoonish son J.J. on the 1970s sitcom Good Times. His was a strange set of dated racial humor that was not very incisive or funny, and ended with a weak apology. (The gist of it was, "Ha ha, white people are such idiots... but seriously folks, I was just joking and really we should all get along. Thank you and good evening!")

Brown was a marvel onstage, shimmying, shaking, and doing the splits with the zest and skill of man one-third his age. He performed various hits spanning the many decades of his career, everything from "It's a Man's World" to "Living in America." Just as he had for years, Brown did the bit with the cape and had a bevy of young and attractive female dancers onstage. You didn't see showmanship like that very often by the mid '90s, and certainly not on the level of James Brown. It was inspiring to see that, despite the many ups and downs of his life, he remained a dynamic performer in his sixth decade, reinforcing his legacy at a time of life when many lesser artists are dishonoring theirs.

Kristin Hersh: July 27, 1997

Here is what I love about Kristin Hersh: With her, there is a sense of music being a normal part of life, something that is just there, the way oxygen is. Despite the mystique of "an artist possessed" that others tried to build around her during the earlier years of her career with Throwing Muses, if you see her in concert, speak to her, or read her self-deprecating and funny Tweets, she seems like a normal, down-to-earth woman, mother, and wife who just happens to make her living as a musician.

These days Hersh alternates between Throwing Muses, 50 Foot Wave (with Muses bandmate Bernard Georges), and solo work, but at the time of this show Muses were on hiatus, 50 Foot Wave hadn't been born, and she had released just one solo album, 1994's Hips and Makers. The album was a decidedly quieter affair than the Muses' material, and Hersh's stripped-down acoustic performance continued in that vein. While the opener, Melissa Ferrick, demonstrated how loud and frantic an acoustic guitar could sound, Hersh proved the power of hushed and intimate sounds. Her music and voice were haunting, but between songs she would declare with good humor that she was wearing a dorky shirt because it was the only one not stained by the nursing infant on tour with her. Such is the juxtaposition between real art and real life that Hersh embodies to me.

Rufus Wainwright: May 13, 2001

I've seen Rufus Wainwright several times, but this was the last show of his I really enjoyed. It took place at an intimate (and very crowded) venue before he started opting for the more lucrative but less enjoyable rounds of outdoor summer concerts and casino gigs. It also coincided with the release of my favorite of his albums, Poses. Rufus was in top form, giving a powerful but genial performance of songs from his first two releases. What I remember best, though, is the weird family dynamics on display that night.

The twin-sister duo of Tegan and Sara opened the show with a set more notable for their incessant sibling bickering than their songs. Later in the evening, Wainwright told the story of how he got thrown out of the gay bar Sidetrack the last time he was in Chicago. All feigned innocence, he insisted all he'd done was accidentally bump someone, causing him to spill a drink. The next thing you know, he was being roughed up by bouncers and tossed out on the sidewalk. (Knowing that Sidetrack is a decidedly non-tough bar and that Rufus was a hot mess during this period, I'm guessing this was not the most accurate version of events.) Rufus' sister Martha, who was singing backup for him, gently chided him that maybe that wasn't all that happened. They bantered back and forth for a minute before he gave up, declaring, "God, we're starting to sound like Tegan and Sara."

Such glimpses of personality were largely missing the next couple of times I saw him, in part because he played at outdoor summer festivals. To me, there's something about a person at a piano that calls for a smaller venue.

The Kelley Deal 6000: May 10, 1996

Kelley Deal is best known as a member of the Breeders, along with her twin sister and Pixies bassist, Kim. In 1994-5, she was busted for heroin possession and went through rehab for her addiction. Emerging from the negative publicity, she assembled and fronted her own band for a time. The Kelley Deal 6000, as they were called, showed Kelley's songwriting, playing, and singing to be every bit as quirky and cool as Kim's. I just wish they'd hung around longer. Kelley's continued to record and perform with the Breeders and took part in a one-off release from the Last Hard Men with Sebastian Bach and Jimmy Chamberlin, but sadly hasn't released any additional solo albums. (By the way, she has also found success as a crafter, selling hand-knit bags and writing a how-to book.) 

I saw TKD6K in Ann Arbor twice: when their first album came out in 1996, and a year later when they released another. This show was in support of the debut, Go to the Sugar Altar, an eccentric but very catchy collection of tunes. Before the band went on, I was at the bar when Kelley came up and asked for a Coke. When the bartender feebly joked, "With rum?" she nicely but firmly replied, "Oh no, I don't do that anymore." A good sign, for sure!

Kelley, along with a band that included Jimmy Flemion of the Frogs, played her quirky songs, gave appreciative thanks, and at one point introduced her parents, who had traveled out from Dayton for the show. And that sort of typifies what all the Kelley Deal shows I've seen have been like: There's something very homey about her performances, she comes off as nice, and she seems to genuinely take pleasure in making music and sharing it with people. I was glad to see that vibe was retained when she most recently played with her new act, R. Ring, who hopefully will record some new material soon.

John Tesh: June 15, 1996

A friend's mother and stepfather had season tickets to the historic Fox Theatre in Detroit but were not free the night of the John Tesh concert, which is how two relatively hip then-twentysomethings ended up going. Tesh, of course, is best known as a co-host of Entertainment Tonight who launched a career as a sort of new age/easy listening musician. It wasn't my type of music, but I figured it would be an experience if nothing else.

By the time we parked and got to the theater, the show had just started. An usher told us that he would wait until the first song had ended before seating us. This being Tesh, the song kept going for a good ten minutes before the exasperated usher gave up, said, "Oh, come on," and led us to our seats.  We were set adrift in a sea of khakis and polo shirts. Really, I don't think I've ever seen so many people in the same attire in one place.

Tesh played a series of very long songs and made a few cracks about the National Anti-Tesh Action Society and its assertion that Tesh is a space alien. He seemed like a good-natured guy and a decent musician, even if his music didn't exactly win me over.

Blondie: May 23, 1999

Blondie is one of my favorite groups, so when most of the original members got back together in the late '90s for a new album and tour, I was excited to see them. The resulting album, No Exit, was a mixed affair veering from the high of the appealing hit "Maria" to the low of Debbie Harry rapping with Coolio. Despite the mostly disappointing new material, I still looked forward to seeing the band live. Since Blondie originally broke up in the early '80s, it was a treat I didn't think I'd get to experience.

Having seen Blondie twice now since the reunion, I still don't feel like I've seen Blondie. Original members Debbie Harry, Chris Stein, Clem Burke, and Jimmy Destri were supplemented by additional musicians (Destri has since left).The set was slick and hit-filled. Maybe that's what some fans are looking for, but not me. It felt more like Debbie Harry and a backing band, and there were few surprises.

The highlight of the No Exit show, for me, was "Shayla," an Eat to the Beat track that was the only older non-hit that crept into the set list. It's a slow song, but Clem Burke punctuated it with an amazing drum solo, twirled his sticks with the skill of a baton major, shot one a good twelve feet in the air, and caught it with such ease that it looked like someone had just placed it gently in his hand. Many have said it before, but I'll say it again: Clem Burke is Blondie's secret weapon.

Power, humor, and chemistry in a band cannot be underestimated. Adding new, more musically adept members to a band might make the sound "bigger" or more professional, but it also changes the entire nature of the venture. I still wish I could have seen the "real" Blondie, warts and all.