ZZ TOP
Ah, testosterone. That ordinary reproductive hormone isn’t just a source of adventure, excitement, and ecstasy; it can also change your musical tastes. Without healthy doses of it–or at least a healthy appreciation for it–you could wind up listening to Counting Crows. With it comes an appreciation for big, loud, aggressive bands that have everything you need to release those pent-up drives: overstated blues riffs, stampeding rhythms, hoary vocals, and lewd lyrics. Be careful, though: not every band uses these things wisely. I recently saw two in concert, and let me tell you: ZZ Top made me glad to be a boy, but Aerosmith just made me nervous.
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An enormous replica of a car dashboard spanned the stage, including a gigantic speedometer at the center with drummer Frank Beard sitting on top. Conveyer belts allowed bassist Dusty Hill and guitarist Billy Gibbons to walk in place and seemingly float across the stage. Hissing, cracking, and popping electrical wires ran from the stage to giant, glowing radio antennae suspended from the ceiling. And a monstrous electrical generator glided across the stage during “Antenna,” swallowed up the band, and exploded. Magically, they reappeared at the back of the stage. Talk about vagina dentata.
My only real objection to ZZ World, in fact, was that the music itself often served as a mere sound track to the spectacle. By further expanding their oversize rhythms and riffs to equal the stage show, the band reduced the already thin distinctions between many songs. A few moments stuck out: the thundering stutter of “Waiting for a Bus”; Gibbons’s heartfelt solo on “Rough Boy”; and the band faultlessly negotiating the breakneck instrumental runs at the end of “I’m Bad, I’m Nationwide.” Despite their comic image, ZZ Top are superb, dead-serious musicians, and they played with a seamless cohesion that testified to their more than 20 years together. It’d be nice to hear them in a setting where the music was the main event.
