I first became obsessive about music in that period between ’93-96, and the catalyst for that obsession was Siamese Dream. When I heard that record something changed in me, as if it was grafting itself onto my DNA. And like most pivotal moments in a person’s life, I can tell you how it affected me, but I’m not sure I can adequately explain why this was the record that sent me down the road. Over the years, I’ve been astonished/amused to discover that Siamese Dream was an extremely important step in a lot of other music geeks' histories, as well. So, what I’m getting at, in my usual long-winded way, is that I’ve loved the Smashing Pumpkins for a long time, and have followed them through the ups, the downs, and whatever you would call this current set-up without Jimmy.
And I, like most other honest fans, have also been raising a large eyebrow over the band’s recent output. We all know some of it is good, we all know that the songs come off way better live, and I think we all know that the best is most likely behind us. But we keep marching on, because a long time ago, Billy’s stuff moved us. And as someone who will always hold a soft spot for the Pumpkins, I knew I couldn’t pass up a chance to see the band Saturday night - even if it’s now made up of Billy and a bunch of mercs - in a venue that tops out at 800 people.
My first step was to get there early and stand in line. For four hours I waited and talked shop with another music blog writer, two fans that had followed the group since Arizona, and a few other assorted faithfuls. We were nervous though, because security was hinting that our four hours might end up being a waste, since the cap for regular, non-VIP MFNW wristband holders was going to be in the low double digits. It was already bad enough that someone from the Pumpkins crew (Billy?) wasn’t allowing us to use our festival-issued photo passes for the night. To not get in would have been devastating. Our waiting paid off though when made it in ten minutes before the band came out. It felt like I had won the lottery. Knowing that something is so scarce, yet so close, causes an instinctual reaction to desire it more, and the moment I walked through the door - as number 16 on the count - I just threw my arms in the air and cried out, “YES!” I know I’m a dork.
Tonight’s Book of Billy opened with “Song for a Son,” a long, spacious track - hailing from their current piecemeal album Teargarden by Kaleidyscope – that was good, but concealed the energy that would drive the rest of the evening’s festivities. When it ended, the band launched into “Today,” which drew an eruption from the crowd and predicted the explosions that would follow the unveiling of every song up to about the Adore-era. We also learned that we would be blinded by giant lightboxes hanging behind the band members. The potential retinal damage scared no one though and we threw up the horns to show that this was good for us, too.
Even though we got early treats like “Drown” and a heavy-as-fuck version of “Ava Adore” minus keyboards, the setlist tended to veer off into newer waters. Tracks from Zeitgeist and Teargarden seemed to pop up frequently, but when they did, it was with authority. “Astral Planes” from Teargarden was like a battering ram, all distorted and ready to tackle the gauntlet. This was demolition music, the kind of stuff that you imagine might make a building collapse. But whatever they played, one thing was for certain, Billy hasn’t lost it. He might not have written something as good as “Soma” lately, but he still can sing, and man, can he play. And while musical masturbation is a concept he firmly subscribes to during his guitar solos, if you love hearing someone wail, go see Billy Corgan. He’s about as underrated as they come. It’s funny that when people talk about SP, they frequently go on about the influence that had on alternative rock and how unique they were, and I’m not disputing that; but when you see them live, it’s interesting to see how entrenched they are in classic rock ‘n’ roll-isms. Look at the soloing, classic showboating. Look at the long, drawn-out, compositional pieces. Look at the fact that Billy came out in a kimono (thanks, Jimmy Page). Add in the sludge box sound they jacked from Black Sabbath and you’ll see that Billy knows the pieces all too well.
Billy placated us a bit more with the grand bit of darkness that is “Bullet With Butterfly Wings.” It, like the rest of the songs that night, was especially aggressive and Billy’s last scream of “cage!” after the audience-sung breakdown was still as angst-ridden as ever. Makes you wonder if the stage is where he finds his catharsis. He gets enough primal scream time in, you’d think it would. However, songs like this were a little bittersweet. Even though I loved the show, and loved how raw they were playing the songs, it was hard not to be constantly reminded of how disconnected Billy is with his fans. I’d wager Pumpkins fans are a more forgiving group than most, but when an artist consistently neglects his prior triumphs/masterpieces, it kind of seems like they just don’t get it. Like they don’t understand that fans like it when you draw from your entire catalog, not just your new (often mediocre) work. I mean can I get a “Siva” or what?
No I couldn’t. What I got instead was “United States” with a mid-song segue into “Moby Dick,” which was still pretty cool. This allowed the band to show off their new Beaverton-born drummer, Mike Byrne, who displayed some significant chops for such a young guy (he’s nineteen). His drum solo allowed the band to get some much-needed water (it was hot in there) and Billy to laugh fondly at his new hire. The solo was ended by a few knocks to a huge gong behind him, happily putting everyone’s “when’s the gong going to get hit?” anxiety to rest. This also allowed them to launch back into “United States” and end the set with a bang before returning to play a one-song encore of “Zero.” The crowd loved that and cheered wildly, just like they did at the end of every other song. Straight up, if anyone said this was a bad show, they are a whiner.
So where does that leave us, or me for that matter? I left happy. I accepted long ago that the old days aren’t coming back and that going to a show nowadays means shoving your dream setlist in your pocket. Which to be honest is a little disappointing if you dwell on it too long, but at the end of the day, the man can play, and the people filling in for James, D’Arcy and Jimmy can play, too. So, while it’s not the same, it sure was great on Saturday and that’s coming from a guy that built it up for four hours waiting in line.
