Utterly Gutterly
It was the kind of gig where half the fans were in bands...
Peter Murphy
It was the kind of gig where half the fans were in bands. The Village balcony afforded a view of a front row that included various ex-Pogues, Golden Horders and Radiators From Space, all reduced to teenage screamer mode, while upstairs, elbows on the railings, Morrissey studied the talent with the acute concentration of a Zen apprentice observing the high priests at vespers.
And those of us still pinching ourselves at the Stooges resurrection a few years ago could similarly praise the saints for tonight’s 75-minute set. Okay, at times it was less a full blown Lazarus act than David Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain fronting a high class tribute band (The Jet Boys? The Mystery Girls?). And yes, the military precision of the delivery bypassed much of the stumblebum raunch integral to the New York Dolls’ sound… but then, any amount of Mercer Arts Centre veterans might admit that the original line-up had trouble even getting to the end of these numbers, never mind playing them in tune and on time.
So, they picked up where Johansen left off at the encores with the Harry Smiths in Whelan’s five years ago: the alleycat sashay of ‘Lookin’ For A Kiss’. The singer has grown old with enviable grace, a Jaggery head on a skinny Iggy body, all mouth and trousers, trinkets, pendants and scarves, his sidekick Syl decked out in matching black velvet po’ boy hat and jacket, ripping out spirited solos gobbled up by the baby glam-birds squashed against the lip of the stage.
It was a holy show alright. Never in my born days did I expect to hear ‘Trash’ or ‘Personality Crisis’ rendered with such grizzled old-hand attitood. Nor could I have envisioned Sylvain delivering a verse and chorus of ‘You Can’t Put Your Arms Around A Memory’ as an elegy to its author, Johnny Thunders.
Funny thing was, it didn’t feel like nostalgia, mainly because there was a whole ream of dazzling new numbers: ‘Fishnets & Cigarettes’, ‘Plenty Of Music’, ‘Dancing On The Lip Of A Volcano’, all powerful tunes drenched in melancholy – even a rave-up like ‘Gotta Get Away From Tommy’ contains buried within it a niggling line like “I don’t wanna die alone".
But now ain’t the time for our tears. The New York Dolls are dead. Long live the new New York Dolls.
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