William Broad in broad strokes was a bookworm mama’s boy from London who, as detailed on “Ready, Steady Go”, fell in love with rock and roll and was forever changed. When punk rock came a-knocking in 1976 he dyed his hair and formed a band, Generation X. Never first tier and not a critics doll either, the band with a hook had a bottled blonde boy toy with a sneer and a leather jacket, Broad now Idol, to become punk’s first heartthrob. When Generation X disbarred, the heartthrob tucked “Dancing with Myself” under one arm and guitarist Steve Stevens under the other, and headed for New York City.
Nearly forty years after the boy looked at Billy, we are all still in New York and Billy is performing an early showstopper at the Beacon Theatre Wednesday evening. Yes, Billy looks every inch his inching to 60 years of age, while he is slim and has no stomach, his pectorals resemble man boobs, his face is like weathered leather. Still, on stage it matters not so much for his ball of decades old mainstream rock posturing. Billy doesn’t creak em up, and while he starts going hoarse before the end of the evening, that is mainly because he is singing at the top of his lungs and he doesn’t croak em up either. Meanwhile, early on he gives “Dancing With Myself” it’s due, there is no holding back, no, singalong, nothing but a professional ultra-hit job that makes the song, which is really pop punk, into a hard rock instance classic. Dressed in a leather vest and pants and a shirt (he would strip out of the shirt for “Flesh For Fantasy”), Idol wandered the stage in high blown King Lear mode, changing the ode to onanism into a blast of Id. Or at least almost, it would be Id if an anime had an Id, it is an id as function of a cartoon structure and it is Id as Idol, a man who is always balancing a form of self-awareness he sandpapers away with a clownish sexual imperative.
A quick mention of opening act Broncho, who sounded very good and must kill big time with their syncopated post punk hard rock in a smaller place. Bronchos were meant to play Rough Trade on Monday but it was probably cancelled,, I’d see em at a club that size any day.
The audience didn’t notice the band though the lead singer has the look some girls should love. The very strange assortment of people, a mix of middle age friends and 20 and 30 something women, were very enthusiastic at the sold out room. Despite the inclusion of four new songs, this is about reliving the 80s not delving into Billy’s psycho-sexual neurosis and Idol and Steven, with a couple of young hired guns, do just that, but while it is fun, it is shallow. Rock enough to blow through any shading or coloration or god forbid synth or keyboards, even a big folk ballad like “Sweet Sixteen” is played like the prelude to a Stephen King gothic novel, but not David Foster wink of the eye, this is the real deal as pop gum. If it was catchier, it would be glam., if it was less analog it would be modern rock and roll; the same plasticine constructed feel because nothing Idol does, or has ever done, has the stickiness of real life: “White Wedding” is a ridiculous blast of incestuous jealousy; “Rebel Yell” is all yell and no rebel. “Flesh for Fantasy” is both Idol’s flesh and his fantasy.
Billy leads his band like a warrior in a Nintendo game, he doesn’t grow old because once he came to the States he wasn’t young or old.. Tearing up the stage, he is the same (maybe better because he isn’t drug addled) as the 80s. Bill Aucoin managed him and the comparison is with Kiss: Idol wears a costume and puts on a part. When he sings the new “Postcards From The Past” it feels like there is a mistake somewhere, there is no past. And when he sings “L.A. Woman” he falters despite the vicious drubbing he gives it because he lacks the self-awareness, the sense of who he is… no, I take it back, he probably knows it, but he can’t project the sense of real life Morrison did. The Doors work the song as the extended metaphor it so obviously is, a blues tribute to a city and Morrison sounds like a great representative. Listen to Jim’s early whoop and compare it to Billy’s, Billy is feigned, he doesn’t mean it. The mojo doesn’t rise. A highlight of Wednesday’s concert, still Billy takes it too fast, he roars through it but he can’t corral it. You scratch Billy and all you get is more Billy: William Broad is nowhere to be seen the way Gene Simmons is nowhere to be seen.
It is great entertainment and the sheer wealth of glittering pop rock is a thrill in itself. The setlist is a joy and Billy ain’t a welcher, he is willing to give the hits supreme versions and though they are more or less the same as every supreme version he has performed of them, he really does nail em down. Steve adds a solo here and there but he is mainly a foil for Billy, the rest of the band mean nothing, the sound is generic and the night is the same as the night before it and the night after it, but he does what he should do: he stretches his hits into anthems and he has fire in him when he sings them. It might not be Billy’s fault he is better at “Mony Mony” than he is at “L.A. Woman” or that he didn’t write his own best song. Not his fault because bubblegum is for kids and cartoons in ways Los Angeles is for the real world.
Grade: B
Comments are closed.