| | Flying into Los Angeles at 6.30 in the evening, coasting lightly over neon lights, skyscrapers, palm trees and baseball stadiums, you could be forgiven for thinking this is the most beautiful place in the world. The self-professed city of angels offers its three million residents cloudless skies, glorious weather and spectacular views even his deep into November, making the Christmas jingles and Black Friday Yuletide sales that dominate the local media seem colossally absurd. On the star-studded, sun-kissed streets of West Hollywood, Winter is an alien concept; the Walk of Fame is baking, and the creative types that linger around the bustling coffee houses and independent venues that line the Sunset Strip adjust their shades and reapply their lotion accordingly.
There's no end of opulence here; no expense too grandiose, no venture too OTT. Celebrity is just another fact of life, as commonplace as the likelihood of being knocked on your ass by oncoming traffic, whose disregard for your right of way is legendary. Fancy meeting Will.I.Am? Just pop into your local Burger King. Want a few words with Jessica Albert? Hop on the Metro Rapid service and alight at Santa Monica and Elm. The affluence that courses through the city gives it its lifeblood, and perhaps that what makes it so appealing. It's also what makes the place such an unnerving experience, as the many and varied boulevards are littered with the homeless and the destitute. Hollywood's wealth and materialism contrasts starkly with the sheer number of men and women lying sprawled on street corners and offering locals and tourists alike the opportunity to taser them or 'kick [them] in the ass' for five dollars. It's a sobering juxtaposition and one that exposes the real unpleasant underbelly of this otherwise mighty fine city.
It's likely that Rivers Cuomo would rather you didn't dwell on such unpleasant facts. It's no coincidence that the first two dates of Weezer's Memories tour, the dream concerts that fans of the band have been praying for since 2001, are taking place in the relative seclusion of the Hollywood Hills, amongst the self-indulgence of the rich and famous. For the man who once wrote a paean to Beverly Hills (played on the 'Blue' date in all its self-referential glory), this is probably second nature; hell, why would you want to hike your gear to the ramshackle pseudo-squat stylings of The Viper Room or even the House of Blues when you can set up shop in the middle of Universal Studios, just north of Mullholland Drive and the infamous Hollywood sign? It certainly makes for a spectacular journey to and from the venue, as fans and celebs alike are forced to navigate the deer crossings and absurd, mind-of-their-own sprinkler systems that flank the gargantuan entrances to the various million dollar hotels of Universal City. Essentially, attending a show at the Gibson is like showing up at a C-list star's garden party, complete with the extortionate drinks prices, impressive memorabilia (Billie Joe Armstrong's electric? Paul McCartney's acoustic? Anyone?) and exploitative gimmicks: not satisfied with the prospect of watching Weezer perform two of the greatest records ever written? Why not have your photo taken 'on the cover of Blue or Green'? Or, even better, 'make a wish' that might just possibly, you-never-know, be granted and get yourself a free pair of imitation Rivers specs? It's all fairly pointless fluff, feeling a little like garnish added just for the hell of it, much like a great deal else in this bizarre city.
But then, for all cynicism is tempting in this ludicrous environment, there is another way of looking at all this. When you're charging upwards of £50 per ticket, and offering the hardcore the opportunity to stand in the very limited pit, attend an acoustic set and meet the band for a heart-stopping $300, it would seem rude not to go that extra mile and offer your now bankrupt punters an additional incentive. For all the venue is teeming with celebs on both nights - the drummer from No Doubt, the aforementioned Jessica Albert, Nicole Richie, erm... Good Charlotte - there are just as many, if not more, hardcore fans for whom this is quite probably the highlight of their lives. And indeed, that isn't to say that the celebs aren't any less devoted: members of Australian power pop funksters The Wellingtons have forked out over a grand each for the opportunity to stand on the barrier and bellow the words to 'The World Has Turned And Left Me Here' so really, Weezer, we kinda expect you to do something a bit special.
Suffice to say, they don't disappoint. The garnish brings a smile to the face, sure, but it's the meat of the performance that really shines and there's very little distinction in quality over the two nights. Contrary to pre-gig advertisements, the 'Greatest Hits' portion takes place before the main attraction and perhaps unsurprisingly, it isn't 'completely different' on the Friday and Saturday. There's enough of a variety in the ten song soiree, however, and an overwhelming sense of fun to proceedings. The 'Blue' date features more of a standard set, running backwards in time from the straightforward pop-rock absurdity of current single 'Memories' to a sneak preview of Saturday's delights with a quick run-through 'Pinkerton' classic 'Falling For You'. Along the way, we're treated to a cameo from Jorge Garcia - for the uninitiated, Hurley himself - who fumbles his way through an infectious 'If You're Wondering' and subsequently reappears on Saturday for the infinitely superior 'Perfect Situation', storming renditions of 'Red' album singles 'Troublemaker' and 'Pork and Beans', during which Rivers roams around the venue, running up and down the stairwell between blocks, having the time of his life, and a triple threat 'Green' album bonanza as Rivers humps, groans and mid-life-crisis' his way through the superlative 'Photograph', 'Island in the Sun' (featuring Bethany from lacklustre support Best Coast on guest vocals) and a beefed-up 'Hash Pipe', ending proceedings by accidentally smashing his acoustic guitar in a moment of impromptu excitement.
