As if Market Days wasn’t enough, the concept of the ultimate summer festival has been co-opted by none other than Moby, with Area 2. The big deal this year was Bowie (see last week’s Bent Nights), but the whole idea for Area 2 seems to be to present a helping of today’s music like a cross-country love-in. Think of, say, Woodstock, or Joe Cocker’s “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” Tour (both in 1970) and you get the idea. There was a tent for DJs (John Digweed was the big name), but the mainstage is what garnered the attention.
First up was the Blue Man Group, who, though they lost some of their eerie allure in the afternoon sun, delivered a rousing set. Wordless and in pantomime, they beat on plastic tubing and drums full of day-glo gooey stuff (the photographers in the pit were offered raincoats). It was goofy fun, especially with the bug-eyed ironic glances and feverish comic precision. More intriguing is how the Blue Man Group franchise has moved from Off-Broadway oddball performance art to a national franchise (there are four productions in the U.S.), to a big-time rock attraction (they snagged a Grammy nomination for their first CD). Later on we (the photographers) got to meet them and their robotic charm came off as rather sweet and innocent. That blue stuff is wet too.
Busta Rhymes, on the other hand, was everything the rest of Area 2 wasn’t. Cranky and yammering, he seemed insulted that the late afternoon crowd wasn’t electrified by his presence. Monotonous and bitchy, his attitude interrupted the free-flow vibe of the show. New album? Between his crotch grabbing, non-stop vulgarity, and piss-and-vinegar attitude, I couldn’t tell you. Ugly is the word for it.
Since he sponsored it, Moby closed the show and had the unfortunate task of following Bowie. Though his set wasn’t drastically different from his show at the Aragon two years ago, he put on a terrific follow-up by wallowing in everything Bowie shunned. Where Bowie’s set was stripped down, un-theatrical, and personal, Moby laid on the effects like a revved up circus/circuit party. Lit in deep greens and reds, with fog everywhere, the bald munchkin spent most of his set running around in a manic fury. Just looking at him wore me out. It was good and it was definitely live, but it was also overkill…as if the man himself wasn’t enough. His 18 may well be paper thin, but Moby’s set reminded me of Prince’s “Controversy” tour in 1981, where the purple one worked overtime to convince the world he was a genius. Two observations: Prince was a genius (the music proves it) and Moby isn’t yet (the music proves it). And if not the first, Moby, get it while you can.
Jethro Tull at Ravinia
“You look good … for your age.” That’s the first thing Ian Anderson said to his sold-out audience at Ravinia. A more appropriate greeting couldn’t have been had. Just who is Jethro Tull anyway? At this stage, 35 years past the band’s debut, it’s Anderson (the only longtime member on this tour was lead guitarist Martin Barre), which isn’t surprising since it’s always been his show. But, as the dancing vagabond who made cynicism part of rock and ultimately our vernacular, Tull now seems quaint.
Of course there is Aqualung and Thick as a Brick and A Passion Play; graceful and pungent rock that took on hypocrisy with barbed bluntness. Steeped in British folk, Tull made sense during Watergate (1974, the band’s pinnacle) because Anderson’s stance was to thumb his nose at conventions before it became fashionable. Generally performing in rags and looking like a bum (hair flying, shabby overcoat in a twirl), Anderson took on the Brit aristocracy from the bottom up; a punk rocker from the old country. It made great theater and the music was uniquely their own.
For this show though, the wear and tear was obvious. It didn’t really matter though. Aug. 13 was the third day of rain during a particularly hot summer, but the fans still came out in droves (many on the lawn brought tents). It was a good show, professional and solid, satisfying but strangely un-thrilling. Anderson has still got the moves; blowing screeches out of his flute, dancing on one leg, playing to the back of the house with the glee of a leprechaun on crack. There was a generous sprinkling of classics (“Elegy,” “Crosseyed Mary,” “Aqualung,” “Locomotive Breath”) amid lessor gems (“The Water Bearer”). But this was more a road show with one foot in passionate inspiration and the other in schtick. If you missed them this time, don’t worry, they’ll be back.
* Jethro Tull was the inventor of the seed planter. Thanx Jackie.