“After all is said and done, you can’t beat a guitar band, can ya?”
queried Chrissie Hynde after her retooled Pretenders had romped
through nearly a dozen career-spanning classics dating back almost
(gulp) twenty years. Of course, holding up her guitar like the
totem of rock stardom it was, Hynde’s question wasn’t a question at
all — not to her, and certainly not to an audience that had
flocked to hear the Pretenders and co-headliners the B-52’s strut
their stuff through a greatest hits-heavy show that was long on
nostalgia but short on new material.
What Saturday’s show — the third of both bands’ scheduled
twenty-two-date summer tour — made abundantly clear was this:
song-for-song, the Pretenders have as enduring a catalog as any
artist from the post-punk New Wave era (there were a dozen or so
other sure-fire hits the band *didn’t* perform), and that’s what
everyone came to hear. Meanwhile, the B-52’s’ campy beach-blanket,
slumber party-with-laughing gas schtick has aged far better than
anyone could ever have reasonably predicted back when the group
first go-go danced out of Georgia during the Carter
The Pretenders came on first, and during their
seventy-five-minute set, Hynde appeared loose and warm —
gregarious even — mugging for the audience, trying on baseball
caps (“normally I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of these things,
but I don’t want to appear ungracious”), and crouching at the lip
of the stage signing autographs *while* she sang the sappy, though
entirely fitting, “I’ll Stand By You.” At one point, she briefly
halted “Talk of the Town” to accept a bouquet of roses from a fan.
Most importantly, though, Hynde’s pearl-handled switchblade of a
voice was as indelible and cutting as it’s ever been, a vibrato
shimmering with defiance and heartbreak. And as long as Hynde has
her voice, she’ll have the Pretenders, or some version of it.
Indeed, her new edition of the band (drummer Martin Chambers is the
sole original member; both founding guitarist James Honeyman-Scott
and bassist Pete Farndon died, separately, of drug overdoses in the
early Eighties) seemed at home and completely comfortable with
radio warhorses like “Back On The Chain Gang” and “Kid” (which
Hynde dedicated to Honeyman-Scott and Farndon) — maybe even a
little too comfortable. The tunes were replicated in such
note-for-note, picture-perfect detail that, until they tore into
the blistering “My City Was Gone,” the band seemed to be coasting a
bit, missing the snarl and swagger that once defined it.
But ultimately, the cool character assassinations rendered in
“Private Life” and “Precious,” and the rousing encore reading of
“Brass In Pocket,” with Hynde’s famously insistent lyric “I’m
special, so special,” were all more than enough to convince you
that, some twenty years on, she still was.
So, in their own adorably bizarro-world way, were the B-52’s.
With once-departed singer Cindy Wilson back in the fold and a new
greatest hits album, Time Capsule: Songs For A Future
Generation, on the shelves, the band is undertaking its first
tour in five years. So when it came to throwing a party Saturday,
in that special Brady Bunch-on-acid-variety-show-kinda-way, the
B-52’s had a lot of catching up to do.
Against a backdrop of glittering disco balls, space-age globes
and psychedelic strobes, the group — expertly augmented by a
three-piece backing band — got things started in inimitable
fashion with the rumbling, Link Wray-ish, B-movie noir of “Planet
Claire.” Decked out in plastic flare-bottom slacks and what looked
suspiciously like a polyester shirt (plum), emcee and, uh, singer
Fred Schneider bumped-and-grinded the crowd through faves like
“Private Idaho,” the absurdly perfect “Rock Lobster,” and a couple
of new tunes perfect for hearing while commandeering a Chrysler as
big as a whale: “Debbie,” the Stonesy, riff-happy tribute to
Blondie’s Debbie Harry, and the nearly-as-good “Hallucinating
Though the set sagged slightly toward the middle (the repetitive
charm of the band’s strongest material becomes merely repetitive on
weaker tunes like “Summer of Love” ), Wilson’s and singer Kate
Pierson’s crystalline harmonies sounded uniformly terrific (bonus
points for Kate’s beehive ‘do and Cindy’s green feather boa).
Meanwhile, guitarist Keith Strickland’s wiry, loopy guitar
instigated a steady stream of zaniness and made-up dance moves. On
“Love Shack,” when Schneider blurted his command that “the whole
shack shimmy!” you needed only to look down at your feet to realize
that it already was.