PAUL WELLERPaul Weller played the first of three nights here in New York at Irving Plaza in what’s been hyped as this exclusive career retrospective consisting of one night of Jam material, one of Style Council tunes, and one night of solo work, complete with corporate sponsorship.
It’d been at least 15 years since I last saw him at the Warfield in San Francisco promoting his first eponymous album, in the days when I was still living in California. It was one of the few times back then I didn’t get completely hammered before a show, and probably one of the first events I went to where I could possibly see a future where I could honestly enjoy something without being under the influence of one thing or another.
He rarely gets over to the states anymore, citing lack of ticket sales, so when a friend tipped me off that he was doing some shows here, I was online the minute they went on sale a couple months ago and scored tix for all three dates, anticipating some kind of epic three-day music overload which is how fantasy always plays out to reality.
The venue is about an hour schlep from my place up in Washington Heights, and there’s already a line an hour before doors open, which just gets longer and longer as the crowd freezes ass while there’s delays getting people inside. Some guy walks by offering 600 bucks for a ticket and I’m having second thoughts, I’ve already sold off my Style Council tickets when the impractical dedication of doing three nights sunk in with a thunk.
There’s men much older than my 40 years emulating glory days, and I’m having flashbacks to a small group of people in high school whose adoration of Quadrophenia and “Mod Style” fashion I never really understood. Dozens of fatigue green army jackets with fur collars, dozens of bald heads on aging rock fans trying to bust out for the night and once inside packing the place wall to wall and drinking too much, singing along to the 70s and 80s catalog of pre-concert selections from the Pete Shelly to the Undertones. I’ve come to a conclusion about growing older and the adoration of youth’s icons, and it’s that most people age terribly terrible in their retention of youthful exuberance: they just can’t seem to let loose unless irresponsibly intoxicated.
Weller comes on after 9pm and he looks fantastic for a man on the cusp of 60: trim, tan and in his element. The four piece kicks off the set with acoustic renditions of classic Jam tracks like “That’s Entertainment” and “English Rose”, then plug in for another dozen Jam tunes before he switches gears and digs into his current catalog. I can tell the fans aren’t expecting this. They wanted it all Jam, all night. Some are confused; they go from rowdy to stunned in minutes. The crowd gets sloppy, someone spills a drink of my foot and the sound is terrible so I work my way through the wall of flesh and leave before the encore, personally pleased I got it all in one night since I was never a huge Jam fan to begin with. Some guy is throwing up outside and I just might sell this other pair of tickets.
It’d been at least 15 years since I last saw him at the Warfield in San Francisco promoting his first eponymous album, in the days when I was still living in California. It was one of the few times back then I didn’t get completely hammered before a show, and probably one of the first events I went to where I could possibly see a future where I could honestly enjoy something without being under the influence of one thing or another.
He rarely gets over to the states anymore, citing lack of ticket sales, so when a friend tipped me off that he was doing some shows here, I was online the minute they went on sale a couple months ago and scored tix for all three dates, anticipating some kind of epic three-day music overload which is how fantasy always plays out to reality.
The venue is about an hour schlep from my place up in Washington Heights, and there’s already a line an hour before doors open, which just gets longer and longer as the crowd freezes ass while there’s delays getting people inside. Some guy walks by offering 600 bucks for a ticket and I’m having second thoughts, I’ve already sold off my Style Council tickets when the impractical dedication of doing three nights sunk in with a thunk.
There’s men much older than my 40 years emulating glory days, and I’m having flashbacks to a small group of people in high school whose adoration of Quadrophenia and “Mod Style” fashion I never really understood. Dozens of fatigue green army jackets with fur collars, dozens of bald heads on aging rock fans trying to bust out for the night and once inside packing the place wall to wall and drinking too much, singing along to the 70s and 80s catalog of pre-concert selections from the Pete Shelly to the Undertones. I’ve come to a conclusion about growing older and the adoration of youth’s icons, and it’s that most people age terribly terrible in their retention of youthful exuberance: they just can’t seem to let loose unless irresponsibly intoxicated.
Weller comes on after 9pm and he looks fantastic for a man on the cusp of 60: trim, tan and in his element. The four piece kicks off the set with acoustic renditions of classic Jam tracks like “That’s Entertainment” and “English Rose”, then plug in for another dozen Jam tunes before he switches gears and digs into his current catalog. I can tell the fans aren’t expecting this. They wanted it all Jam, all night. Some are confused; they go from rowdy to stunned in minutes. The crowd gets sloppy, someone spills a drink of my foot and the sound is terrible so I work my way through the wall of flesh and leave before the encore, personally pleased I got it all in one night since I was never a huge Jam fan to begin with. Some guy is throwing up outside and I just might sell this other pair of tickets.
posted by Stewart A. Williams at
10:56 PM
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