Saturday is even better: Rivers leaves Scott to slay a riotous 'Dope Nose', which he does with suitable aplomb, while 'The Greatest Man That Ever Lived' provides a much welcome surprise early in the set, Cuomo singing the bulk of the track while perched precariously on Josh Freese/Pat's drumkit. It's a mere taster of treats to come, however, as Weezer whip out a once-in-a-blue-moon 'Suzanne' and, even better, 'You Gave Your Love To Me Softly', two 'Blue Album' B-sides that have the hardcore salivating at the mouth.
Of course, the real reason we're all paying the bulk of a month's wages to be here is the second half of the set and quite frankly, it's worth every last cent. As a precursor to the main attraction, long-serving guitar tech Carl runs us all through a series of album-orientated slides, showcasing his memories of the 'Blue' and 'Pinkerton' eras, and while that may sound a little dry on paper, the never-before-seen shots of the band in the studio recording 'Blue', flyers from early performances at the appropriately named Club Dump, bastardised setlists from 'Pinkerton' shows and photographs from long-lost superfans Mykel and Carli's fanclub Christmas party set the tone for the nostalgia fest that is to come, helping to further whet the already insatiable appetites of the 7,000 devotees in the audience. And when the band walk out on stage, decked in the gear from the respective eras each night and flanked by a huge version of the respective album cover, excitement reaches fever pitch. The opening bars of 'My Name Is Jonas' elicit a roar of appreciation that threatens to blow the roof off the Amphitheater, while the ear-piercing squeal of feedback that precedes an absolutely note perfect and deliciously aggressive 'Tired of Sex' quite literally sends shivers down the spine.
It's impossible to determine which night is the superior: these songs are every bit as outstanding as each other, and the performances are flawless. There's no time for between-song banter, Rivers choosing to leave the crowd-baiting to the opening part of the set, and it's a wise decision. The music essentially speaks for itself, and anything less than full band renditions, with Cuomo concentrating on both vocal and guitar, would somehow seem like a cheat. This is how 'Buddy Holly' is meant to be played, not halfway up the lighting rig with Pat forced to play Rivers' parts (as fun as that may be). Perhaps predictably, it's the less-aired tracks that provide the biggest thrills. For all 'Say It Ain't So' sounds massive, the 'Blue' closing trio of 'In the Garage', 'Holiday' and 'Only In Dreams' is the equivalent of a wet dream, feeling like we've all been transported back to Club Dump in 1994 and seeming every bit as intimate. 'Dreams' in particular is phenomenal, marrying Cuomo's delicate vocals with a closing four minute rifffest to die for.
'Pinkerton' is no less spectacular. 'The Good Life' and 'El Scorcho', two of the greatest singles ever written, have lost none of their immediacy in the years since they've received a live airing, and the standing ovations that greet them speak volumes. It was always going to seem like a dream come true, but 'Getchoo', 'No Other One' and 'Across the Sea' are just fantastic, as faithful to the recordings as we could possibly hope for, and infused with an intensity that has the Amphitheater's seated contingent dancing, moshing and emoting in the aisles, while the hardcore faithful down the front stare on in awe, barely able to believe they've been lucky enough to witness this in their lifetime. Inevitably, it's all over far too soon: before long, the band leave Rivers alone with his acoustic and as he strums the opening chords of an eye-wateringly beautiful 'Butterfly', the stage's back wall retracts, opening up the venue to the outside world. It's a brilliantly tender moment and an utterly gorgeous rendition... and Cuomo knows it. He remains on stage for minutes after the final notes, soaking up every last ounce of adulation fired his way by the delirious crowd. As he shuffles quietly off stage and the lights come up, the mood is decidedly ambivalent, the audience wrestling with dejection at the fact that it's all over and the sheer joy (and perhaps relief) that them boys did good.
Are these the best gigs of every Weezer fan's life? Well, frankly, yeah. At Universal City, at least, there were no disappointments, no major fuck ups, no half-assed renditions of any of the tracks we've all paid an arm and a leg to see. 'Pinkerton' and 'Blue' in all their note-perfect, raw, untarnished glory piss all over just about anything else you could ever have a hope of hearing, and the bonus of a couple of fairly different greatest hits sets just adds to the feeling that yup, this is about as good as it gets. The choice of venue may be a concession to the more affluent of the state's population and the opulence of the surrounding area may make an uneasy contrast to, say, the more independent areas of the Sunset Strip, but there's simply no denying that these are two truly amazing shows. For the Los Angelenos lucky enough to get a ticket and the fans who've travelled the world for the privilege, the memories alone make every cent worth it. Now let's see if they can do the same with 'Green' and 'Maladroit', yeah? Um.... | |
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