MUSIC: Reelin’ in the beers with Motley Crue at The Joint
Arena rock isn’t dead, but, to crib a line from “The Big Lebowski,” its future is darker than a black steer’s tookus on a moonless prairie night.
Think about it: With few exceptions, many of the bands that pack sheds and large halls these days are acts that came to fame in the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s.
With the exception of a handful of groups such as Nickelback and Coldplay, there aren’t many contemporary acts that can fill the biggest venues.
Twenty years from now, does anyone expect a reconstituted Creed to be filling the local sports arena like, say, Motley Crue continues to do to this day?
I don’t think so, which is why it’s still a kick to see a full-fledged arena act like the Crue, even if the band is clearly a little worse for the wear after close to 30 years together.
Playing a more intimate show on their current amphitheater-centric “Crue Fest II” tour, the band brought plenty of hi-watt bells and whistles to a sold-out Joint at the Hard Rock on Saturday night.
After a brief opening interlude involving a nurse in hot pants and a mental patient springing from a wheeled-contraption, the band took to the stage playing from within a small padded room at the center of the stage.
The group was celebrating the 20th anniversary of their biggest-selling disc, the hit-strewn “Dr. Feelgood,” and began the show by playing the album in its entirety, from front to back, beginning with its title cut.
For the most part, the Crue still seemed to be in fine form, especially guitarist Mick Mars, who, while battling a painful arthritic condition that makes him look thin, pale and porcelain-delicate, still soloed for days, shooting sparks all over the band’s catalog with his equally fiery, emotive and bluesy playing.
He’s easily the band’s best musician, even more so than drummer Tommy Lee, who gets more attention, but can’t quite match Mars’ technical chops.
The same can’t be said of frontman Vince Neil, who bounds about the stage with youthful vigor, but who struggles with his breath control, frequently gets winded and flubs plenty of lyrics.
As such, the Crue alternately came across as fierce and slapdash at The Joint, bashing out some tunes with impressive energy (“Saints of Los Angeles”) while sleepwalking through others (“Shout at the Devil”).
But really, to gripe about the details at a Crue show is kind of like bemoaning the dialogue in a skin flick, it’s besides the point.
These dudes are all about providing the background music to one big, beer-soaked bacchanalia these days, they trade in 100-proof nostalgia, and no party worth attending is without at least a few embarrassing moments to regret the next day.
