Detroit punks hone their ample strengths on a third album that's pure rock 'n' roll
New York Coney Island High
[a]Alex Chilton[/a] evidently now works more than ever on an historical agenda only he can fully understand, trying to remember what musically got him out of bed in the first place...
Well, no. Try 'April In Paris' and 'Lawdy Miss Clawdy'. As much as you might hope for Alex Chilton to re-animate the shining brilliance of his mid-'70s songwriting with Big Star, it seems that his mission is instead to frustrate and confound. It's difficult to capture what you expect when a legend emerges in black, smoking a cigarette, looking mean. But you certainly don't expect 'My Baby Just Cares For Me'.
It's strange, but Alex Chilton evidently now works more than ever on an historical agenda only he can fully understand, trying to remember what musically got him out of bed in the first place. That, it transpires, is jazz and basic rock'n'roll.
And it's not - not really - that sad. The suspicion that this sold-out night might be a ten-dollar excuse to rubberneck while a genius pisses his metaphorical pants abruptly changes at the very coolness of the man. "Here's one by that slammin' dude... Count Basie," he announces, and the strange causality in his mind between this, The Beatles and him unravels. Oddly.
He takes requests, and with a shrug and a weary "OK, we'll play it" they run through 'Down In The Street'. For this, no surprise, Ron needs no notes.
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