BY STEVE HURLBURT
Years from now when musico-historians and -sociologists look back on the punk movement of the mid-1970s, they will, no doubt, see several reasons for its occurrence. Social conditions, the economic climate, youth's desire for something new and different, the meaninglessness of existence, etc., etc.
Well, here's another theory to throw in the hat, and it came to me at, of all places, a James Taylor concert: Punk developed because bands (consciously or unconsciously) decided to treat audiences the way audiences had been treating them for years. How many times had bands seen fights or people vomiting on the floor as they played? How many times had they had beer cans hurled at them or someone spit on their instruments? And why did they have to put up with this crap just for the opportunity to play copy tunes and live at the poverty level? Answer: They didn't.
And so the bands spit back, vomited back, and played “music" that would irreparably damage people's eardrums. Just desserts.
But how did I happen to think of that at a James Taylor show? After all, he's been around. He’s had to pay more than his share of physical, emotional and mental dues. He's garnered a reputation of musical integrity and honesty which should command at least a modicum of respect from his fans. Right?
You couldn’t tell from their behavior at the concert; a Jimmy Buffett crowd, screaming drunk, could not have been as rude, abusive and boisterous as the JT audience. One expects it at a Buffett or Nugent show - they encourage it, it would be a major disappointment if everyone wasn’t rowdy as hell; but James Taylor?! Good God! Of course he’s going to play all of his hits, the titles of which countless assholes were verbally barraging him with throughout the show; just give the man a chance. Sure, like a snowball in hell.
And so, instead of spitting, vomiting or smashing heads with his guitar, James conducted things from the opposite end of the spectrum. He talked little, made jokes about playing all the songs on his list (he held up a sheet of paper several feet long saying, "I’ll get to that - we'll do that.") and gave a performance as polished as steel, as cold as ice, as barren of the real communication, intimacy and emotion he is capable of generating as is the South Pole of palm trees. Professional to a T, but dead as driftwood. Not because he can't open up anymore, but because his alleged fans won't give him the respect and consideration given to any other artist of his stature and position. Joni Mitchell doesn't have to put up with such crap. Nor does Van Morrison.
So why is it that fellow-performers like Taylor or Jackson Browne can no longer really hope to give a concert which conveys any magic, and mystery, or any moments of genuineness? Simple - they've got to do what we want them to do whether they like it or not. And we'll bellow at them like speared hogs until they come through.
I remember when Taylor appeared on Saturday Night Live around the time Flag was released. He played "Millworker", himself on guitar backed by a rich, resonant cello. I had not heard the song and as it progressed, I found myself totally taken up into a story of pathos, suffering, hardship and truth. He finished singing the last chorus, played a few more chords and ended the song with a vicious slam on his instrument - low E string rattling against the fretboard - embodying all the years of hatred and resentment felt by the millworker's widow.
But instead of the normal lead-in-to-a- commercial applause, there we sat - TV and studio audiences alike - stunned into silence by the performance we had just witnessed. The applause began a couple of seconds later, but not until electricity of the moment had thrown a shiver or two down 20 million spines. Such moments are not extinct, they just don't happen much anymore. And we have no one to blame but ourselves.
BY J. E. SUMRELL
Like most music fanatics, I have somewhat loyally followed the musical trends of the last decade, and more often than not, have liked what was going on. I moved with the times.
Some things, however, never change; James Taylor for instance. I (barely) lived through southern boogie and I've (thankfully) outgrown it, but Sweet Baby James still sits proudly on my shelf. I've deified XTC, Joy Division, PiL and anybody else on Virgin or Rough Trade, but I still like Gorilla. "God Save The Queen" may very well be the greatest rock n' roll song ever recorded, but “Johnnie Comes Back" is pretty good too. Am I ready to admit that James Taylor is still something ... er, ah, anything to get excited about?
I didn't have the answer to that question, so at my wife's request, I decided to attend the recent JT concert. Maybe it would help cure the pickle I forced myself into, and smash this bothersome, gnat-like brain stumper. I needed to get it out of my system.
Going to a James Taylor concert requires a little suspension of disbelief. I mean, here's a man who literally breathes gold, and he's not even from L.A. He's never even played with the Eagles! In fact, he's no longer with Warner Bros Records or any of their endless subsidiaries. That takes some getting used to!
So here I sit, three rows from the top of the Civic Center, handkerchief at nose, binoculars at eyes.
The concert • begins, and already some tough questions. For all practical purposes this is the same band that Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt and everyone else in L.A. uses (except, of course, The Eagles) , but howcum it's different? Why does Waddy sound so much like Kootch? Why does James only use one-name guitarists? How can Rick Marotta (a guiding percussive force on such brilliant disks as Peter Gabriel) even stand this stuff? And why am I enjoying myself so much?
Oddly enough, some answers came to me not at the concert, but as I watched TV the following night. James Taylor is just like good television - that is, he takes the same ingredients that all the other nameless, useless, mindless goop is made of, and creates something that is really no different, but just seems a notch above. He is a sleeping pill for our better judgment. He is a master at disguising the mediocre. He is a very clever fellow indeed, and probably deserves all that money anyway.
But now that I know this, should I still allow my brain to sway to his infectious blandness? Furthermore, is it eve n possible that I can stop? I doubt it. In fact, I don't want to. Everybody likes to be stupid once in a while. James Taylor lets you be stupid without you knowing or caring.
I can almost guarantee in 20 years, when we'll probably be dancing to amplified bumblebees, somewhere in my jungle of vinyl amidst the 'T' section will sit 20 or 30 records by a balding James Taylor. And every so often when my gray matter begins to tire of the exercise that I tend to overdo, I'll somnambulate with ol ' JT. And I'll love it.