NEW ORDER - Disco for the Depressed - The Felt Forum, December 9, 1986

Britain is still the best breeding ground for creative angst. The combination of unemployment, Margaret Thatcher and cloudy, rainy weather has produced a generation of unhappy moody young people - who are responsible for some of the best and most compelling music ever, from the Sex Pistols' and Clash's "no future" to the forerunner of New Order's disco for the depressed, Joy Division.

The latter's lead singer, Ian Curtis, really lived the unspeakably melancholy themes of his music, and proved it by committing suicide on the eve of their success. Joy Division's sound had a deeply clinically depressed quality that is impossible to fake, making them far more special and moving than the other 20,001 post-Velvets bands in existence.

But Ian Curtis is dead and the remaining members have gone forth as New Order, obviously less self-destructive but faced with the problem of being not much different from all the other brand-name synth pop outfits now on the market, like your OMD, Heaven 17 and Depeche Mode. What separates New Order from the considerable number of other people who have rediscovered the inventiveness lurking behind the now-affordable synthesizer and the glitzy disco wave of the mid-'70s is, for one, their writing ability.

Each of their songs is a loosely-based two-to-three chord riff that evolves into a memorable high-energy hook through repetition and improvisation. Driven by the band's powerful drum tracks, their songs flow and metabolize into your perfect downtown dance club smash. New Order's lyrics are like greeting cards for neurotics who can't deal directly with their emotions, and need songs as deliberately obscure and confusing as their own psyches.

New Order seems to thrive on ambiguity. They have confusing record covers (no names, song titles or listings), confusing titles to their songs, confusing endings to their records (the end of their current release, Brotherhood, sounds like a skip in the record), and a stage manner that barely acknowledges the audience, rather like the band is working in a studio. They come in, you get to watch them play, and then they're done and have to go home.

They perform in an unemotional, removed manner that goes deliberately against the traditional spirit of rock and roll. No flashy lead singer. No raunchy party times, No showbiz, no smoke machines, no dress up. Their stage setup was strictly utilitarian, with only an occasional lighting effect to hint that this was a concert, not an art gallery (Art being the medium to which New Order are most closely aligned – painting and sculpting with sound and rhythm.)

But, in its own way, their music is as personal and moving as, say, the Smiths simpler more direct material. Their sound doesn't have the computerized, robot-like coldness that's the mainstay of most synth-based bands; New Order are high-tech and human at the same time. They effectively blend drum machines with electric and acoustic instruments for a complex, rich sound full of eerie harmonies and a controlled intensity. Their music has a real drone, and ambient sound underneath their disco drums, that gives their songs a weird, additional dimension. Lead singer Bernard Sumner's voice is equally unsettling, with a frailty that's present even during an upbeat love song, like someone unsure of his place and his singing.

Taking the stage following a loud rendition of the Pistol's "Anarchy in the U.K." from the p.a., New Order seemed to almost telepathically interact with each other as they launched into their typically confusing but infectious dance club rockers, with a set of material from all phases of their six-year incarnation.

The group's wall-of-sound is particularly distinctive because the bass guitar plays the melody lines, creating a unique dissonant quality. All other instruments play around the bass line, with a really strong Kraftwerkian drum beat, synthesizers and guitars.

One of the evening's best numbers was "Temptation," their kick-ass dance single recently included on the Something Wild soundtrack. The song's central repeating riff and hook-laden choruses built to an irresistibly funky climax, despite the slightly mournful lyrics.

At times, the band turned the synthesizers off and let a more guitar-oriented rock sound take over. "Age of Consent," from 1982's Power, Corruption And Lies album was a good example this, as was Brotherhood's "Weirdo."

Moody dance cuts like "Bizarre Love Triangle" alternated between digital and live drums while the band got the audience dancing (just a little, despite a floor devoid of chairs just for the occasion) with their Georgio Moroder-esque high energy bottom. Vocalist Bernard Sumner's angst-ridden vocals on songs like "Angel Dust" and "This Time of the Night" did their best to bring them down.

But then, dichotomy is central to New Order, who closed their anti-presentational, non-star show with their big, big hit, "Shell Shock," the infectious song was lucky enough to be included on the platinum-plus soundtrack of John Hughes' smash Pretty In Pink. That film also gave a much-needed shot in the arm to the similarly eclectic likes of OMD, Echo & the Bunnymen and the Psychedelic Furs, from whose song came the title.

