1994: slumbering 70s hard rock

 

Hard rock isn't dead, but as one must realize about any medium with a growth prospectus of near zero, the once invigorating sounds of power chords, hysterically accelerated guitar solos, and rust- bucket vocalizing have reached a dead end. These days, there are no new Led Zeps, Deep Purples, Mountains, or Captain Beyonds to fill the shoes of the once mighty. Though Robin Trower, Aerosmith, Van Halen, Heart, and Pat Travers add the occasional breeze of fresh air to revved-up rock, the scene remains a stinking, static morass, with the dim-witted likes of Ted Nugent, Boston, Kiss, Rush, and Frank Marino dominating a scene I think, for the most part, should have died a passive death years ago. But, against my better judgment, I attended the KGB-A&M Records free concert at the California Theatre Friday, featuring a new band ambiguously named 1994, whom I suspect their record company hopes will become the new standard bearers of hard rock.

Though I had my hopes high, something inside my jaded, beer-soaked brain prayed for music as brilliant as Deep Purple's masterwork Burn, or, more hopelessly, something equal to Mountain's live version of "Dreams of Milk and Honey" from Flowers of Evil, to this day an unparalleled example of everything hard rock ought to be. I was ready to have any whimpering, wishful thinking I had dashed unmercifully. Thus, psychologically forewarned, my letdown was less severe than it might have been. I could have guessed what 1994 would have sounded like, and those of you who've "matured" beyond rock and roll and have joined the elitist ranks of white dilettante jazz fans—who now regard your former affection for rock and roll as a "juvenile" phase you're glad you grew out of—you can second guess the invective I'm about to sling.

1994, like other hard rock bands working their way from third to top billing with grinding tours, is a band devoid of any imagination whatsoever. Their songs are stripped to the most remedial riff-heavy gruel feasible, with solos that are fast, flashy, and screaming, without the needed intelligence or forethought that set Ritchie Blackmore, Leslie West, and Jeff Beck apart from the pack. And true to the "boogie" tradition, every song was extended light-years beyond whatever worth they had in the first place. 1994, in total, reminded me of a dying dinosaur mindlessly smashing anything that got in its way, wasting time and energy in a fit of useless rage that served only to enervate the beast faster and further.

There were a couple of good moments, however. Karen Lawrence, a Linda Ronstadt clone, possesses a rusty drainpipe voice akin to Lydia Pense (of Cold Blood) and Bonnie Tyler, which could be put to better use elsewhere. As a rule of thumb, raspy vocals in hard rock are best left to men, as in the case of Paul Rodgers, Frankie Miller, Bob Seger, or Rod Stewart. Don't ask me why. Guitarists Steve Schiff and another one whose name I don't recall had a few moments of inspirational playing, especially during their rendition of Robert Johnson's "Crossroads," made famous by Cream. Both of them have ample facility and touch, and succeeded in their trade-offs to recreate Eric Clapton's original guitar solo note for note. I find it ironic, however, that it took two guitarists to replicate what originally took one guitarist to accomplish. The less said about drummer John Desautels and bassist Bill Rhodes, the better, as both of them managed more to get in the way of things rather than expedite them.

This review, though, should not be construed as any kind of "goodbye to rock" testament by someone hopelessly wrapped up in his own trivial reification. The basic statement is that despite the artists mentioned before, hard rock is a dead horse, a form that's largely exhausted its potential. There are too many other good rock artists for me to call it quits altogether: Little Feat, Steely Dan, UK, Bryan Ferry, Elvis Costello, Bowie, Devo, Bob Seger, Peter Gabriel, Streetwalkers, Bill Bruford, Zappa, Jack DeJohnette's Directions, Brand X, Johnny Winter, and a host of others who keep incongruous company in my record collection. 1994, to me, was a baleful reminder of sterility in rock that has to be gotten around and ignored. The good rock is out there. You have to look for it on your own, however, because the radio doesn't play it most of the time at all.

(From the UCSD Guardian, 1978).