Review by Shawn Perry
“The thing with your website is that there are no articles about chick rockers and that might make the reader think that you are…chauvinistic…” And so said my female companion for the evening as we ventured forth into the misty L.A. night to go see the Pretenders at the Wiltern Theatre. OK, let me see — I’m not, as far as I know, a chauvinist. The truth of the matter is I just haven’t gotten around to flapping my wings for the ladies of music until now. Maybe, I just needed a reminder.
In my column on About.com, I’ve written about Joni Mitchell, Janis Joplin, Bonnie Raitt, Heart, Jefferson Airplane and Fleetwood Mac, so it’s not like I’ve totally ignored the female segment of popular music. Are you kidding me? I love them. Unfortunately, there are simply not enough women who play the kind of music I listen to, which isn’t to say that’s good or bad or indifferent…it has to do with numbers and odds and statistics. Actually, I’ve been listening to a lot of music by women. Lately, Tori Amos, Kate Bush, Fiona Apple, Shelby Lynne, Norah Jones, Diana Krall, Bjork and Aimee Mann have all been making the rounds on the old CD player. I even think Shakira and No Doubt (yeah, I’ve become that flexible) are tolerable.
I had no intention of writing about the Pretenders until I heard the comment that began this article. I actually went to the concert as a casual fan who had seen them once before in the mid 80s. What I witnessed was an electrifying performance by a truly Vintage Rock band. The fact that they are lead by a consummate pro and unique stylist worthy of more praise than she has enjoyed of late — the lovely, almost incomparable Chrissie Hynde — is merely a nice coincidence. Referring to Chrissie, I say “almost incomparable” in that there have been a lot of girls who have tried to emulate that tough veneer, seasoned over with sultry sassiness (not to mention the whole similarity-to-Elvira-without-the-cleavage thing she’s got going on…creepy, huh?). The problem with the girls who try to be like Chrissie Hynde is simply a matter of endurance. Some of those girls (and I’m not naming names) have succumb to cushier roles, unable to sustain that stiff upper lip gloss with any form of dignity. Even Joan Jett isn’t quite as interesting as she once was.
For her part, Chrissie does her thing amazingly well. She’s still sexy in a seminally classic sense — a rock personality to behold and cheer on. Beneath her sometimes harsh and hard exterior, Chrissie has this soft and feminine quality that enables her to write and perform a rich and vibrant catalog of timeless tunes. At one point, late into the Wiltern show, a gentlemen, dressed considerably better than your local stage diving dope, leapt up onto stage right, dropped to his knees, and repeatedly bowed before the band. Seconds later, a hapless security goon chased him off and into the crowd. The wayward fan should have been commended, not scolded; but rules are rules, and so forth and so on. If only because the Pretenders are one of the few bands of the last 25 years whose continued existence still makes perfect sense. Considering the obstacles of multiple band member fatalities and desertions, along with a changing tide of styles, causes and concerns, Chrissie has always done a respectable job of keeping it real, imbibing a gasp of genuine street smarts ingrained into her soul since, with pen in hand, she so angrily slagged it out with the late 70s punks of London.
You have to love the fact that Chrissie is over fifty and still carries herself like a bedraggled, unflappable rock star. In constant interaction with her band — Adam Seymour on lead guitar, Andy Hobson on bass, the original longtimer Martin Chambers on drums and Zeb Jameson on keyboards and assorted percussion — Chrissie wowed the packed house with a whole lotta old and a whole lotta new. The concert was being filmed — beware of swinging camera booms — so the band went to extra lengths to really shake things up, without being overtly political or nasty. Chrissie’s voice was a little shot, she said early on, but she remained a gracious hostess who lived up to her legend throughout.
Seymour was obviously impressive on newer stuff like “The Loser” and “Lie To Me,” two luxurious crunchers from the Pretender’s debut for the independent Artemis label, Loose Screw. While the reggae feel of “Complex Person,” amongst others, is as captivating as something like “Private Life” (everyone eventually drifts to reggae to escape the insanity), Loose Screw is a fairly conventional collection that neither fires duds or skyrockets. It’s appropriate for a veteran band like the Pretenders, perhaps even a bit more satisfying than your run-of the-mill 8th studio album. I’m confidant Chrissie still has some brass in her pocket she’s saving up for a foggy slump.
“You know how men handle a guitar like a woman. Well, she handles a guitar like a man.” More wisdom oozing from the lips of my date. And damn if she isn’t right! Although Chrissie spends some of her time, mic in hand, twisting and sashaying from one side of the stage to the other, she really exerts her authority when she’s manhandling a Telecaster. Seymour brilliantly maneuvers the Honeyman-Scott/McIntosh leads, but Chrissie divinely pile-drives the rhythm in perfect sync with Chamber’s fanciful drumming, which became more interesting as the night wore on. Chrissie would have been the perfect foil for Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello and Dave Grohl when they performed “London Calling” together at the Grammys that previous Sunday. It was a tribute to the late Joe Strummer, who never won a Grammy himself. Come to think of it, neither has his friend Chrissie. Oh the shame!
Obviously, the crowd at the Wiltern came to hear the hits and the hits were aplenty. “Message Of Love,” “Kid,” “Talk Of The Town,” “My City Was Gone,” “Back On The Chain Gone” and “Middle Of The Road” were all rolled out to rampant enthusiasm. But the juice got loose when classic slammers like “Precious,” Tattooed Love Boys” and “Mystery Achievement” were loaded, cocked and fired. Once Chrissie snarls out, “Trapped in a world that they never made/But not me, baby — I’m too precious…Fuck off!” The adrenaline is like a sweeping aphrodisiac. And someone pinch me if they didn’t play a rollicking rave-up of “Thumbelina” (can someone confirm this for me?). By the night’s end, Chrissie and her crew had turned the audience into putty. Those pour souls in front must have been drenched with vitality!
There are few things left in this modern world that retain their bloom, their sacredness — that rare streak of infinite splendor and definition that devours the feeble and fashionable in lieu of something more palatable and stimulating. With that in mind, I can take comfort in icons like Chrissie Hynde who will never become over-the-top divas and sell-outs. All of which means more and more women, artistically speaking, are perfectly able to stand eye to eye with the old geezers supposedly in charge. I guess it just took an observant young lady to turn my head in the right direction. I wonder what else I’ve been missing?
