Having been the co-writer/producer of roughly half of Motown's music as well as one of its headlining stars, Smokey Robinson could be considered the godfather of the label, second only to Berry Gordy. After a 50-year career that has generated an endless stream of hits and a voice that defies his 71 years, one could expect that his show at The Venue last month would be a celebration of soul and a canonization of the man himself. Unfortunately, that's not what happened.
Hitting the stage with a pair of dancers for a pumped-up take on "Going to a Go-Go" and segueing into "I Second That Emotion," Robinson looked fit, spry and downright supernatural. As expected, there were nods to his songwriting history, amusing anecdotes about Motown legends (penning "Tears of A Clown" with Stevie Wonder) and a few unexpected touches (an uncharacteristic take on "Fly Me to the Moon" and an uptempo reading of "Being With You" that morphed into a Latin duet with one of his back-up vocalists).
"Ooh Baby" came early and was the highlight; Robinson sang his chestnut with such pained tones, choked passion and dramatic delicacy that the near SRO audience sat in shock. That, at this late stage, Robinson could still floor his fans with an interpretation of one of his biggest standards not only proved that he was still at the top of his game but also that he was in a class far removed from any other soul artist. (Trey, Maxwell and others, take note.)
Then the show went off the rails. The glitch started with "Love Bath," the kind of humpy workout with pelvic thrusts and descriptive lyrics that reeked of smut. It was a grab from the trash that had the effect of cheapening the whole show and it was hard to imagine performers who built their careers on sex going for something so obvious (Donna Summer, Tom Jones, Barry White). Worse, the finale, "Cruising"—one of Robinson's most enduring and popular recordings as well as the template for "smooth jazz"—got drawn out into a meandering, listless jam with specific lyrics punched up with a new emphasis on the act of sex rather than the suggestion of it. Where Robinson's original recording suggested a silken romance on wheels, this version was about a sloppy shag in the back seat. Copping poses, glaring out into the audience like an animal in heat and constantly running his hands up and down his thighs didn't make Robinson look like a stud. It made him look goofy, and you would think he would know better.
I'd love to have a hot romance with Ezra Furman—not because he's such a burning slab of man-love (no, he's merely adorable) or that he was so fetching in the sundress he wore for this show. It's because I firmly believe that it would be a life-changing adventure to fall in love with such a thoroughly oddball clown who happens to be a genius. Furman's end-of-the-year blowout at the Hideout was the capper for 2011. He and his crack band, the Harpoon,s barnstormed the States and Europe behind last year's brilliant off-kilter Mysterious Power (Red Parlor Records). For him to pop up at 2011's close, just a month before dropping a new album, was a loaded treat in itself.
Mysterious Power and Furman's shows are such events because they border on performance art. Furman's lyrics and scenarios lean toward naked sincerity—the kind of utterances that one could only say alone in the dark after the burgundy has kicked in and there's no one to betray such vulnerability. The twist is the Harpoons' execution, not only musically but as visual straight men as well.
While Furman twitches, lunges and shimmies (fuck the sundress—he still shook his little ass with a vengeance), Andrew Langer (on guitar) stood like a stoic crossing guard while the rhythm section, consisting of Adam Abrutyn (drums) and Job Mukkada (bass), hardly broke a sweat. Sure, it looked like comedy at first glance but 60 seconds into the first song it congealed. The Harpoons are reminiscent of Ellen Rosner's great band from the turn of the millennium—a pack of tight, musical blood brothers and the combinations of the individuals are what legends are made of. Bowie couldn't do it with his Spiders from Mars, the Stones and Beatles famously lost it, the Who and the Ramones had it before death intervened, and Elvis Costello, Bruce Springsteen, Niles Rogers, Elvis Presley and Chrissie Hynde built empires on it.
But enough about legends, chemistry, and magic. The question is, did Furman kill? Oh yeah... "I Killed Myself but I Didn't Die," "Teenage Wasteland," and "Bloodsucking Whore" were succinct, punishing and probably the hardest folk/garage rock to be heard last year. "Mysterious Power" with it's sweet innocent repeated couplet ("I'm nothing but a boy in his room...") was so restrained, intimate and serene that it nearly upended the show. Then there was the new "The Government Broke My Heart" and the rolicking "Doomed Love Affair" which were slammed home in such a wall of noise and skuzz that they demanded a more patient listening. Can't wait 'til February gets here...
Others missing in action from last year that I couldn't fit in: Susannah York (celebrated brit actress), Kenneth Mars (one of the last of Mel Brooks' troupe), Jane Russell (full-figured icon), Nate Dogg (hip-hop legend), Farley Granger (celebrated actor and gay hero/villain of Alfred Hitchcock's Strangers On A Train and Rope respectively), Phoebe Snow (unique jazz/pop vocalist/composer), Arthur Laurents (out and outspoken screen/play writer, director and producer), Sherwood Schwartz (creator of Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch) and Heavy D (rap icon).
Heads up: Graffitti6 will be opening for Augustiana at the Park West, 322 W. Armitage Ave., Jan. 28. See www.graffiti6.com .
