I don’t know that I’m ever going adjust to this new era of rock and roll that insists on getting to bed at a decent time. It’s happening everywhere and not just with legend-stacked bills like this that attract a decidedly older audience. So, I was laughing all the way to the Ameris Bank on Sept. 12 when my Flagpole compatriot Mike White and I were already in our seats as Cleveland, OH’s Filter took the stage at the early bird special time of 6 p.m.
Most immediately known for their hit “Hey Man, Nice Shot,” Filter has long been a band for which I’ve had little, if any, time. I certainly had no time for them back in their 1990s heyday. But with this performance, I was finally open to listening—and to my embarrassment due to not knowing one song in particular. I was quite taken by their performance of their biggest ever hit, 1999’s “Take A Picture” and its central refrain of “could you take my picture/ ’cause I won’t remember.” So much so, I went back over the next few days and listened to it repeatedly. Written by founding member Richard Patrick about his troubles as a blackout drunk—which he’s not anymore—I read an alternative interpretation online from a fan that described the song as reflective of the relationship a very young child has with his or her parents. That time when you’re so young that you won’t remember things that are very special moments to your loved ones. So this interpretation holds that the song is a quiet plea from a child who cannot yet articulate. And now I’m all in my feelings over a song that came out 25 years ago that I’d never heard and have no good reason for that being the case other than my own stubbornness. But I’m very open to my feelings about certain bands and records being changed, so even though the early start time represents a structural shift I’m still struggling to reconcile, I’m glad we got there early. I’m fairly certain a lot of the other folks there were as well, but even as Filter played a solid show and were engaging and personable, Patrick still reminded the crowd where they were several times by saying, “Come on, y’all, this is a rock and roll concert!”
When I first read the full lineup for this show, I thought Filter was the odd band out. Turns out, though, it was Ministry. They’re another band I’ve had little time for ever since they abandoned synthesizers for guitars, which was decades ago. Yeah, it’s been that long. Over the past few years, though, I’ve gone back and listened to a lot of those albums that could now be considered mid-period and have softened toward them. After this show, though, I don’t think I’ll ever bother again. The whole conceit of the band—this ridiculous faux-industrial-cowboys-from-hell thing—just comes across as a gigantic put on. They blasted through three newer songs, the first being “Big Dick Energy,” which is exactly the type of title someone who really wanted to be with the times would use. It’s desperate and obvious. Then founder and band leader Al Jourgensen said, and I’m paraphrasing, “Now you get the old stuff!” So they plodded through band staples like “Stigmata,” “N.W.O.” and “Just One Fix” before closing with the chestnut “Jesus Built My Hotrod.” To be entirely fair, Jourgensen has enjoyed a hugely influential career for over 40 years that’s included a nearly uncountable number of projects without which loud, difficult and dark rock and roll would be decidedly poorer. This night, however, even though the sun was still out as they finished, I could have fallen asleep with little problem.
Here’s where we’re going to go a little out of order so I can tell you that headliner Rob Zombie is a powerhouse of a performer. While I’ve generally been more drawn to his movies than his music, he and his band brought it to their ardent fans in a completely over the top, but expected, way. Employing huge puppets and costumed crew as space aliens, robots and even the devil himself—along with non-stop films, lights and the like—it’s clear how much he’s embraced his role as not only an artist but entertainer. And, yeah, he still dresses like Charlie Manson’s hobo consigliere, from his ragtag beard all the way down to his double-fringed jeans. This was the first time I’d ever seen him perform, but his whole show really embraced that specific type of artist-audience relationship that posits the notion that we’re all in this together, even if Zombie, by his own admission, only wanted to talk about UFOs. While this type of rock and roll kumbaya has been common for decades, it’s still a deviation from that original rock ideal of rebellion for its own sake and experiential individuation. I mean, this is fine, it’s whatever. People are allowed to enjoy being entertained and feel like they’re part of something bigger without some critic putting his own fingerprint on the experience like I am. Thing is, though, right before Zombie and crew took the stage, the very phenomenon I’m talking about took full center stage.
To have gone this long without seeing the mighty Alice Cooper live is a certain stain on my bona fides. If I’d had the chance to tell him this in person he most likely couldn’t have cared less. Because Cooper, all 76 years of him, makes music that remains simultaneously contemporaneous and timeless. It’s always there for anyone to pick up. Over the years, ever since the very first Alice Cooper Band lineup, he’s been blessed to have a near-endless stream of crack musicians backing him up and his current lineup, including the incredible shredder Nita Strauss on guitar, have been with him many years. Strauss’ tenure is even the shortest lived at a mere decade compared to other current guitarist Ryan Roxie’s 28 years of service.
As expected, and honesty hoped for, Cooper’s show was replete with his signature guillotine, boa constrictor and politicians pulpit. We saw him menace the crowd, get executed onstage, and declare he should be elected. Cooper, who is famously non-political in his life as a musician/entertainer and feels those who are are engaging in an abuse of power over their audience, said during the portion of the show when he performed 1973’s “Elected” (“Kids want a savior, don’t need a fake/
I wanna be elected!”), “I promise the formation of a new party, The Wild Party! All I know is we have problems right here in Georgia. We have problems in Los Angeles, we have problems in New York, Florida, Michigan, we have problems all over the United States. And personally, I don’t care!”
Say what you will about bad citizenship, but this was first rock and roll middle finger to get raised to the establishment all night. And at a certain point this night, I started to wonder if rock and roll has a lot to answer for when it’s only the 76 year old on the bill who keeps the black flag flying.
Cooper’s whole show was spectacular in the truest sense of being a spectacle. He even mentioned that Halloween was coming and and asked “And who owns Halloween?” Then he pointed at himself. Sorry, Timi Conley. I’m gonna go with Coop on this one. The set was packed with hits. One by one, “No More Mr. Nice Guy,” “Under My Wheels,” “Billion Dollar Babies,” “Killer,” “I Love The Dead” and “School’s Out” shot right into the heart of the assembled crowd. Yet, the most poignant moment of his set, and the whole night, arrived with the third song of his set.
Alice Cooper has been singing “I’m Eighteen” since he was 21. Originally released as a single in late 1970, it was the band’s first-ever hit and appeared on 1971’s Love It To Death. It’s lyrics of being stuck between childhood and adulthood, daily confusion, non-stop doubt, etc. are universal and personal. They address the existential crisis of someone who can’t even yet understand it as such. They apply to everyone but on an individual level. It’s a testament to the songs overall, undeniable power that, even deep into his 70s, Cooper can sing this without a hint of irony. There had long been pop songs that capture this same deeply personal sense of being from the triumphant “My Way” to the necessary escapism of the Beach Boys’ “In My Room” and The Drifters’ “Up On The Roof.” Cooper’s tale was never new. But the fact that this story is written over and over in rock music just reinforces the point of common feelings being uniquely experienced.
By the end of the night, I’d received unexpected transcendence from Filter, disappointment and lethargy from Ministry, and a raucous revival from Rob Zombie. Most of the crowd was older by a decent clip over the few younger folks there who mostly seemed to be accompanying parents. And I thought about how this show would have effected me if I was that age at this particular time watching these specific acts. I can only imagine an unfamiliar kid might have enjoyed Filter, maybe even dug the noise of Ministry, and probably would have thought Zombie and his band were a cool thing that existed for a former generation. But it was only Alice Cooper who delivered the music that would cause someone to think, “This was written for me.”
And if that’s not rock and roll, then don’t tell me differently because I don’t want to know.
Like what you just read? Support Flagpole by making a donation today. Every dollar you give helps fund our ongoing mission to provide Athens with quality, independent journalism.
