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Irie t Oak
MONDAY
MARCH 5, 2001
8A
Damn right
Buddy Guy's
got the blues
By Sheila McClear
Daily Arts Writer
Buddy Guy wasn't shy about letting Ann Arbor know just
how he was feelin' - "I feel real good right now!"
So good, in fact, that playing his trusty polka-dotted guitar
became a mere distraction in the sideshow that occurred at the
Courtesy of Pantera
Vinnie Paul and the rest of Pantera's "Cowboys From Hell" (inset) assaulted but couldn't overtake the Palace of Auburn Hills.
Vinnie's got some serious chops, and I don't just mean on the doublebass kit.
The death of metal? Pantera
allS to incite riots at alace
Buddy
Guy
The Michigan Theater
leb
'r
Michigan Theater last week. Buddy
Guy's set was a mixture of self-indul-
gence, unbridled enthusiasm, bizarre
interludes and (thank goodness) some
funky blues. In his standard ensemnble of
denim overalls, Guy and his band began
the evening with a wicked bass and sax-
heavy rendition of "l Just Wanna Make
Love to You" Demonstrating the full
potential of Guy as a performer, the
song was the pinnacle of the show and
unfortunately rendered the rest anti-cli-
mactic.
Not that Guy had a problem with that.
For example, Guy and his band often
never properly ended a song - he
Buddy Guy: Truly an urban legend.
By Rob Brode
Daily Arts Writer
Pantera: The sultans of heavy, the
Presidents of Power, the biggest collec-
tive middle finger in all of rock 'n' roll.
Much like an earthquake or volcano,
Pantera
Palace of Auburn Hills
March 1, 2001
Pantera is a natur-
al disaster leaving
a trail of destruc-
tion in its wake.
But like a natural
disaster, there is a
certain duality:
Within the
destruction lies a
kind of perverse
beauty to the
madness.
If Hell was to
be a place on
earth for just one
day, Satan himself
couldn't have picked a more fitting loca-
tion than Auburn Hills on March 1st.
Hell's favorite sons Pantera were to
come to town along with their equally
evil comrades Morbid Angel and
Soulfly.
Morbid Angel seized the stage airst in
a bloodbath of Death Metal screams and
torturous barking seemingly culled from
the deepest pits of hell. Angel's morose
sound was driven by a relentless double-
bass drum attack. The half-hour set
would be best likened to one million
consecutive rounds of machine gun fire.
The bottom end was so brutal each note
sent shockwaves across the floor, send-
ing tremors up through each audience
member's tightly laced leather boots to
the top of their shaved heads and back
down again.
Sheer power is initially impressive but
after ten to 15 minutes one has to look
past firepower and examine musicality.
Beyond incredibly precise headbanging,
hemmorage inducing volume, and
v'ocals that closely mirror the vomitous
sounds heard at nine a m. Sunday morn-
ing in any given fraternity bathroom,
Morbid Angel was essentially dull.
Every anguish saturated hell nugget of a
song seemed to be a clone of its prede-
cessor. The paltry crowd seemed to
respect Morbid Angel for their uncom-
promising style and longstanding devo-
tion to the Death Metal scene but nary a
mosh pit formed, signifying a general
sense of apathy.
Breaking away from the gothic over-
tones Morbid Angel draped over the
crowd, Soulfly swiped the stage with an
equally heavy but drastically more elec-
trifying set. The undersized crowd that
had seen Morbid Angel gradually grew
to form a more respectable gathering for
Soulfly. The growling throat, blonde
dreads and all the rest of Max Cavalera,
current front man of Soulfly and former
member and co-founder of Brazilian
metal wrecking crew Sepultura,
marched on stage first. The familiar face
and equally recognizable vocal dis-
charges jerked the nearly comatose
crowd into consciousness. Instead of
crossed arms and laxidasical headbobs
fans showed love the only way a metal
can fan, with purposeful moshing, pow-
erful fist pumping. A few even wailed
along with every unintelligible lyric
Cavalera disgorged. The acme of
Soulfy's set was a drum solo in which
each member left the stage, except the
drummer, only to return with a drum of
their own. Even Vinnie Paul, Pantera's
punishing percussionist, joined the drum
circle from hell.
