I am guilty of ageism. I assume that great music is the proxy of youth and that the grey haired middle aged former rockers are just embarrassments cashing in retirement boosting cheques. I sneer at yet another Crosby, Stills and Nash reunion tour, I really do not give a shit about seeing the Rolling Stones or Paul McCartney. I tend to question whether we really need to see Dr Feelgood when I know the great Lee Brilleaux died in 1994 and he was the last of the original members? Part of my snub is the simple fact that I tend to view popular music as living and constantly creating and with so much amazing new music overwhelming me why get stuck in a time lapse repeat, the historical musical GIF that defines many people's sadly shrinking soundtrack? Part is of course snobbery as I have a habit of dropping bands from heavy rotation when they are succeeding in the mainstream and they have moved from shitty small clubs to stadiums and platinum sales, and moving on to someone else trying to get their songs heard.
So I was intrigued when I discovered Television were playing the Independent. I never saw them in their pomp but adored their records in the spatter shock of seventies spunk rock. I thought, well, WTF, for $25 on a quiet November night, why not get tickets? I will admit my interest was actually sparked by a great free album put out by the LA label Aquarium Drunkard who got a bunch of up and coming LA bands to cover Television's stunning second album Adventure as a showcase. I loved L'Aventure and it introduced me to the Growlers and the Henry Clay people as well as the contribution by the Local Natives who I enjoy. The unintended consequence was I was reminded how damn good Television were and so this was too good an opportunity. It was sold out and the audience was, as to be expected, largely a sausage fest, dominated by the softening silhouette of the greying middle age with a smattering of the bearded youth.
Tom Verlaine looked less gaunt and less hirsute, but generally pretty much what he looked like in his foxhole. The others looked much like 50 year old versions of themselves with the exception of Jimmy Rip, who replaced Richard Lloyd in 2007, who looked exactly like John Muir, as my good friend Andrew noted. Tom struggled with his tunings in what seemed more like a nervous tic than any major musical handicap, as a true luddite he eschews those electronic tuners and does it all by ear which is brave with aging stage-shot hearing. His voice is still reedy and not a little whiny but it was still pretty good in his bratty way, the backing vocals on Glory and Prove It brought it all back.
What transformed it from being just another karaoke walk in the park for some old stagers was the stunning guitar interplay between Verlaine and Rip with both trading off lead and rhythm and the straying from the note by note replay into the land of extemporization over the solid bass and drum drive train. They released an album in 1992 which I had never heard until after the gig when I sought it out but they played 1880 or So from it and they have been playing a song called Persia on this tour, and in recent years, that is supposed to be on the new album which they have been promising for many marquee moons. I wish they would just fucking get on with it as that song alone is worth the price of admission. They manage to channel the insanely good Paul Butterfield Blues Band's East-West and rai music into this chugging grinding guitar duel for 10 minutes or so, breathtaking to watch as they look at each other thinking about whether to just see where the journey takes them.
Watching these 4 geezers - officially they not only look it but they are old enough now to be called geezers with some sense of pride - in the blue stage lights with a stack of battered Vox amps behind them, truly kicking some guitar ass, was affirmation that "dem yute" don't hold the franchise for live musical excitement. I hope they do finally get a new piece of work out there as by the evidence of this admittedly smallish crowd there is an audience for their spiky guitar driven odes to the quotidian.
While I await that I was also happy to discover a reinvigorated Sebodah this week who returned after 14 years in the wilderness with a truly cracking album Defend Yourself, so a long hiatus can be worth the wait.
As I listen to that chunk of cheery trashy rock I will comfort myself with a large bottle of Tank 7 farmhouse beer from Boulevard Brewing from Kansas City, a place that has absolutely nothing in common with Max's Kansas City where Television started their long journey in 1974.
