Photo by Sung. Full set here.
Joe Jackson performed the aesthetic masterpiece of architecture with seating to match, one with gilded archways, ornate lounges and a total freakin’ mezzanine, The Orpheum Theater, Tuesday night. I was there and Sung was there, too, and he took pictures. For those who could not attend, I am not proud to tell you that you missed a gigantic opportunity to raise your standards. JJ opened with “Steppin’ Out” just to get it out of the way. That’s what kind of show I’m about to review.
After driving a bit into scary downtown near the Fashion District, I dropped $10 to park, went halfway up Broadway and entered a voluminous space. Euclid would just shit himself to behold the interior of the Orpheum, so rigorous in its geometry that you feel like making love to someone just hunting for the right row.
I was seated in one of those little balcony snob zones where rich ladies peer at “Cosi fan tutti” through bejeweled binoculars. Had it all to myself for the opening act, a duo named after the lead singer, first name: MUTLU. Not an Elder God of Chaos Mutlu but a bearded, friendly and bone-sincere Philadelphian white male who brought along his friend, Chris. Two acoustic guitars, two vox, and R&B folk songs for about forty minutes. I couldn’t leave. He sings like a soulful angel. Mutlu’s sound and style have a Saturn return that keeps bringing up the Blues Traveler and late Grateful Dead and Traffic. Or maybe this. Dig if you will, this. MUTLU is the magical earthy tell-it-like-it-is Pennsylvanian whose working class dramas are existential codeine, who we shell-shocked rock and roll veterans nominate as our personal savior when the world runs us down. No cynicism about him, nothing pretentious, just brotherly love radiating though a layer mask of Thin Lizzy’s “Romeo and the Lonely Girl”. Do I turn his rolling papers in my hand or his words in my mind?
Round of applause, thanks everyone, and leaves. During the wait, I exchange inanities with Sung on many topics including losanjealous, the general lack of eighties band coverage on the site, and more!
Let me tell you now what kind of a show it turned into. When JJ came out, the fan’s deafening cheer startled this fifty-three year old rock dignitary, an aging Malcolm McDowell in profile, into taking a gigantic wayward step backward. If he feels worthy of the outpouring, he’s not letting us know. If he feels we’re worthy of his outpouring, well, you could argue that one, too. For an opener, as mentioned, he trashes and simultaneously reinvents “Steppin’ Out” at twice its original speed as if to firmly demonstrate his unconventional powers first-hand. I wasn’t sure I liked it. He went from here to playing a short set from his new album of this January, Rain, a collector’s item by now loaded with wry Brit humor and a loneliness magnified from his protracted stay in Berlin.
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May 12-16 is Bike to Work Week, and it looks like the weather here will be accommodating as usual. So take this opportunity to leave behind L.A.’s bumper-to-bumper traffic and get on the side of the greasy, dirty road — permanently if possible. It’s easier than you might think.