Pretty In Pink made British synth pop legit, proving that its avid listeners were not all necessarily weirdo artsy-types and nerds, and got New Order out of the dance club ghetto and blaring out of cassette decks in high school parking lots all over America. Which is a good thing all around. Music that presents a view of life beyond the local mall should be heard by the kids who hang out there; and musicians who want to do more that just put out product deserve some financial rewards to go with their integrity. And for New Order, that's happening at last.

IT’S NEW! IT’S DIFFERENT! IT’S PSYCHEDELIC METAL: The Cult, Live at the Ritz, NYC. June 2, 1987

The night the Cult played the Ritz on a few hours notice was such a perfect media event, a seasoned rock publicist couldn’t have schemed up a better one. The big star cancels out, and the understudy goes on to steal the show – kinda like a group d’etat. Definitely a triumph for the band, a soon-to-be-legendary concert for some – but for others, more proof that what makes it for one person might not quite do it for another.

At times, this surprise Ritz gig (after the abrupt cancellation of the Billy Idol/Cult show at Madison Square Garden) seemed like a private party in celebration of the Cult’s recent success. But, as usually occurs when an underground band emerges from the intimacy of night-time clubland into the arena spotlight of mainstream adulation, many fans who happily jumped on the Cult’s neo-psychedelic bandwagon a few years back are unwilling to ride on to their next apparent destination: the great American Heavy Metal Market. But despite the obvious dismay and cries of sellout from some at Tuesday’s SRO show, today’s Cult is a seemingly unstoppable rock and roll locomotive. And hard rockers across the U.S. now seem ready for their eclectic-but-kickass brand of music.

As “Love Removal Machine” blasts from high school parking lots around the country, the Cult stand poised to capitalize on the current resurgence of heavy metal–a genre started almost 20 years ago by their big influence, Led Zeppelin. 

Since copping the supporting act spot on Billy Idol’s Whiplash Smile tour, and making the Top 40 with their Rick Rubin-produced Electric album, the Cult have been getting more attention than is usual for an opening band, from media and rockers alike.

Then, on June 2, in a strange turn of events hurriedly following the last-minute cancellation of the sold-out Billy Idol MSG show (a union problem with asbestos removal was blamed), the Cult displayed a knack for grabbing the spotlight. They arranged their own solo gig at downtown’s Ritz, selling out in a few hours to rock fans also lucky enough to have been in the right place at the right time.

As the fog machine smoked, and blasting classical music signaled the start of the show, the Cult launched into “Nirvana” (the hard-rocking cut off their first U.S. album, 1985’s Love), going form 0 to 60 in three seconds flat. In front of their black light Electric banner/logo, the walls of Marshall’s were cranked up, fueled by the band’s new stripped-down metallic wall-of-sound (augmented with a second guitarist for the tour). Immediately following with “Big Neon Glitter” and “Wild Flower,” the revitalized five-piece group were on full throttle, recreating the dual guitar blitzkrieg from their records with driven, heavy metal-like intensity,

The band has obviously been cramming hard on a crash course in Arena Opening Acts 101, and worked the already enthused audience like the best of them. Lead singer Ian Astbury shouted “Are you hear to see a rock ‘n roll concert?"–and the crowd screamed out a resounding “YES!" as the band launched into their new anti-war rocker, "Peace Dog” with the fans shouting the chorus. The packed Ritz floor of psyched-up devotees bounced in unison to the driving beat, in perfect sync with the gloriously blasting sound, raising their fists metal-style.

But not everyone in attendance was as ecstatic. In response to a front rower’s complaint of “What happened to this fucking band?” Astbury shot back “We got good, that’s what!” And the Cult are still very, very good but they’ve definitely changed their ways – leaving their old neo-psychedelic goth sound and look for a more mainstream heavy metal image.

As flowers and paisley give way to leather and tattoos, the Cult have made a conscious move to metal-ize themselves, adopting hard rock’s blues-based guitar riffs and imagery, and AC/DC’s thundering beat. And as metal itself gets more into late 60s blues rock (like Motley Crue’s new Girls, Girls, Girls sound), a new hybrid label like psychedelic metal seems to cover bands from both sides of the fence who now seem to have just discovered the Yardbirds and Hendrix.

