Pop
Per ardua ad astra
Duncan Fallowell'Y
In their determination to prove that there's no business like show business, and no entertainer like this entertainer, Brian Ferry, Gary Glitter and Tina Turner have all recently made considerable head way by receiving standing ova tions before the performance began. Brian Ferry with his band, Roxy Music, got the impatient yes-it-is-no-it-isn't laced with just the right amount of metropolitan dope fatigue dying to be upstaged by events. Behold a deep blue and green stage, Ferry singing in leper-white tuxedo against a broken arch and banks of palms, electrical sinfoniettas about what it is like to be a jewelled cadaver, energistically reflective, something of the commedia dell' arte and wickedly popular. On the other hand Gary Glitter's single had just shot to Number One from nowhere and his restlessly baying audience, which contained many girls of the sort who terrorise London's streets in gangs, were not to be kept waiting even by the current king of the hit parade. As paper cups and chocolate boxes whizzed over one's head, the tremendous roar which went up when he finally entered with motorbike cavalcade did not shock, just paralysed. The Ike and Tina Turner revue had to work harder to recapture the audience after a few initial cock-ups. Their principal difficulty was caused by an inefficient sound system which had the brass section sending ear-splitting chords to the back of the theatre while their musically central rhythm section was rumbling fabulously but in something of an umbra. Add to this the fact that their two biggest hits in this country, River Deep Mountain High and the recent Nut bush City Limits, that is the numbers which theoretically activate the crowd, gave rise on this occasion to some catastrophic events, like muddled key signatures and mistaken cues, then you have most of the ingredients for the biggest anti-climax since the ' Titanic ' failed to dock in Manhattan. But, of course, as in all true fairy stories, pain is eventually overcome by pleasure. There was yet another uneasy moment in an aura of dimming red when Tina announced, all apparent seriousness, that she was "gonna sing der blues." The nine or ten minutes which followed could have been an experience of raucous bathos such as I have never experienced before but — suddenly — kitsch! Saved: a brilliantly animated cartoon, and when at the most agonised nadir *tatOr 'December 1, 1973
of theatrical despair, she broke into giggles, then it was in the bag. Despite the funky but structural nature of the entertainment I Was throughout aware of how ,Imonderfully sensitive she is to now it must be played, in all kinds Of small captivating ways. In this She is the black, hotter Mick Jagger. „More than anything, Tina turner's natural working energy, linked to the venereal-comehousewifely sparring with husband, Ike (in handling a microphone she has no -female rivals), prevented the faux-pas from biting too deeply. Actually her voice is nearly always raucous but perfectly suited to the soul Pock which the band play with greater propulsion than anyone else. It is music for the hips and heart, with that rhythm section again providing an irresistible Pulse which draws its beat sensitively from black Africa and its attack from white rock 'n roll. Sometimes they play too fast for their own good and the whole Juggernaut seems about to collapse in on itself. More usually, as throughout half a dozen or so encores, with the entire theatre on its feet and shaking, they capture the elusive magical essence Which, by setting up tempo tensions in the body, has to resolve itself in dance. They are rare among rock bands in being able to retain much of this essence on their records. Unequivocally recommended albums for those caught yawning on couches by the leisure age are Come Together, Which proves that they are more than a match for Joe Cocker in covering Beatles songs, and Nutbush City Limits, both on United Artists, £2.30.
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