(TV) The Independent's review of Monday's gig

[Keith Allison <keith@marquee.demon.co.uk>]

On the whole I'd say this is a reasonable review of the gig, except that 
he loses it a bit towards the end. Although he didn't seem to be aware 
that there were several unheard/previously unplayed songs in the set and 
didn't recognise the last song which, even in its current deconstructed 
form, was obviously "Psychotic Reaction" (This was probably why Tom was 
singing the word's "psychotic reaction" throughout the song)
(I also wonder at the notion that Richard might have finally made it up 
to the level where he can be mentioned in the same breath as Stevie Ray 
Vaughn)

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MIXED SIGNALS FROM TELEVISION

The Independent, Wednesday June 22nd.

At their best, Television are one of those bands whose music gets 
thrillingly into your bones, the searing tones of the twin Fender 
guitars of Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd driven home by an intense and 
dramatic pattern developed by the bassist Fred Smith and the drummer 
Billy Ficca.

But when things don't quite work, the band are listless and devoid of 
passion, the music strangely colourless and uncommunicative. They 
delivered both aspects of themselves at Meltdown to a crowd almost 
falling over themselves in readiness to adore every note.

This unfortunate dichotomy is present probably because Verlaine, the 
group's quixotic leader and chief songwriter, keeps everything on such a 
tight leash but is himself all too vulnerable to distractions and 
vexations other performers would brush aside.

So, in a 90-minute set that allowed no interval and concentrated on 
music either from the epochal 1976 album Marquee Moon or Television's 
efforts in the Nineties, but almost entirely skipped 1978's Adventure, 
Verlaine spent more time fretting about his electronic guitar tuner 
rather than getting on with giving the audience what they were almost 
pleading for - Television in full flight.

Verlaine's increasingly distracted mood eventually impinged on the 
music. Yet there were times when the music was so good, and so 
thrilling, that the gig was on the verge of greatness. A driving version 
of "Venus" was hampered only by understrength vocal miking, but the 
rolling twin-guitar patterns and thunderous drums of "See No Evil" were 
overwhelming.

Virtually all major solos on the night were handed to Lloyd. Given 
Verlaine's skittishness, this turned out to be a good thing, for Lloyd, 
a player rarely given his due either in the band or in rock generally, 
turned in three solos during the set that had the entire band stomping 
behind him in a kind of dervish frenzy and audience mouths dropping open 
in awe. His combination of tone, idea and sheer edge took him into a 
class of player where the names Jeff Beck and Stevie Ray Vaughn are not 
entirely inappropriate.

Verlaine, whose more lyrical style is normally a perfect contrast to 
Lloyd's quicksilver , slashing attack, was sufficiently out of sorts to 
limit himself to the occasional brief foray amid a good deal of 
workmanlike chording. His great setpiece, the long drama of "Marquee 
Moon", was kept until the last in the set but went very wrong indeed.

The original recording offers an object lesson in how to build to an 
overpowering climax. On this night, Verlaine became impatient with 
himself and his solo, often taking his hand off the fretboard and 
shaking it as if he'd got cramps, then finally just cutting to the chase 
and leading the rest of the group into the heavily staccato patterns 
that deliver the tune's climax. This part at least worked, spilling the 
composition's motherlode all over the audience, but then Verlaine 
allowed the whole thing to unravel in a couple of minutes of 
inconsequential doodling as the band watched him intently for a clue as 
to how they were to end this thing.

Lack of rehearsal? Lack of care? Anyway, with the song ended the band 
exited stage left as soon as possible. It was at least five minutes 
before they straggled back on, this time with Patti Smith, to deliver a 
rather bloodless "You I Rate".

With Smith exiting to cheers, the band plunged into a short, incoherent 
rabble of noises and rhythms that would have been more appropriate at an 
avant-garde free improvisation concert: a virtual V-sign to the 
audience. Then they were gone for good and the house lights went up.
The best of times, the worst of times.

Keith Shadwick



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