Upon the culmination of Soulfly's set,.
there were applause and cries of appreci-
ation but still the Palace was at less than
half-capacity. While the fans had reacted
favorably to Soulfly the communal pulse
was still faint and flickering. The slowly
dying crowd needed something prodi-
giously powerful to revive their collec-
tive failing heart. Pantera was now the
lone hope for turning an uneventful
evening into the unruly, untamable
bonanza of metal that the thirty dollar
tickets had seemingly promised by just
bearing their name.
Vinnie, Rex, "Dimebag" and Phil hit
the stage and plowed ahead full force
into their extensive metal catalogue,
clubbing the audience over the head with
melodically challenged yet powerful
songs like "Fucking Hostile," "New
Level" and "Primal Concrete." An omi-
nous steel backdrop which read "Pantera
Reinventing the Steel" spat flames while
projections of rebel flags assured the
crowd that wherever the Cowboys From
Hell go they bring a little piece of home
with them. Vinnie Paul's doublebass
drum licks were brutal and sounded like
a track team running through a mine-
field. "Dimebag" Darrell's searing lead
chops and chainsaw-esque rhythm parts
were fearsome. Phil's vocals had trouble
finding their way through the bass
loaded sound and often instead of words
all that filtered through to the crowd
were muffled grunts.
Such fan favorites like "Floods" and
the ever-so-tender ballad "This Love"
graced the setlist. Phil commented that
they had been looking forward to play-
ing in Detroit because of the abundance
of "true metal son's a bitches." As he
talked about Detroit fans loyalty to the
band and the metal scene it was hard not
to notice that the upper bowl was nearly
empty along with large sections of the
lower bowl. Where were the rabid fans?
Had the commuter bus broken down on
its way out of hell ? Pantera threw punch
after punch with "Becoming" "Use My
Third Arm" and "Revolution is My
Name" yet the Palace crowd was not a
worthy opponent. Mosh pits more fero-
cious have been formed by 12-year-old
girls at Hanson concerts. Even "Walk," a
song as powerful as an atomic bomb,
couldn't ionize the audience. Phil even
pleaded "I want to see three more mosh
pits. That's not asking for much."
After Pantera left the stage many fans
headed to the exits not even bothering to
hear the encore. When Pantera came
back out to an even smaller crowd, they
showed no signs of packing it in. To
close the coffin door on a show that was
dead from the start they swung the
proverbial steel shovel into the back of
the "fans" heads for a cranium crunch-
ing encore of "Cowboys from Hell"
laced with the Motor City Madman's
classic "Cat Scratch Fever." Predictably,
the crowd remained docile.
Is irreverence for authority just not in
style anymore? Giving "The Man" the
middle finger isn't hip these days?
Maybe not. Maybe Pantera fans will cut
their long greasy manes or let hair grow
on their shaved heads till they can mold
it into trendy streaked blonde locks, or
trade in their black jeans and flannels for
Abercrombie and Fitch and join the local
Greek System. The sagging attendance
could be the last gasp for heavy metal or
it could be a fluke. Either way Pan-
FUCKING-tera has now just become
(sigh) Pantera to me.
would cut them off halfway through, citing reasons such as, "I
don't want to play that song anymore." "Cheaper to Keep Her"
was a crowd-pleasing number with a mischievious groove,
saucy lyrics (about how it's better to keep your current spouse
rather than pay the pricey child support once you divorce) and
Buddy's smooth, low voice.
By the fourth song, Guy was feeling so good that he escaped
from the stage and headed up the aisles, with guitar techs chas-
ing him with a wireless monitor and a microphone so he could
still play. After making the rounds on the floor (charming
women by taking them by the hand and letting them strum his
guitar, etc.) he somehow appeared in the balcony after a short
disappearance, where he announced, "I'm not going home
tonight!" While the gag was funny enough, it lost its humor
when, 20 minutes later, Guy was still wandering around the
balcony warbling away on his guitar.