So, previously androgynous hippie frontman, Ian Astbury loses his scarves and adopts a more macho, Morrison-like outlaw pose in skin tight black leathers, sleeveless black t-shirts and tattoos; his partner-in-crime guitarist Billy Duffy is growing out his hair into a metal shag and shakes it in sync with the other guitarist, a la Judas Priest. And now Duffy specializes in a more straightforward and thicker traditional guitar sound than his old effects-laden style.

But their performance was undeniably powerful. As the two hour set took off, Astbury set the pace. “Are we here to celebrate? then LET’S DO IT!” he shouted, ripping into their FM radio hit, “Love Removal Machine,” The audience happily obeyed. Love’s “Rain” caused the whole place to go wild, as did their other picks off Electric, like “Lil Devil,” with its Stones-ish riff nicely accompanied by red stage lights and smoke. “Outlaw” was a tight, driving blast of Aerosmith-like blues rock in classic form, The sonic barrage continued with their Cream-meets-Iggy wah wah rocker “The Phoenix.” sounding even better than on the record.

By the time they got to the encore and best known song,”She Sells Sanctuary” (off Love) the crowd seemed on the exact same wavelength, rocking so hard the entire Ritz building shook to the beat. They came back for a second encore too – with Electric’s “King Contrary Man” and their good remake of Steppenwolf’s biker anthem, “Born to be Wild,” – closing with their usual final number, another great 60’s classic, “Wild Thing.”

On the final chords, Astbury ripped into the drums and amps trashing them like a crack crazed Keith Moon. It was an appropriate or indulgent ending, depending on which camp you’re in.

More than 10 years after punk rock’s violent denunciation of the rock dinosaurs – Led Zeppelin, Cream, the Who, Hendrix and the Stones – it’s safe to admit one’s preference for that music today. As emphasized by their nostalgic lyrics and retro style, the Cult appear to be good students of rock history, and are doing interesting things with those influences.

And if, in the process, the Cult are becoming a heavy metal arena band, then at least they’ll be a great one.

LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD: The Human League, Live at the Ritz, NYC. February 6, 1987

Those once darlings of the dance club – the Human League – are back. With a new hit single “Human,” and album, Crash, they are currently in the midst of their first U.S. tour in over five years, adding their name to the fast growing list of recent revivals and comebacks in rock n’ roll. 

But whatever happened to the next big things of 1982–who seemed to have the entire pop world in the palms of their well manicured hands–in the first place? And what have they been doing all these years while the musical genre they helped create, Synth Pop, became the standard schtick of every group from Hoboken to Budokon?

In post-punk America, circa 1982, the Human League seemed to have all the answers. They had style. They had class. They had a sound – a sophisticated blend of Kraftwerk’s cold computer world, black American disco, Roxy Music’s glittery kitsch and punk’s pessimism. They had pretty girls and a hot looking Ferry-esque frontman. They even had some good songs like “Mirror Man” and “Things That Dreams are Made Of.”

And their early videos were little cinematic pleasures, evoking the Hollywood dream factory of the 1930's  – slick, professional, representing both high and low fashion, with interesting narrative story lines told in quick cuts, not necessarily connected to the song lyrics. The Human League used video as a promotional vehicle to sell a lifestyle of new wave glamour and glitter, and did it well.

But after their huge initial success (with the U.S. Releases of Dare and Fascination) the band found themselves victims of the media just as much as they used to be masters of it. Due to overexposure on MTV and mediocre releases like Hysteria (1983), they soon floundered, adrift on a synthesizer sea of possibilities, all of them fast becoming cliche. The Human League were ultimately overrun and eclipsed by their predecessors, like OMD, Heaven 17, Depeche Mode, Bronski Beat and ABC. Despite their immense impact on the music, and more importantly, the look of early 1980’s rock, in 1984, they were facing life as major league has-beens with mass media moving faster and more fickle by the minute. The group seemed to have had their 15 minutes of fame – they’d been labeled, dated and filed in the collective data bank of entertainment history.

