‘The trees are drawing me near / Got to find out why’

The Moody Blues in Concert at Radio City Music Hall

By

Anthony J Stampalija

Y

ou’ve gotta love virgins.  The reality of experience is unknown in the purity and optimism of expectation.  And so it was when two big fans, Cosmic Love Muffin (AKA Billii), my girlfriend, and I, set off for  “The Moody Blues” at Radio City Music Hall on Saturday, October 5th.

There’s disappointment afoot if you seek an accurate set list or even a telling of all the featured songs.  That job may well fall to an experienced fan. Honestly, we didn’t even know who was who on stage.  We kinda knew names though.  Thank God for the program booklet (which I had to put on glasses to read).  Instead, you’ll hear about the first streaks of tarnish on psyches eager to hear <OMMMMMMMMMMMM> The-Moody-Blues-Live.  That hyphenated caveat assures dear reader there’s some, but not a lot of, experience between Muffin and I with the recorded ‘Blues’.  Fair enough?

Mercedes Benz sponsored the performance reflecting ‘The Blues’ recognition of their contemporary audience. In the bathroom during intermission a doctor in a faded t-shirt and jeans called in a ‘scrip on his cell phone.  It ain’t 1966 anymore.

In ‘66 “Days of Future Passed” broke new ground.  The album stayed on the Billboard charts for over two years and marked a milestone as one of the very first concept albums, recorded not only with a symphony orchestra but also in stereo, both uncharted territory at that time.

           Muffin and I wondered if ‘The Blues’ could stand up to self-imposed hype. How would songs tracked together in one seamless thread on an album sound all alone?  Would our faves, “Question,” “Ride My See-Saw,” “Tuesday Afternoon,” “Lovely To See You Again,” “Nights in White Satin,” and “For My Lady” (both our highest priority), be performed?  Would we hear, from “Late Lament,” “Breath deep the gathering gloom / Watch light fade from every room?”

           ‘Why do we never get an answer / When we’re knocking at the door / With a thousand million questions about hate and death and war’

           Questions asked.  Questions soon to be answered.

In mood and drift, the event was in one hundred-eighty degree opposition to my last concert experience, “The Grateful Dead” in 1989.  No rowdy party atmosphere or drugs – in evidence anyway.  Mostly old farts, irresponsible behavior long ago giving way to mortgage pressures, lined up to drink from a musical fountain of youth.  And we wouldn’t be disappointed.

A rousing, strong “Tuesday Afternoon” (one down, five to go) began the one hundred minute show.  The remarkably melodious “The Actor” followed.

Wow, these guys are in their late fifties and early sixties?

The band, John Lodge on bass and vocal, Ray Thomas on flute and vocals, Graeme Edge on drums, Justin Hayward on lead and vocals, and featuring an un-credited second drummer and two keyboardists/vocalists, was tight and precise with a measure of restraint.  And this, I believe, is the key to “The Moody Blue’s” longevity.  Muffin and I wondered how Justin and Ray’s voices, after nearly forty years of performing, resounded with such strength and clarity.  Simple.  Good living for one.  And, they played this night with a great deal of heart and soul but not as sacrifice to the major and minor Gods of rock n’ roll.  So, then, a bit of the edge (even though ‘The Blues’ aren’t known as edgy), and, gratefully, the pretense, was gone.  It was a G Rated trip... and archaeological dig if the sprinkling of pre-teen kids towed to the show by parents and grandparents is an indicator.

I guess onstage Rock and Roll Apocalypse is dead.  Muffin and I would not shed a tear over its passing or the missing of its passing.

With the smell of the salt in the air, Ray Thomas crooned the sea-shantyesque “For My Lady” (two down, four to go).  Muffin remarked, “He sounds like he’s singing that personally to someone in the audience.”  I replied, “Maybe he is.”  Mr. Thomas’ voice stirred our souls as we closely held each other.  His was such a beautiful, loving, comfortable rendition – clear, strong, passionate – there is no doubt this song belongs to only him.

In perhaps both send up and homage to the Sixties, a Joshua light show danced behind the band.  Progress: a pseudo-trippy computer controlled projection replacing the untidy manual slosh of colored liquids.  Where’s Ken Kesey when you need him?  (If you don’t know, don’t ask.)

“Strange Times?” You mean ‘The Blues’ recorded an album after “Long Distance Voyager?”  Yes, evidently five albums!  Where the hell have I been?  From “Strange Times” a very tasty morsel of a rocker, “English Sunset,” featured Justin Hayward’s smooth vocals and smokin’ lead guitar, John Lodge’s driving bass.

The hits!  The hits!  Muffin and I wanted ‘em.  Request made and granted;

“I’m Just a Singer in a Rock and Roll Band”

“Isn’t Life Strange”

“Gemini Dream”

“Nights in White Satin” (minus the accompanying “Late Lament”) (three down, three to go)

“Question” (four down, two to go)

As “Legend of a Mind” began I wore a secret smile and speculated how the aforementioned parents and grandparents would field, in a diplomatic and politically correct way, the youthful question, “Who is Timothy Leary?”

“Well, you see, in the Sixties there was this PhD who wrote, among other things, ‘Using LSD to Imprint the Tibetan-Buddhist Experience (A Guide to Successful Psychedelic Experience),’ said, “Tune in, turn on and dropout,” and was fired from Harvard.  But, that was the Sixties. Don’t do drugs and stay in school.  We don’t need to alter our consciousness anymore because the American Psychiatric Association now recognizes Leary’s work.  And George W. Bush is our president”

Good Luck!

“Legend of a Mind” was another Ray Thomas tour-de-force; the extended flute solo, haunting.

Strictly business, neither splintered nor overly close, the original band members seemed comfortable with each other although I don’t see them getting together for a pint at each other’s homes.  Sadly, the three other performers were completely ignored.  There was no recognition of them at all – onstage or in print.

The Music Hall’s acoustical design does not forgive poor sound mixes. The thunderous dual percussion drowned out some of vocals in the first hour, and I suspect some tweaks were made during the twenty-minute intermission.  The mix seemed in better balance afterwards.

Hits!  More hits!

“I Know You’re Out There Somewhere” (Muffin and I didn’t really know this one but we took to it wildly)

“You’re Wildest Dreams”

After some clowning by Graeme Edge during bows, there was a single encore. <One> <Two> <Three> <Four> “Ride My See-Saw.”  (Five down, one disappointment)  It was rousing, tight, controlled and good frosting on the cake.

Happy and thrilled to see ‘The Blues,’ we departed, satisfied with Baby Bear’s porridge, just right – if not awe inspiring.  But that may be jade talking.

In the crowded lobby, people struggled to buy tie-dyed band t-shirts.  I asked Muffin if she’d like one.  The answer was, “thank-you-I-like-them-but-not-thirty-dollars-worth-no.”

Before boarding our private LIRR car back to the loving bosom of the Enchanted Isle of Long, we stopped at The Virgin Megastore in Times Square.  There we pawed through ‘The Blues’ inventory, wisely choose the best combinations for maximizing our collections, then decided to buy them later at Tower.  They’d be cheaper.  Or maybe download MP3’s.

Hey, I told you.  It ain’t ’66 anymore.