For reasons that still haven't become completely lucid, last night I found myself sitting on the floor of Rod Laver Arena to witness the penultimate show from the Melbourne leg of The Eagles' 'Farewell Tour 1'. Not that I didn't actively want to be there, you understand. Like all good students of smirking, disingenuous irony, I lined up at 8:30 on a cold July morning outside my local Ticketek, only to be cast away after the concert sold out in roughly 0.003 seconds. That is, except for the expensive seats, which were $500 - which sounds like a ridiculous price until you realise that for your half-a-grand, you get a rubber cushion with 'The Eagles' stencilled on the face to sit on AND take home. Sounds like a deal worth thinking about.
Let me take you back, though. Let me take you back to a time that I call 'mid 2004'.
Were we going to go? Weren't we going to go? These were the questions that Ellen and I asked ourselves on an almost daily basis as the news of the impending tour began to filter through the pages of the music press and the newspapers - who seemed to respond with an orgasmic crecendo of glee when Messrs. Frey, Henley, Walsh, and Schmidt confirmed that - indeed - they'd be heading to the fair shores of Australia. I could almost hear Gudinski's lizard lips slapping together with masturbatory abandon as he whispered down the phone: "Australia? The spider's caught four flies."
But this was The Eagles we were talking about. Last time I checked, they were - officially - the highest selling band ever. Ever. Yes, they beat The Beatles. And 'Thriller'. And 'Dark Side Of The Moon'. The Eagles reign supreme as THE most marketable aural force that the world has ever known - with consumer penetration that even repulsive whores such as Britney Spears can only dream of. The Eagles have destroyed all competition, and stand at the commercial pinnacle of human culture - the people bowed in reverant awe before their soft-rock glory.
For a band that are so beloved, it is amazing how utterly despised and reviled they are. Yes, a part of me suggests that we should hate The Eagles, as all hipsters do. The young punks reading this page have no time for the music of The Eagles, who come across as a desperately old-farty group of half-dead relics of the 1970's - and not the cool part. They weren't the kitchy-cool of disco, nor the primal roar of punk. They weren't the cerebral intensity of prog - and they certainly sidestepped the glittering, predatory sexuality of glam and and androgynous rock. They were a bunch of schmoes in flannel shirts who spent most of their time singing songs about That Good Ole Gal At That Roadside Bar Who Fell In Love With A Truck Drivin' Man But He Left Because He's A Desperado And His Only True Love Is The Road. The Eagles weren't the politicized champions of the working class that Springsteen represented - they were the sound of white trash. The Eagles synthesized the most obvious components of the American cultural psyche, pulping them and regurgitating them as homogenous, uncommitted product. Product aimed at the kind of people who identified with Roseanne. The Eagles appealed to people who normally have no interest in music - so massive was their following that even when they decended into the abyss of 70's rock star decadence, developing still-legendary drug and alcohol dependancies that crecendoed with the release of 1977's Hotel California, and album loathed by trendsetters everywhere, but which really is a masterpiece and pulls off the tricks that Waters attempted on The Wall with far more grace and aplomb than late-Floyd could ever muster.
The Eagles were a band for rednecks and housewives, truck drivers and shopkeepers, poor people and poorer people, and - in appealing to the masses without a hint of self-consciousness - they became the true soundtrack of the 1970's, embodying the spirit, the failure, the decadence, the shame, the self-loathing, and the sonic perfection of the decade with a precision that is only rivalled by Steely Dan. For this, I love them. I like the idea that The Eagles produced art for everybody, instead of simply trying to appeal to Other Artists and People Who Are Worthy Of Recieving Thine Gift Of Song. Glen Frey and Don Henley seemed quite comfortable with the idea that hillbillies, KKK Wizards, and the ubiquitous amphetamine-bolstered truck drivers had taken the songs of The Eagles to heart. Would Lou Reed feel the same?
But, despite the fact that The Eagles represent a very important cultural axiom, as related to music -what if it is not only right, but absolutely necessary to despise The Eagles? After all, hippie dippie shit about The Common Man and his A.M stereo blaring 'One Of These Nights' aside, The Eagles are shameless whores with the morals of crack-addled weasles, who stopped at nothing to hone their questionable popcraft until it could literally rip the cash from your wallet and the tears from your head. They were lowest common denominator swill, regurgitating the themes, ideas, textures, and aesthetics of a host of far superior artists - and using them to create the safest, most flatulently user-friendly cheese this side of Paul McCartney. And when they tried to get serious, as on 'Hotel California'? They started whining like the coke-addled fuckups that they were, prattling on endlessly in an orgy of self-pity that is as nauseating to listen to as it is to watch. They were the original fame whores, doing anything they could to stay afloat on top of the charts - they were always gutter trash, and even Desperado is a pretentious load of garbage. Their 'Rock And Roll Vagabond As Bandaliro Wearing Outlaw Man Who Don't Want The Love Of No Woman (But Really Does)' bullshit was the height of nauseating artifice and puerile self-importance. Fuck The Eagles. Fuck Don Henley. Fuck Glen Frey.
