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But the question everyone is asking is: where was Juliana? Wasn't she supposed to be there on bass, instead of that nice guy from Philadelphia, a "soccer" enthusiast with whom it was a pleasure to kick the ball around after the concert?
Evan was there, at least him. The prince of Boston indie was in shape, in his own way, of course. That is, utterly ragged, head down, zero communication with the audience. Obviously, none of this matters: some express themselves through words, speeches, gestures, looks, etc., and others simply with their songs. Each to their own language. Dando is like that, like fellow citizen Mascis and other anti-heroes of the American underground. His melodies with a distant country-folk flavor reminiscent of Parsons, arranged with Neil Young's wall of sound, speak for him, translating into music shadows, bitterness, ponderings, resignation, but also some bursts of illusory serenity. When I first got to know the Lemonheads, I thought they were a decent compromise between Husker Du and Replacements, nothing more. But soon I realized that Evan Dando is an amazing songwriter, of extraordinary finesse and inspiration, and I even told him that after the concert while he was sitting in his van: "You're one of the best indie-rockers in the business!" It's the least you can say to someone who, just between '87 and '90, must have put together at least twenty memorable tracks, compelling and empathetic songs that 99% of pop stars only dream of.
Four recent tracks opened the concert, making for a somewhat cold start, a bit subdued, and then the glorious album, “It’s A Shame About Ray,” from beginning to end. Without Hatfield, as we said. Maybe it was just a marketing ploy, or maybe they fell out before the tour; I don't know and don't care. I only know that a "Rudderless" without a female counterpoint is a bit less beautiful. The same goes for "Bit Part." No highlights, no peaks, and no lows in the trio's performance: everything flowed with the usual calm tone, but not apathetic, where emotion is always restrained, never shouted, but omnipresent like a lump in the throat that never goes away. That sense of unraveling and abandonment running through the (vocal and instrumental) strings of Dinosaur Jr is found in this concert, only more concise. Throughout the concert, I had the impression that, whatever he played, Dando was always able to convey that complex and troubled range of moods that make up his poetic universe: it's "cloudy" music, where sun rays occasionally appear to warm the day before the clouds gather again, threatening a storm.
At the end of the concert, there was room for a one-man show with only Dando on stage, where I expected at least a "Postcard," but he didn't do it. Among the encores, with the rhythm section back on stage, I appreciated "Stove," even though the guitar got a bit tangled in the irresistible coda. I had prepared a list of requests, from "Sad Girl" to "Half The Time," from "Circle Of One" to "Fed Up," etc... but that would have been too good. Strange that no one loudly demanded "Cazzo Di Ferro," an enigmatic "tribute" from the Bostonian to the Belpaese.
The show was overall satisfying, even if the Meat Puppets a month and a half ago were much more exhilarating and fierce. But I believe the uniqueness of these events often resides in everything beyond the music, paradoxically. Seeing Evan Dando approach our little group to ask for a cigarette, for example, is something that can only happen at this type of concert. It's nice to notice that the breaking down of barriers between the audience and band, preached and implemented by the historic hardcore bands of the early '80s, is still bearing fruit today, allowing an "alternative rock" star to mingle with fans at the end of the show. And it's remarkable that the person in question was somewhat the symbol of the alternative's shift towards the mainstream in the early '90s, due to the grunge boom (and this compromised Evan Dando's image, making him unlikeable and "poser" to the more uncompromising music fans). It signifies that rock, outside of mainstream radio and TV, might be returning to a happy niche that doesn't guarantee magazine covers and million-dollar deals, but that recovers the most sincere, humble, and proud do-it-yourself vein.
After spending a good half-hour singing Lemonheads' songs in the typical "boozy" tone, suspended between tribute and mockery, hoping that Dando (sitting at the table after ours) would listen and perform an impromptu song (but evidently wasn’t in the condition), Spaccamascella asks me, "What if we go kick the ball around with the bassist?" "Good idea" I reply. This also happens in an indie-rock evening...
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