A study in contrasts

Exhibit A. Lead Guitar.
The gum is being snapped and chomped at the same time; a physical feat I can't quite wrap my brain around. My eyes are riveted, watching the jaw that doesn't quite move up and down or side to side. I realize with shock and a little disgust that this must be what watching a cow chew cud must look like.

His left arm flies up and down the neck of a gleaming, candy apple red electric guitar. In truth, it doesn't take much to navigate the series of frets. It's too small. Miniature, almost. It rests against his broad-shouldered, muscular chest and stomach, looking a bit like what the instrument his preteen self must have hunched over for hours at a time in a closed-door bedroom of rockstar fantasies.

The fantasy carries over to the end of songs. Or solos, even. He raises a closed fist and bobs his head as the audience members on his side of the stage howl their approval. It was acceptable the first time. But not the second, third, fourth, fifth...

His shredded, angular hairstyle rests in spikey layers around his face, hinting at long nights rocking and rolling without the benefit of showering. The gray t-shirt and well-worn jeans complete the messy chic attempt. But the highlights and the hair gel gives him away.

A dagger of styled hair begins to bob up and down as he bends back over the guitar for another solo, the gum chomping all the while...

Exhibit B. Bassist.
Flannel shirt. Untucked. Spikey hair and scruffy beard, positioned below striking eyes focusing almost non-stop on the beautiful, six-string electric bass he plays. His fingers fly over the strings during a fierce solo that leaves even my tired, achey head bobbing back and forth. His focus and intensity builds to such a point that it seems he NEEDS to jump up and down a couple of times in order to let some of it out. He's quiet. He smiles occasionally at the crowd, but otherwise lets his instrument, his sound do the talking. And, when you're not trying to analyze the gum chewing on the other side of the stage, he's the one your eyes are drawn to. 'Cause you can tell that he's the closest thing to badass this band has got.

*****
At 24 and nearly 49/52 years old, I realized that I felt old. Fucking old. What-the-hell-happened kind of old.

I wasn't a fan.

I stood in Higher Ground, waiting for Blues Traveler or the opening band to take the stage. Doors at 7, show to start at 8 and we got there at about 8:15. It was 9:02 and the house lights had yet to dim for anything.

If there's one thing that irks me about live performance, it's starting late. Or, I should say, excessively late. We've been standing around. We're excited, but we want to save our energy for the dancing, Dear Band. A few minutes is one thing. An hour is absurd.

But it turns out there is no opener - Popper and the rest of the guys take the stage, smile and make reference back to the early 90s - which is, I believe, the last time they were in our part of the world. They launch into the sound and I try to dance and get excited about it...

...and I realize that I'm not digging it. The college kids behind me, the ones who made me burst into laughter as they discussed "The Last Dispatch" being the greatest musical event they'd ever attended, are flailing around. The older people in front of me keep backing into me. A man with a beard and backwards black felt newsboy cap has pushed up through our part of the crowd and appears to be having a seizure. Which would fit, considering that the harmonica notes are so high that they feel as if they're piercing my eardrums and every one of Popper's solos sounds exactly like the solo from "Runaround." Out of place compared to the rest of the loud (loud LOUD) sounds coming from the rest of the band.

It's too much, and I'm having a hard time finding any thread of consistency. I want to be able to find a rhythm, a melody to follow. It's not happening.

I wind up leaving early - about halfway through the set. I'm glad that I saw the band, that I can cross it off my "List of Bands I Should Have Seen Before But For Whatever Reason Didn't." And I think that maybe, given different circumstances, I'd check them out again (read: outdoor performance). But I'm not feeling enough of a pull toward the stage to keep me here.

I tell Beth that I'm going to get some air and that, if she doesn't find me after the show, I'll just meet her and Chuck (who had driven in and met us) at home.

After a few gulps of air, I give it about another twenty minutes.

Then I head home.

*****
Speaking of less than ideal shows...I'm amazed by the number of glowing reviews I've seen in regards to the Mraz show at the Orpheum.

It wasn't that it was a BAD show. By any means. A "Mr. A-Z" heavy show does not necessarily a bad show make - after all, I did enjoy myself in Montreal on Thursday (I had a blast in Montreal, actually).

On Sunday, he and Toca teamed up for "After An Afternoon" (read: sigh. Love that song). "I'm Yours" was featured with the trio-turned-quartet. "Mr. Curiosity" and "Plane" remain the two songs on the new album I really enjoy.

But here's the catch. I don't enjoy phoned-in performances. By anyone. Let alone someone whose past shows have grabbed my attention and left me riveted throughout the sets. Not to mention someone I described the night before, explaining that seeing him live was what really proved how dynamic he is.

The band? I enjoy 'em. Seems like a collection of good and great guys.

But they've been positioned on stage around and behind the title musician. And if the spotlight's on the guy in the center, who's so big on conveying that he's a Real Kind of Guy, he's got to be up for the challenge.