Tonite's Set List
If that was the case I would make the trip to NYC from here in northern Indiana just to see that - Sisters and Public Enemy? What a combo - I'd SO be there.lachert wrote:so public enemy still as opener for sisters gigs in us?
...with the wind in our face and our arms open wide...
Hah - I'm actually kind of curious to see what sort of comments we may get in Chicago, since that is Obama's hometown and all. Also curious to hear about the DC show -dodge64 wrote:well i figured he could be ironic for what may happen tomorrow
seems a bit more talkative this time around than he was in 2006....with the wind in our face and our arms open wide...
Found this on the NY Times Website
There was a certain symmetry to the quintuple bill that came to Radio City Music Hall on Wednesday night. It started with Kory Clarke, the lead singer of Warrior Soul, hurling imprecations against "12 years of Republican administrations." And it ended with the Sisters of Mercy performing "Vision Thing," a song that snarls President Bush's slogans in a fury of sarcasm over a booming beat.
The concert was the first of this summer's mix-and-match tours, which bring together rockers and rappers, new bands and punk-era veterans; next to arrive will be the Lollapalooza tour headlined by Jane's Addiction. Wednesday's concert featured Sisters of Mercy, an English band, and Public Enemy, New York's most important rap group. The opening acts were the reconstituted Gang of Four, a pioneering punk-funk band, and Warrior Soul, a hard-rock band from Detroit. Also squeezed in were Young Black Teen-Agers, a white rap group that shares Public Enemy's producer but not its intelligence or enunciation. All except Young Black Teen-Agers offered some mixture of angry leftist politics and walloping, abrasive music.
The mix-and-match tour grows out of idealistic and practical considerations. The ideal is to convene a post-punk community from factionalized rock audiences. The practicality is that because insurers are so leery of violence at rap shows, promoters rarely book all-rap bills; joining rock bands on the road helps rappers to get out and perform.
Although Sisters of Mercy topped the bill, part of the audience left after Public Enemy finished. "We should be supporting Public Enemy," Andrew Eldritch, the Sisters' leader, said from the stage; in England, "supporting" means "opening for." But it was only lip service. Otherwise, the Sisters of Mercy might have shortened their overlong set and given Public Enemy more time.
Sisters of Mercy merge pretension and propulsion. In a bass-baritone growl that rises to a bitter bleat, Mr. Eldritch sings about lust and apocalypse, slinging poetic images as he skulks around the stage veiled in sunglasses and smoke. At Radio City, lyrics were obscured behind the music, which pounds away with a riff or two for each song -- more in "This Corrosion," the Sisters' catchiest tune. Some songs use quasi-Celtic guitar lines, others lean toward power chords, but once under way the riffs simply repeat to the end. The concertgoers started out dancing; by the end of the set, most were simply standing and watching the moires and starbursts of the band's impressive lighting setup.
Public Enemy's set was a holding action, pending the September release of its next album, "Apocalypse 1991: the Enemy Strikes Black." With a dancing honor guard of four men in white Navy-like uniforms, and security men trailing the rappers, Chuck D. and Flavor-Flav ran all over the stage, led short stretches of audience participation and declaimed some greatest hits. The set included "Bring the Noise," "911 Is a Joke," "Who Stole the Soul," "Welcome to the Terrordome": songs about the power of rap, the neglect of the poor and the exploitation of black labor and culture, in dense, multi-layered language over backdrops that are all muscle and dissonance.
There was no new material and no speeches between songs; Sister Souljah, Public Enemy's new rapper, was also absent. And because Chuck D. often rapped over his own prerecorded voice, the sense that his songs are spontaneous blasts of articulate rage was lessened. But the songs remain rap's most tough-minded material, and after years of roadwork, Public Enemy performs them as if they're participatory party music.
Gang of Four, now a five-member group, matches oblique lyrics to stark music, mostly drumbeats and guitar noise that are occasionally tempered by a melodic chorus. Its set juxtaposed its best old songs -- "Love Like Anthrax," "I Love a Man in a Uniform" -- with new material like "F.M.U.S.A.," a splintered evocation of the Vietnam War. Two original Gang members, its singer Jon King and its guitarist, Andy Gill, were upstaged by its new bass player, Gail Ann Dorsey, who sang, danced and added a sensual element the original Gang disdained.
Where Public Enemy details inner-city anger, Sisters of Mercy purvey Romantic disillusion and Gang of Four offers educated cynicism, Warrior Soul sums up the rage of suburban youth facing drastically lowered expectations. Its stamping, grinding songs carry Mr. Clarke's shouted accusations -- "all the oil that you pump/my world's a garbage dump" -- on basic guitar riffs and booming drums, updating Led Zeppelin with glimpses of politics.
