Zenith,
Paris, 28 Oct 1990 - Sunday
On the Metro, we pick out bits of the two-page
Without A Net review in Friday's Liberation. "It's as if Capt. Trips
and his bohemian crew found, in the purple fog of San Francisco Bay, the
elixir of eternal beatnik youth," suggests Yves Bigot. Our own elixir is
cheap red wine in arena-friendly plastic bottles, and we wander in a pleasant
daze among the Heads, dotted here and there with the odd puzzled lyceen
on his way from the Science Centre. The much-quoted figure of 1500 tour
followers obviously doesn't include the US expats in the city: 75% of this
lot are American, and no doubt astonished that after several weeks tickets
remain available for a 6,000-capacity show.
The Zenith is an ugly, temporary-looking
tent from outside, but inside it's superb, even if rain starts to leak
on my head during the second set. Unrestricted floor space, good seats
with a steep rake, and , best of all, almost invisible security inside
the hall. The hanging stacks are a few yards away and point
straight at our faces. Tonight will be LOUD.
Saturday taught us there is a Vinnie and Bruce
Zone, and tonight we're in it. At 6.15 Bruce's grand teases us into the
second Touch of Grey of the tour, rolling and Bertha-esque, confident rather
than anthemic, Jerry's raised fist on the final chorus pure ritual by now.
Keyboard workouts, singly and together, replace Weir's slide on Walkin'
Blues and create an acceptably different alternative to Brent's much-missed
B3 attack. Candyman needs more light and shade, but, in response to a Phil
Chant inaudible to us, a familiar voice rings out: "En francais, s'il
vous plait!" The few, rather overwhelmed-looking natives don't oblige,
but we get an expressive and tuneful Box of Rain anyway.
Vinnie's "fiddle" and Garcia's "trumpet" give
Mexicali a full-blown south-of-the-border treatment, but the flawless segue
into Maggie's Farm is one of those treasured surprises, as is the Bob-Jerry-Bruce-Vince-Phil
vocal rota and Vince's sardonic Dylan inflection on the Man and God and
Law verse. After Althea, the Cassady jam goes for noise, lacking the impetus
with which the best versions seem to topple over into the final chorus,
and if Tennessee is jolly (Rock all night!) the last thing I need is Hornsby's
Stander on the Mountain to end the first set- it took around eight years
before a Brent song was allowed in that position.
In the lobby there's Karamazov-style juggling
and some ecstatic tom-tom dancing that draws a sizeable crowd. Here in
the North of France/all the ladies love to dance! Then my first live Victim
emerges squabbling and squalling from the stacks, Phil pumping his effects
pedals, and once Weir has retreated into the green twilight with his embarrassing
lyrics, I love it: the drummers have come up with a new underpinning that
recreates the power of the album version. It's spiky, disturbing,
loud. Jerry strums us into Eyes, no gradual emergence here but striking
out with determination from a black hole of dissonance. "Visit your country"
gets cheers and Estimated has a mean "sax" break from Vinnie, while
one of the fastest Uncle Johns I've heard has a calliope feel courtesy
of Bruce's accordion. They repeat verse 2 by mistake and ham it up on stage,
so "how does this song go?" gets a huge roar.
Mickey is almost immediately on his feet, big
pulverizing beats giving way to a soundscape that is less Maggie's than
Old MacDonald's farm, with mooing and squawking noises gradually turning
into something more sinister in preparation for Halloween. At one point
the lights catch the drumskins and turn them into shimmering tropical pools,
and the unusual, wide lighting array in the small hall is throughout something
to marvel at, widescreen Dead. Bobby approaches the mike and seems to tease
us with the prospect of a 'soft' New Year style Other One before Phil rallies
and erupts.
Wharf Rat is positively bouncy, Sugar/Sunshine
flawless, but the real treat is a refashioned Heaven's Door, with the previous
rather undeveloped feel replaced by powerful harmonies and keyboards.
"Au
revoir, mes amis", says Phil, and that's it.
The bass, fiddle and accordion buskers who entertain
us en route to the station don't realise how close they sound at times
to the night's main attraction. Our ears are ringing, but we're delighted
with two tight, well played shows. Six hours a day of rehearsals with the
new guys have obviously paid off for everyone, and if the downside of the
new, more precise and 'arranged' approach is a rather compact second set,
then that's the price we pay. I have to admit a rather selfish sense of
relief as we leave the park. No Dark Star! They must be saving the second
one for Wembley...