But the Human League proved to be ingenious creatures with strong survival instincts.

After a brief hiatus and some solo projects (like Oakey’s Georgio Moroder-produced “Electric Dreams”) they are making crossover history again with their new A&M album, Crash. The obvious key to their comeback appears to be their choice of producers – the new dynamic duo of Minneapolis funk, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, who worked similar wonders with Janet Jackson. The number one single, “Human” single-handedly resurrected the Human League from near dead, complete with good backup video support and great brand name identification – and a thoroughly entertaining live show. At first glance, the arena-type stage set (complete with shimmery curtains, smoke machines, risers, stairs and colored lights) seemed over done. But from the moment the League hit the first few notes of their tongue-and-cheek choice of opener, “Hard Times,” it all made sense.

Appearing one at a time for maximum cheezy theatrical effect (with the best, the girls – singers Joanne Catherall and Susan Sulley – saved for last, of course) it immediately seemed funny and cute, tacky and slick. The Human League Show. The Big Time. Las Vegas. Hollywood, U.S.A.

The past (“Hard Times”) went right into the present, with “Money” (off the new album). The music was great, the singers were fab. Yes, they’re still selling sex and new wave glitz, but their sense of humor has improved. They’ve reclaimed their glitter rock roots, becoming in the process, a great party band. 

Dressed in casually trendy black, accessorized with with mascara and rhinestone earrings, Phillip Oakey still manages to come off as a down-to-earth bloke, a nice guy with two pretty girlfriends (as Catherall is in real life). His cute attempts at between-song performer/audience communication were light-hearted and low-key. “It’s late, what are you all doing here? You’re going to miss Pee Wee tomorrow,” he informed the audience.

Moving along at a sleek, rapid-fire pace, the band (all but one are original members) kept the hits coming – from 1981’s funky anthem “Things That Dreams Are Made Of” (dedicated to the Ramones in attendance), to today’s “The Real Thing” and “I Need Your Loving” (which sounded suspiciously like Janet Jackson’s “Nasty) – showing good examples of the League’s six-year evolution from suave, British synth pop to their new Minneapolis-flavored funk, but still retaining their characteristically dark sound.

But consistently, the best moments of the set were during the older material, which seemed to generate more of an emotional response from the group, especially Oakey. The cool, plastic soul sound of the new material was slick and emotionless in comparison.

The real standout was the chilling and powerful “Seconds,” about the assassination of JFK, in a riveting new version sans girls and guitars. An equally compelling “The Lebanon” kicked in with a bass-driven vigor and intensity, while the funk dance ballad, “Mirror Man” built slowly to a harmony-heavy crescendo. “Love On the Run” was one of the better pieces off Crash, with a Spectoresque disco beat reminiscent of the League’s earlier sound.

They, of course, did the big one, “Don’t You Want Me,” and their current MTV and VH1 smash, “Human.” both complete with schmaltzy soap opera-like monologues played to perfection.

They ended on a high with a flashy synth-powered encore of “(Keep Feeling) Fascination,” closing appropriately with rousing high-tech cover of glam rocker Gary Glitter’s 1972 classic, “Rock and Roll Part II.”

The new Human League show is like a hip, live action Disney movie in flashy technicolor – cute, happy, successful, well-dressed new wave boys and girls together, having fun, and making swell dance music.

The Human League are not a rock group in the usual sense. They only merely hint at the possible power and fury of the music. They sell sanitized sex, glamour and good times in a PG rock format, never getting heavy, never bringing anyone down for more than a few seconds.

In real rock and roll terms,. The Human League are lightweights. But they’re nearly perfect in the its-got-a-good-beat-and-you-can-dance-to-it department. And they know how to put together a snappy outfit.


Originally published February 25, 1987.

ONCE A DOLL, ALWAYS A DOLL: Johnny Thunders, Live at the Ritz, NYC. January 16, 1987. By Abby Weissman.

Seeing Johnny Thunders live is kind of like a crap shoot. Even his diehard New York fans, long disillusioned by failed comebacks and cures, cautiously purchase their tickets each time with both a sense of dread and deja vu. They take a chance on whether they’ll witness a tragedy or a triumph, a brilliant performer or a local burn out. And it’s that very chance that both attracts and repels them.

