Concert Review by Shawn Perry
You can say all you want about Peter Frampton’s ascension to superstardom taking off like a flaring comet, but you can’t deny the man’s talent as a guitarist, songwriter, and performer. Up until his recent concert at Cerritos Center for the Performing Arts, my opportunities of seeing Frampton on stage had been limited to two prior occasions: a co-headlining gig with Yes at Anaheim Stadium in 1976, a huge, Frampton Comes Alive sponsored performance I barely remember, and again in 1997 as a guitarist-for-hire with Ringo Starr’s All-Starr Band. It was during the latter show that I truly learned to appreciate Frampton’s abilities as a guitarist. So much has been made of his success in the 70s, that many have forgotten what a true master of his chosen instrument he is. In Cerritos, that little known fact came out of hiding in full bloom.
The venue itself is unlike most you encounter. Located in a sleepy suburb of L.A., Cerritos Center for the Performing Arts is a bright and modern showplace, surrounded by hotels and shopping outlets. The curators simultaneously host concerts, plays, wedding receptions, bachelor parties and puppet shows. With so many events unfolding, I still was able to find a free parking spot by a lighted fountain, just a few steps from the front door. That alone made my day. In no time at all a bespectacled usher was politely “showing me the way” to my seat and I was set for a fine evening of music.
Once the lights lowered, a furtive sampling of Frampton’s new instrumental album Fingerprints arbitrarily mixed it up with what the guitarist referred to as “stuff from my vinyl era.” A short and funky sleight-of-hand with his black Les Paul turned a corner and Frampton negotiated the slapdashery of Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours” before relinquishing the set to songs from his most successful outing, Frampton Comes Alive. One may think the former poster boy of 70s live albums would want to forgo this particular time in history. Despite selling millions, it left a bad taste in the mouths of many hardcore devotees who had been there since Humble Pie. Still, to hear the self-deprecation of “Lines On My Face” was more of a revelation than a surrender to time.
No longer a shaggy haired teen dream, Frampton and his band — guitarist Gordon Kennedy, drummer Shawn Fitch, bassist John Regan, and keyboardist/guitarist Rob Arthur — skillfully picked through “Show Me The Way” “All I Want To Be (Is By Your Side)” and “Baby I Love Your Way.” Just before a requisite reading of “Winds Of Change,” Frampton explained how he nicked the tuning for the song from George Harrison, whom he had worked with in the early 70s. “It’s nice to have a Beatle in your phone book,” he remarked.
“Float” and “Boot It Up” from Fingerprints show that Frampton isn’t afraid to wander into new and unexplored territory. Most surprising is his instrumental rendition of Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun,” a velvety, contemporary take on a relatively popular hit from the grungy 90s. With a mild and sophisticated audience at their hest, the chemistry brewing within the band held solid without going overboard. The conduit lay in the confident, brash showmanship of Peter Frampton.
When he appeared in the film Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, Peter Frampton came off as a stiff, inexperienced wanna-be actor. Today he is able to mix a crusty, rough-around-the-edges sense of humor with puffy haired nostalgia as easily as putting on a pair of slippers. When he wasn’t poking fun at himself and the songs he plays, the audience was enraptured, intoning each well-worn chorus like the school children many may have been back in the lofty 70s. And for some odd reason, the graying, balding guitarist still reels in the babes. Go figure…
The last three numbers of the night ultimately brought down the house. First, an elongated, expertly executed “Do You Feel Like We Do” remains a barnstorming showstopper no matter which way you look at it. Regan’s twitchy bass line and Arthur’s subtle electic piano built the foundation while Frampton and Kennedy wielded their axes and attacked it from all angles. Fitch slotted in with his share of able bodied fills before the whole song collapsed into a free-for-all that set off car alarms for miles around. Well, that’s what I heard.
The encore had even more surprises in store. Frampton knows only too well that when you have the audience in the palm of your hand, you have to know when to shoot the works.So why not start with “I Don’t Need No Doctor,” always a spitfire tour de force during Frampton’s time with Humble Pie. Peeling off the notes and inciting the spectators to join in may well have scared off the laconic security force, but it made the old school classic rockers rejoice. Then, in a suave move no one could have predicted, Frampton paid a full tribute to George Harrison. Instead of stealing a riff, he and his sturdy band broke into a reverent cover of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” I was in my car and on the freeway five minutes after the last note. And I slept like a baby that night, musically nourished and fulfilled without a care in the world.