Then again, The Eagles are a truly wonderful band. Capable of writing genuinely heartfelt, trancendant music that has a universality that sidesteps the predictable elitism of the 1970's obsession with underground credibility, Henley and Frey managed to forge a smooth, glittering alloy of country, rock, and bluegrass - using it to propel their take on the shambling zombie that Americana had become by the mid-1970's. The Eagles may have been the most honest band of all - genuinely reflecting the changing of the guard as they moved from the folky, upbeat sound of their debut - with 'Take It Easy' and 'Peaceful Easy Feeling' leading the charge - into the abyss of Satanic nihilism and psychic abuse that manifested as 'One Of These Nights' and 'Hotel California', albums which showed the dark side of the Hollywood dream in a way that no other band dared to. They were a band that appealed to everyone - and recognized the right that all people, regardless of education, caste, or race have to both cultural representation and access to art. To paraphrase Lester Bangs - 'We will never agree on anything as we agreed on The Eagles.' Thank god for The Eagles. I love Don Henley, and I love Glen Frey.
Somehow, though, we ended up sitting fifteen rows or so from the front of the stage, watching The Eagles live. As a live band, they were largely faultless - their harmonies were as sweet and crisp as they are on record, and Walsh's guitar continues to prove itself as both a muscular and fragile instrument - capable of swinging between moments of anthemic glory and microscopic intimacy. Frey is still a fabulous showman, resplendant in his electric purple suit-jacket, he exuded the aura of a man at peace with his past. This was not the out-of-control drug addict of Hotel California, but rather, a family man - a husband and father - and a man who has grown into the shoes of his own legend, and done so with a grace and quiet pride that is to be admired. Henley's voice, surprisingly, becomes more endearing as it loses power as an instrument - his inability to hold a tune with the same precision as his 70's work, not to mention his croaky, two-packs-a-day timbre, really lend themselves well to the material. Indeed, watching Henley in chequered shirt and jeans, standing before the crowd beneath a single spotlight - croaking out the lyrics to 'Wasted Time' and 'Desperado' proved to be two of the most incandescent and intimately heartbreaking moments of my career as a concert-goer. Henley's knowledge of the song's narrative requirements as projected through his voice were obvious - and he managed to transform the ragged sound that came from his throat from a despondant, defeated, psychologically ruined croak for 'Wasted Time', to a defiant, poignant, and ultimately yearning bark during the crashing crecendo of 'Desperado'.
And Tim Schmidt is still a tool.
Oh, okay. Okay. I kind of liked Poco.
Fine. I listen to Rose Of Cimmaron at least once a week.
But Tim! For god's sake - cut the hippie boy hair. You look like Old Chief Woodenhead! Glen Frey looks like Don Johnson, and you look like a rotting cadaver!
I knew that I'd dedicate my life to hating Tim Schmidt many years ago when I saw the 'Hell Freezes Over' DVD and I had to watch him to 'I Can't Tell You Why' - a song from The Eagles truly repulsive final album - 'The Long Run'. There was something about the way he sung it that made me want to strangle him - I'm not sure if it was the goofy faces he pulled as he sung his bland, pointless, go-nowhere lyrics, or if it was the fact that he resembled Holt McCallany's rotting corpse .
What? That reference is too obscure?
What is wrong with you people?
It would be remiss of me, however, not to report that despite the fact that I sat in a mixture of reverant awe and abject disgust as The Eagles kicked out their greatest hits, the crowd was - predictably - interesting.
I knew that rednecks would be there. Many of them. They'd have mullets. Harley Davidson belt buckles. Z.Z Top beards. Hey, don't get me wrong - I know that there's a disturbing trend of cultural elitism in this 'blogging' world, and the uprising of young turds who think they are Cool And Different And Non Conformist has not gone unnoticed by me. I, however, am completely at ease with the fact that I am a conformist, middle-of-the-road, mainstream-radio-listening, K-Mart clothes shopping buffoon. But, I knew that there would be hicks, yahoos, and rednecks of every stripe out in force to cheer on their heroes. I considered getting into the spirit of things. Maybe I'd take my jeans up a little too high and wear white socks and my capped Blundstones. I had a headstart, since I would be driving a Torana - for non-ironic purposes. I was going to put on a flannel shirt. I was going to eat a burger and fries for dinner. I was gonna swear a lot. I was gonna carry a sign that read 'Equal Rights For The Uncircumized'. In short, I was gonna be a total white-trash bastard, with shit in my cranium and beer in my belly. For the first time, people...
For the first time...
For possibly the only time...
