There are those that believe in the transcendental power of the rock star. People like Bono, Mick Jagger, Jimi Hendrix, Paul McCartney, even Chris Martin. These people feel that 50,000 in one room is a chance to connect on a spiritual level with every single one, that a great song performed with sufficient passion can elevate everyone within its auditory orbit to another plane of existence. At that point, that high note in the anthem, the peak of the emotional and musical crescendo, the rock star is not merely a person, he is a conduit to some other place, a sharper shade of Platonic shadow of that perfect, beautiful world that heretefore we only thought might exist but could never could let ourselves believe in. When the last note of these songs echo loud and fade away, and the audience walks away stunned and sublimely joyous, a true work of art has been done. We listen to tinny recordings of those overwhelming, connecting songs and catch glimmers of memory of that other state, that other world to which we were transported.
Then there are those who believe only in rock n’ roll’s eternal ability to get one sex and drugs, cigarettes and alcohol. Liam Gallagher is such a rock star. Liam Gallagher performs because it’s his job, and it supplies his lifestyle. When he swaggers onto stage, looking every bit the Manchester punk that invites violence from otherwise peaceful people around the world, his hatred of his job, his audience, and, a less-amateurish psychological evaluator than myself might conclude, his life is kept just under the surface. The little cretin is cleverly conscious of this, and thus wears sunglasses and a hat pulled low, hoping the venom inside can be contained with fabric and plastic. His palpable ire is multiplied when forced to sing the sweet, eloquent songs of his brother, who he reportedly hates more than anyone else in the world.
His singing stature, instantly recognizable, is an upward thrust towards a downward facing microphone. He is yelling up at his psychological enemy (metaphysical father figure perhaps?) with every breath. What he sings isn’t rock ‘n roll, it’s contempt with cadence.
Was it a good show? Yea. It was a good show. The repertoire of brother Noel’s hits and just flat out rockers was, in the end, too powerful not to overtake Liam’s leering delivery. The best parts, when Liam actually left the stage for the few songs that his brother sang, were, well, joyous. Almost transcendentally so.