An admitted narcotics addict, Thunders has provided his voyeuristic audiences years of viewing pleasure, giving them a heavy, demystified glimpse into the classic junkie-musician persona, that complex inter-bonding of both the work and pleasure principles.

For years now Thunders’ erratic performances have been viewed by some as a traveling freak show, a junkie punk circus of the bizarre, a place where one’s ultimate standing in life is solely determined by how much of what drug one took, and for how long. And Thunders always came out a winner by those rules, except the stakes kept going up. Because in the real music biz world, he was increasingly seen as a loser – a living, breathing apparition, the ghost of our not-too-recent rock and roll past.

But rock has always been at least 50 percent image and chutzpah, and Thunders was never lacking in those areas. Back in 1971, when the rest of America was sifting through the remains of the 1960’s, the New York Dolls were just beginning their groundbreaking rowdy and raunchy rise and fall, planting the seeds for the music of the next decade. They were a thinking person’s garage band, living out their own private rock star fantasyland of nonstop booze, sex and drugs. They were fun and frivolous, throwing their “do it yourself” attitude in the faces of the newly-serious rock establishment.

As befits innovative New York bands, they failed miserably in the States (except in maybe their home town, LA and San Francisco), but developed sizable followings in England, Europe and Japan. At the helm of the Dolls' "meteoric” career was a guitarist named John Genzale, a.k.a. Johnny Thunders. For future rockologists, the Johnny Thunders sound and style will be viewed as a major influence in the guitar player’s family tree, crossing Chuck Berry and Keith Richards with New York street smarts to create his own raunchy, urban style. His straightforward, no-bullshit rock n’ roll has influenced two or three generations of players, from Steve Jones (the Sex Pistols), to Brian James (Lords of the New Church) to Vinnie Vincent.

Almost as influential (but more legendary) is his “don't give a fuck” attitude towards himself, his career and society in general. Like his fellow musician Sid Vicious, Thunders is hailed as one of the patron saints of the young destructive punks and punkettes of today, who tend to overlook the fact that, unlike Sid, Thunders has actually stayed alive where many have fallen, glossing over his incredible capacity for survival.

Like Keith Richards, Thunders’ main influence, Johnny is more inspirational as one of rock’s baddest boys – the ultimate strung-out guitar-slinging rock n’ roll gypsy. But whereas Keith Richards’ image was created and manipulated by the press after he was already a rock millionaire, Thunders was strung out almost from from the start, and has remained basically locked into low rent celebrity his entire career – internationally famous, but still struggling. And it’s certainly hard to make it happen again these days in the new “improved” drug free music business after you’ve been branded a druggie – as seen recently by the troubled careers of Richard Lloyd (ex-Television) and David Crosby (Crosby, Stills and Nash). The key lesson here is: if you plan to do drugs, make it real big first. Considering Thunders seemed to have made the mistake of starting his career in an addict’s state of mind, it is amazing he’s gotten this far. In early 1987, after years of living in Europe and being relegated to a life of sleazy rock clubs and methadone programs, Johnny Thunders is back in town. But this time it seemed different. And better.

Today’s Thunders may be a rerun – nowhere near as hot as vintage Dolls’ or Heartbreakers’ shows where band and audience were engaged in a mutual exciting act of rock n’ roll subversion – but he’s the best rerun he’s ever been.

Beginning late (characteristic for Thunders, strange for the John Scher-run Ritz), he began with the raunchy instrumental “Pipeline” (the traditional Heartbreaks-era opener), which sounded surprisingly tight and more kick-ass than ever. In a white gangster suit and floppy Keith Richards’ mop, Thunders at first seemed almost respectable. But his guitar playing still had that old raunchy sonic assault, as he wrung screaming notes out of his old Les Paul Special, practically falling over.

The show was loosely billed as a pseudo-New York Dolls reunion, featuring ex-Dolls and Heartbreaker drummer Jerry Nolan and the back-from-beyond bassist, Arthur “Killer” Kane (though the reunion concept was meaningless without ex-lead singer David Johansen, who is currently having great success on his own with his pseudo lounge singer act, as Buster Poindexter). However, three original Dolls are better than none.