Nevertheless, Guy radiated pure energy. Between songs, he
explained that Ann Arbor played an integral part in his decision
to become a musician. After playing at Ann Arbor's Canterbury
House in 1967, he decided not to go back to his truck-driving
job. Instead, Guy headed to Chicago to become a session gui-
tarist at Chess Records by day and learn how to play music by
watching the greats - Junior Wells, Muddy Waters - in blues
clubs by night. "[Ann Arbor] is the town I fell out on the stage,'
Guy said.
The highlight of the evening was undoubtedly the young
lady brought up on stage to jam on her harmonica with Guy
himself. She's sassy, she's talented, she stands up to Buddy's
endless stage banter - and she's only nine years old, folks. Her
name is Sunny Girl, a Michigander who fronts her own band
called "the UV Rays." This local talent traded frenzied licks on
the blues harp with Guy like a seasoned professional, bringing
the audience to its feet.
Despite the performance's flaws, Guy is a legendary
Chicago blues musician who has a star-studded history t
cannot be ignored. He is often referred to as electric bl
greatest living guitarist. He heavily influenced Clapton,
Hendrix, Santana and Vaughn (they've said so themselves).
Surely, his career as a performer has seen better days.
However, you've got to hand it to him - Guy was certainly
"feelin' it" (his term), and made it clear that if the audience
wasn't in on the joke, then screw 'em. Maybe it was a giant
wink or just a bad night - either way, Guy didn't seem to care.
Stay 3000 miles away from
chees Elvs-infsted'Gracland
By Andy Taylor-Fabe
Daily Arts Writer
The true mark of failure for a film
is when the trailer is much better than
the actual movie. Such is the case for
"3000 Miles to Graceland," which
takes a potential-
ly entertaining
r z heist/chase story
and drives it
3000 Miles straight into the
to Graceland ground.
Kurt Russell
Grade: D+ and Kevin
At Showcase Costner play ex-
and Quality 16 cons who rob the
Riviera Casino in
Las Vegas. The
.. twist: They have
timed the job to
coincide with the
international
Elvis impersonator convention, so
they do the job in full costume,
including capes, rhinestones, and
prosthetic sideburns (except for
Costner, who has the genuine article).
Aided by henchmen (Christian Slater,
David Arquette and Bokeem
Woodbine) and a ridiculous amount of
firepower, they manage to escape with
over three million dollars. However,
when the discussions of the splitting
up the cash begin, it becomes obvious
that Costner is not interested in shar-
ing. Thus begins the chase, centering
on Michael (Russell) who is accompa-
nied by hotel proprietor Cybil
courtesy of Warner Bros.
I can't believe Kurt Russell, Kevin Costner and the back-to-work Christian Slater
settled for roles in this stupid, stupid movie. Well, actually I can. No really, I can't.
(Courtney Cox) and her son Jesse, and
Murphy (Costner) who maims, kills,
and blows up just about every inno-
cent bystander that he comes across.
The film is overflowing with flaws,
beginning with the fact that there is
not a single likable character. Cox is
irritating at best, and her motivation is
never really clear. Although Russell is
supposed to be the protagonist, it is
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only at the very end that he seems at
all like a sympathetic character, and
only then because we are so starved
for someone to identify with.
Michael's relationship with Jesse, a
precocious troublemaker, is not realis-
tic enough to be believable or outra-
geous enough to be funny, 'and
Michael's so-called romance with
Cybil is even more asinine.
Costner's character is pure evil, h
somehow he manages not to be sc.
at all. He seems to be going for a Mr.
Blonde in "Reservoir Dogs" kind of
character, but the problem is that he
lacks some credibility. I mean, no one
has ever seen Michael Madsen frol-
icking around, pretending to be a
mailman.
The few people who could have
saved the movie (Kevin Pollack and
Jon Lovitz) have only fleeting rc
and aren't given the chance to bring
the film out of its nose-dive, and the
positive influence of their presence is
cancelled out by the appearance of
ice-T and Howie Long, who play
Costner's hired muscle. Mercy.
The film is lacking in originality,
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