October 5, 2008
The New Theatre was bursting at the seams for this concert on Saturday night, and this is what it was like. The supporting band was justly humble and expressed themselves grateful to people for listening (and not chucking bottles, by implication). During the interval industrious roadies came on stage and loaded it with a formidable array of gleaming white high-tech amps and speakers. I was reminded of Spinal Tap’s celebrated ambition to make their audience’s eardrums bleed, and blessed the management for putting me at the back, as far away from the speakers as possible.
At this point most people in the audience, having paid for their seats, were sitting in them, but the second Quo came on stage everyone leapt to their feet. A lot of denim had been unearthed from the back of a lot of wardrobes for this occasion – roars of appreciation greeted their opening number, no less than the wonderful Sweet Caroline. It was in fact awesome, and wonderful, to be in the presence of actual rock giants, doing their thing. These men have been professional musicians since they were twenty; they are now perfect masters of their craft, and though the line-up has changed over the years, they have been together a long time and they have a very relaxed, friendly, down to earth working relationship both with one another and with their audience.
When I were a lass in 1976 someone would make that remark about Quo only knowing three chords, and someone other clever dick would reply, What, you found another one? But actually, the guitar playing was awesome - their hands were a blur at times - and live it is of course a much more substantial, gutsy, irresistibly dancy sound than any recording can render. The floor, the seats, even the walls, were all vibrating, and my companion had to remove herself about two thirds of the way through from the overwhelming heat and noise of the stalls. (Though only 11, she really loved the music and compelled me to purchase both a tee-shirt and a CD.)
In terms of showmanship, the band is not into gimmicks or dance moves, they continue as they always have to play good old-fashioned rock’n’roll, and when really carried away by their enthusiasm they occasionally adopt the Nigel Tufnel rock stance, where guitar magically transforms into giant organ, which is always entertaining (though the Moppet’s verdict was “Euw!”).
There is indeed a suggestive likeness between Rick Parfitt and David St Hubbins, which finer historians of rock’n’roll than I can doubtless expound upon. Francis Rossi now bears an uncanny resemblance to my uncle Gerard, only thinner and with longer hair; he is urbane, warm, funny – clearly a happy man. There is no mistaking the genuine pleasure they have in their own music, no sense that they are just there to put their kids through college, not a hint of rudeness to the audience. A truly enjoyable evening, and I’m sure my eardrums will recover in a few days.
At this point most people in the audience, having paid for their seats, were sitting in them, but the second Quo came on stage everyone leapt to their feet. A lot of denim had been unearthed from the back of a lot of wardrobes for this occasion – roars of appreciation greeted their opening number, no less than the wonderful Sweet Caroline. It was in fact awesome, and wonderful, to be in the presence of actual rock giants, doing their thing. These men have been professional musicians since they were twenty; they are now perfect masters of their craft, and though the line-up has changed over the years, they have been together a long time and they have a very relaxed, friendly, down to earth working relationship both with one another and with their audience.
When I were a lass in 1976 someone would make that remark about Quo only knowing three chords, and someone other clever dick would reply, What, you found another one? But actually, the guitar playing was awesome - their hands were a blur at times - and live it is of course a much more substantial, gutsy, irresistibly dancy sound than any recording can render. The floor, the seats, even the walls, were all vibrating, and my companion had to remove herself about two thirds of the way through from the overwhelming heat and noise of the stalls. (Though only 11, she really loved the music and compelled me to purchase both a tee-shirt and a CD.)
In terms of showmanship, the band is not into gimmicks or dance moves, they continue as they always have to play good old-fashioned rock’n’roll, and when really carried away by their enthusiasm they occasionally adopt the Nigel Tufnel rock stance, where guitar magically transforms into giant organ, which is always entertaining (though the Moppet’s verdict was “Euw!”).
There is indeed a suggestive likeness between Rick Parfitt and David St Hubbins, which finer historians of rock’n’roll than I can doubtless expound upon. Francis Rossi now bears an uncanny resemblance to my uncle Gerard, only thinner and with longer hair; he is urbane, warm, funny – clearly a happy man. There is no mistaking the genuine pleasure they have in their own music, no sense that they are just there to put their kids through college, not a hint of rudeness to the audience. A truly enjoyable evening, and I’m sure my eardrums will recover in a few days.