Drawing from material from all their former configurations, Thunders and Company played hit after hit, most with tongue-and-cheek titles like “Too Much Junkie Business,” “Pills,” “In Cold Blood” and “Dead or Alive.”: The former Dolls were all in great spirits and looked quite well preserved and in good shape overall, performing with a drive and intensity sorely lacking from recent Thunders;’ shows (and most of today’s music). Johnny’s voice was actually stronger and more self-assured than ever, as was his guitar playing – though, true to form, he still stops to scratch his nose sometimes during solos.

Other Heartbreakers’ classics followed, including “Can’t Keep My Eyes On You” and the haunting ballad, “It’s Not Enough.” Amazingly even the harmonies were in key. “Personality Crisis” was next, sounding almost as good as the Dolls’ version 15 years earlier – joyous, spontaneous, loud and still offensive.

Thunders seemed relaxed and almost cheerful as he did a short solo acoustic set, with “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory” and “Ask Me No Questions” providing a good example of his wider-then-expected range as a songwriter. Lighting a cigarette, he ran through a few selected ‘60s’ covers, like the Stones’ “Play With Fire” and Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” (the Thunders’ version: “Eve of Seduction”).

The rest of the band joined in for several more raucous covers including “I Ain’t Superstitious,” “In the Midnight Hour” and “Sweet Little Sixteen.” The stone-faced Nolan faithfully pounded out the driving back-beats, retaining his title as the only drummer in rock who plays while smoking a cigarette dangling from his lips. The group also did some newer songs which sounded as powerful and passionate as the oldies, especially Johnny’s lamentful, poignant 50s-ish blues-rocker about Sid Vicious, “Sad Vacation.” The real surprise was the return of Arthur Kane – the original Dolls’ bassist long given up for dead or drunk – who seems to have emerged from the druggie underground with his chops intact.

This evening had a greater degree of professionalism than, say, Thunders nodding out and dropping his guitar during early 1980s’ performances, but was still far from slick. There was clearly no set list, and the discussions between songs dragged down the group’s momentum and energy. Thunders is not exactly an arena act, but the music still rocked like the best of them.

The band fully redeemed themselves by closing with their two Lower East Side junk rocker anthems, “Born to Lose” and (dedicated to co-author Dee Dee Ramone) “Chinese Rocks.”

Of all the bands participating in reunion fever these days, the New York Dolls are among the most worthy, truly deserving more than a few paragraphs in today’s rock encyclopedias.

Maybe David Johansen should reconsider. I mean, if the Monkees could pull it off, why not them. They were always years ahead of their time anyway, and with today’s MTV’ers and heavy metal children they could possibly have a chance. Like true Rock n’ Roll Vampires, the Dolls and their legacy live on. Long live the Dolls.


Originally published January 28, 1987.

About the Rock n' Roll Time Machine

During the mid-1980s, I worked as a rock journalist for numerous NYC underground newspapers (The East Coast Rocker, Downtown and others). From 1985 to 1988 I went out at least three nights a week, seeing numerous major and minor acts of the day - from the Cure, New Order, the Human League, Jesus & Mary Chain and the Eurythmics, to the Feelies, the Ramones and Suicide.

A life-long musician and music fan myself, I tried to bring my own insights and personal history into my writing. These recently rediscovered reviews provide a clear window into the rock music scene in New York City during that exciting pre-internet time. Starting with the Johnny Thunders' review I hope to re-publish one review every few weeks. I hope you enjoy them.

The genesis of the idea to do this came from an email I received a few years ago out of the blue from Paul Robinson, the drummer from the eclectic 1980s British band, Art of Noise. After re-discovering a review I wrote of his band from a NYC show at the Ritz in 1986, Paul had tracked me down through the internet to give me a "very belated thank you" for the review, calling it a "well perceived view of that gig (and tour)."

He was not the first subject to thank me. In 1986, after an extensive interview with Joey Ramone, I wrote a feature-length essay on the Ramones and their influential legacy on the eve of their 10-year anniversary. After publication, I received a phone call from Joey, saying how much he liked the article, thanking me for my insightful words.

Special thanks go to writer Diana Darzin (Dee Severe), who encouraged me to pursue my writing. Without her mentoring and connections, none of this would have been possible.

Abby Weissman, 2010