Live Review: Rooney & Chuck Berry

Rooney
Chuck Berry
Live Review
Pentacrest-University of Iowa
9/26/08

I wanted my first ever rock concert to be memorable, something that they’d be able to relay to others when older.
“The first concert I ever saw was Chuck Berry."
I chuckled a bit with Ethan when he asked about the first concert that I ever saw.
“The Spinners.” I informed him
“The Spinners?”
“Yeah,” I reiterated. “They had a hit back then called ‘Rubberband Man.”
I then went into an impersonation of the band, including a part where the members of The Spinners brought out huge rubberbands and started playing them.
In retrospect, it was pretty awesome for a first concert.
I hope that my kids will forget the details of their first concert experience, specifically how utterly disappointing Chuck Berry’s performance was.
Let’s be clear for a moment, Chuck Berry is old. There were many in attendance Friday night that shared the same philosophy as I did: We were there to see Mr. Berry perform before he passes away, a final show of respect to the man who invented rock and roll.
I confided this to Ethan on the way down when he asked 1.) Why were we going out of town 2.) Where we were going and 3.) Who is Chuck Berry.
By the time we were on our way to the show after dinner, he was advising his 16-month-old sister “Hey Calli, we’re going to a rock and roll concert to see an old black man play before he dies!” Somehow, even as he told this to her in a singsong manner, it sounds more callous and racist than was actually intended.
If you’re not a parent, let me explain something. You bust ass getting your kids ready to go somewhere and then you get there and realize that you forgot items on the mental list you made before you got ready. You’re always in a rush because science hasn’t figured out a way to make a remote control that works on children (“Sit! Stay! Pee! Put on shoes!”) and, as a result, you’re always getting sidetracked with l’il dramas. Sometimes when you get to the place you’re going to, you realize the thing you’re missing is just a minor item, typically a bib or a little container of Goldfish. Sometimes it’s a major item, like diapers, wipes, or a little container of Goldfish (hey, they work wonders).
We get to the Pentacrest lawn and I’m starting to remember all of those things that we forgot: blanket to sit on, bug repellant, my wife. Seriously, I have so much respect for single parents it’s ridiculous. How you people navigate through this world with kids on your own is beyond me. I’m solo every other weekend, and it takes me two weeks to recuperate from the added stress of having to deal with little fuckers that have no sense to wash their hands after pooping or no sense enough to know that pooping in your pants isn’t “normal.”
I figured that the missing items aren’t that big of deal. It’s cold enough….fuck, I forgot jackets!...that bugs aren’t going to be an issue and the ground isn’t wet and the last time I checked parking your ass on it doesn’t give you the bird flu. We park well enough away that the loud amplifiers won’t be an issue to the little one’s ears and I go to get my little Pooh girl her snacks.
Goldfish?
Check.
Bottle of diluted apple juice?
Attention Village Inn of Iowa City. I liked the décor of your old place before you remodeled a little bit better and you owe me a new sippy cup and ten ounces of diluted apple juice.
Rooney was performing first, a band that I had heard little about and, for some reason, assumed they were on the same playing field as The Jonas Brothers or whatever. The only songs I had ever heard from them was a derivative ditty called “When Did Your Heart Go Missing” (it’s one of those tunes where you think ‘Man, I’ve heard this riff before. What song is this?”) and a pointless cover of an old Alphaville tune. From what I also understand, the band’s name is also in reference to Mr. Rooney from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, which is funny because these guys looked like they were themselves using sippy cups when Ferris Bueller was first released.
Calli was transfixed with Rooney. She danced around in her stroller (more on this in another post), clapped and yelled “Yea!” after each song and, occasionally shook her head and hair just like those teenage girls you see in old Beatlemania footage. I started using my Calli voice and teasing her at how she had a crush on the members of Rooney.
The band performed by-the-numbers power-pop songs that were very light on muscle and occasionally filled with new wave keyboards. They weren’t bad. They weren’t memorable. You could tell that there were a lot of young girls that dug them. Every time a song ended, you could hear their screams picked up through the stage mics, particularly when their favorite songs were being introduced.
U of I’s homecoming activities brings out a wide range of people, and while there were a lot of 35+ people in attendance, they were virtually silent throughout Rooney’s set. The only time the band gained a response was when they performed Del Shannon’s “Runaway” for no other reason than to win over the hearts of anyone from the Class of ’64 that may have been in the crowd.
Ethan spent most of the time bored even when I tried to tell him to go hit up a four-year old girl in a Hawkeye cheerleading outfit that was making sweet eyes at him. He came over and sat on my lap instead.
The set ended and someone from Brad Company’s radio station came out and said something about going to some web site to win something. The only thing I remember him saying was that he was advised not to touch the microphone of “Mr. Berry” and what was the first thing he did?
He started to adjust the microphone of Chuck Berry.
He caught himself and the dude could have just knocked over the fucking thing and it wouldn’t have made a difference.
Sure, we paid our respects by standing up when Mr. Berry took the stage and provided him with abundant applause. Chuck, on the other hand, paid his respects by forgetting words, struggling to find the right notes, falling out of rhythm and occasionally neglecting to sing into the microphone. I’m fully aware of the man’s age (he turns 82 in a few weeks) but also thing that there are steps that one can take to “cover up” a legend’s deficiencies.
First of all, it doesn’t even sound like a soundcheck took place. When the band started, you could hear Berry fumbling around on his guitar, a distant snare drum and the hi-hat. Then, the bass guitar rolled in, followed by the bass drum; it was like nobody had the good sense to fix the mix before the dudes took stage. Kind of important, particularly considering that one of those dudes is a motherfucking legend.
Secondly, Berry’s backing band sounded like a bunch of hacks. I have no idea if Chuck is still a handle to deal with on a personal level, but I have to believe that someone would compliment him with a band that could actually keep time and provide the audience with a clear picture of what song is playing. Seriously, there was more than one occasion where it took me (and others, gauging from the conversations I overheard) a few bars into the song before I understood what he was playing. And I’m sorry, shit like “Memphis, Tennessee” and “Sweet Little Sixteen” I should be able to immediately recognize after Berry begins playing.
His guitar sounded woefully out of tune, even during those times where he managed to find the right key to play in.
I purposely set my expectations low for this event, relegating the show to be nothing more than a respectful tribute than an actual revelation. It was far below my worse expectations, a show that could ultimately undermine people’s opinion of this important figure if they don’t put these performances into proper context.
This is why I place more blame towards the people that now handle Mr. Berry’s affairs than Mr. Berry himself. I find it hard to believe that there isn’t someone in his circle that can stand up to him, shore up his career, and make him (and everyone else) a little more money in the process. Nobody’s expecting duckwalk, hell, if he can’t play anymore then mix down his guitar and get a second guitarist to maintain the purity of the material. And find a drummer that can keep time too, for fucks sake.
Calli didn’t seem to mind. She bobbed her head and clapped while Ethan began running around, sliding in the grass and getting filthy in the process. But they’ll both get the chance to tell people that their first rock concert was from the guy that invented the fucking thing. It just won’t be as memorable as my first concert and, in retrospect, that’s probably for the better.