... my double chin was going to be a positive. You can't be a good redneck without a double chin. Ever seen a chiselled redneck? Of course you haven't. You live on catfish and racoon for a year and we'll see how svelte you're looking at the end. This was, however, my plan - I was going to have the TOTAL Eagles experience.
But, then I realised that it was too hot. T-shirt, jeans, boots. That'll do.
As it turned out, I was wise to leave my sign and my mullet at home - for instead of being surrounded by guys called Buzz who crush beer cans between their testicles, there was a sea of Baby Boomer - a blanket of postwar anxiety and Cold War paranoia for as far as the eye could see. I felt like I'd been kidnapped by the Liberal Party. Grey hair, paunchy bellies hanging over quivering leather belts, yellowing eyes and yellowing teeth, breasts too low, hair too high, penises too soft, hearts too hard - here was Melbourne's grey power. All of them dressed sensibly, in suits, ties and loafers. The more outrageous ones had t-shirts with NO COLLARS, and perhaps a pair of denim jeans if they were feeling particularly edgy. They staggered around in a daze, wiping the sweat from their crinkle-cut flesh, sliding the backs of their hands over their clusters of liver spots. The air reeked of steradent, haemorrhoid ointment, moth balls, Lucozade, cotton balls, and - naturally - the heady whiff of fecal matter that emanated from thousands upon thousands of bulging adult nappies. I felt like I was trapped in a giant colostomy bag. They bit. They struggled. They snarled. At one point, I stopped because I thought I'd lost Ellen, and a crotchety voice rang out behind me:
"Don't stop, mate."
Obviously, I understood that the precious second it was going to take me to turn my head from left to right was something that she valued more than I - after all, she probably didn't have too many seconds left, and she was clearly desperate to pack her remaining ones with ice cream consumption before she shimmied her saddlebags to 'Heartache Tonight'.
This was the first show I'd been to in a long time in which the audience sits politely through the gig, clapping at the end of every song, and grinning like a gazelle that has been injected with the blood of Shelley Long. Normally, when I go to shows, most of the time is spent avoiding fists, legs, beer, glass, the band, the instruments, the bouncers, and - periodically - pieces of the roof. Here, though - 50,000 people sat as though they were crosslegged on the set of Romper Room, waiting to recieve their dose of nostalgia from the soft-rock vending machines that prowled the stage. At the end of every song, they applauded - and stopped in unison. They whooped when they recognized the song - remained silent when they didn't. No doobies were passed. No beer was thrown. No tits were groped. There was no anal jabbing with two fingers. No vomit. No blood. There was a slightly disapproving cough - with hand over mouth - when the young fellows on the stage became a little too raucous, but apart from that, the audience may as well have been being held at gunpoint by the North Greensborough Society For The Intellectually Bereft.
That is, until they started doing this strange thing. In a show of rock'n'roll SOLIDARITY, harking back to the long-forgotten memories of those hazy, lazy, crazy days when the boomers of old were still Children Of The Sun, man - they started... standing up. In unison. For no reason.
They didn't stand up and dance. Or jump around. Or rock. Or roll. They just stood. Usually on tiptoes to see over the bulbous, misshapen baby boomer head that pulsated in front of them. 'Heartache Tonight' began playing. They all stood up, and... stood there. The song ended. They all sat down.
It was genuinely bizarre. It was like Conservative Calisthenics, hosted by the Least Likely Guys In The World Ever To Go Broke.
And then, as soon as it began, it was over - and our heroes filed out, headed for an unsure future. Would Glen Frey's metamorphosis finally complete itself, and as well as being the spitting image of - he would actually start referring to himself as Robert Davi? Would Don Henley ever get the chance to sing 'Hotel California' without being obscured by his drum kit, allowing him to bask in the glory? Would Joe Walsh ever remember writing ' Pretty Maids All In A Row'? And Tim Schmidt?
Well, who cares.
So, The Eagles. A lot of dreams were fulfilled, ladies and gentleman. The Rod Laver Arena became the site where the mercurial artistry and translucent beauty of the 1970's was ressurected and allowed to breathe again. The Eagles, the band of the everyman, will limp onward into the future - their appeal seems to transcend cultural and economic barriers, and they are firmly established as the Heads Of State in the pantheon of rock's glittering heirarchy. They are Winners, in the classic sense of the word, and their triumph in Melbourne was absolute. Musically, conceptually, sonically, lyrically, and culturally - they justified the adulation they've recieved over the years, and I know in my heart that whenever I put on an Eagles record from now on, it'll bring a smile to my face.
Or, maybe they're just a bunch of poseurs who have been fellating the corporate rock machine for so long that Glen's concave cheeks have little to do with age, and more to do with ambition.
I'd like to think the former.
Posted by David at November 29, 2004 01:21 AM | TrackBack