Each band was blunt and focused, but disappeared after its set. If the musicians really want to suggest a new community, they might consider playing a finale together.
There was a certain symmetry to the quintuple bill that came to Radio City Music Hall on Wednesday night. It started with Kory Clarke, the lead singer of Warrior Soul, hurling imprecations against "12 years of Republican administrations." And it ended with the Sisters of Mercy performing "Vision Thing," a song that snarls President Bush's slogans in a fury of sarcasm over a booming beat.
The concert was the first of this summer's mix-and-match tours, which bring together rockers and rappers, new bands and punk-era veterans; next to arrive will be the Lollapalooza tour headlined by Jane's Addiction. Wednesday's concert featured Sisters of Mercy, an English band, and Public Enemy, New York's most important rap group. The opening acts were the reconstituted Gang of Four, a pioneering punk-funk band, and Warrior Soul, a hard-rock band from Detroit. Also squeezed in were Young Black Teen-Agers, a white rap group that shares Public Enemy's producer but not its intelligence or enunciation. All except Young Black Teen-Agers offered some mixture of angry leftist politics and walloping, abrasive music.
The mix-and-match tour grows out of idealistic and practical considerations. The ideal is to convene a post-punk community from factionalized rock audiences. The practicality is that because insurers are so leery of violence at rap shows, promoters rarely book all-rap bills; joining rock bands on the road helps rappers to get out and perform.
Although Sisters of Mercy topped the bill, part of the audience left after Public Enemy finished. "We should be supporting Public Enemy," Andrew Eldritch, the Sisters' leader, said from the stage; in England, "supporting" means "opening for." But it was only lip service. Otherwise, the Sisters of Mercy might have shortened their overlong set and given Public Enemy more time.
Sisters of Mercy merge pretension and propulsion. In a bass-baritone growl that rises to a bitter bleat, Mr. Eldritch sings about lust and apocalypse, slinging poetic images as he skulks around the stage veiled in sunglasses and smoke. At Radio City, lyrics were obscured behind the music, which pounds away with a riff or two for each song -- more in "This Corrosion," the Sisters' catchiest tune. Some songs use quasi-Celtic guitar lines, others lean toward power chords, but once under way the riffs simply repeat to the end. The concertgoers started out dancing; by the end of the set, most were simply standing and watching the moires and starbursts of the band's impressive lighting setup.
Public Enemy's set was a holding action, pending the September release of its next album, "Apocalypse 1991: the Enemy Strikes Black." With a dancing honor guard of four men in white Navy-like uniforms, and security men trailing the rappers, Chuck D. and Flavor-Flav ran all over the stage, led short stretches of audience participation and declaimed some greatest hits. The set included "Bring the Noise," "911 Is a Joke," "Who Stole the Soul," "Welcome to the Terrordome": songs about the power of rap, the neglect of the poor and the exploitation of black labor and culture, in dense, multi-layered language over backdrops that are all muscle and dissonance.
There was no new material and no speeches between songs; Sister Souljah, Public Enemy's new rapper, was also absent. And because Chuck D. often rapped over his own prerecorded voice, the sense that his songs are spontaneous blasts of articulate rage was lessened. But the songs remain rap's most tough-minded material, and after years of roadwork, Public Enemy performs them as if they're participatory party music.
Gang of Four, now a five-member group, matches oblique lyrics to stark music, mostly drumbeats and guitar noise that are occasionally tempered by a melodic chorus. Its set juxtaposed its best old songs -- "Love Like Anthrax," "I Love a Man in a Uniform" -- with new material like "F.M.U.S.A.," a splintered evocation of the Vietnam War. Two original Gang members, its singer Jon King and its guitarist, Andy Gill, were upstaged by its new bass player, Gail Ann Dorsey, who sang, danced and added a sensual element the original Gang disdained.
Where Public Enemy details inner-city anger, Sisters of Mercy purvey Romantic disillusion and Gang of Four offers educated cynicism, Warrior Soul sums up the rage of suburban youth facing drastically lowered expectations. Its stamping, grinding songs carry Mr. Clarke's shouted accusations -- "all the oil that you pump/my world's a garbage dump" -- on basic guitar riffs and booming drums, updating Led Zeppelin with glimpses of politics.
Each band was blunt and focused, but disappeared after its set. If the musicians really want to suggest a new community, they might consider playing a finale together.