“Time is a cruel thief to rob us of our former selves.” – Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey
Nostalgia, that ache for the past, was the by-word of the
evening. From the opening band (Jason Bonham and an all-Led Zeppelin set that
didn’t venture past Physical Graffiti), to an introductory slide show of the
sort more commonly seen at visitations these days, to ‘Something’s Happening’,
the song that opened both the show and the iconic Frampton Comes Alive (he
closed both with ‘Do You Feel Like We Do’ as well).
Gone are the upper notes of the vocal range and the curly
locks from that omnipresent live album. Still there are the guitar chops, the
John Astin-esque overbite, and his title belt as ‘World Champeen of the
Talk-Box. He was a much better guitarist than I remember. He was never in my
pantheon of guitar gods – maybe a minor deity like Priapus, protector of male
genitalia, to Jimi Hendrix’s Zeus.
(ME, at cocktail party: So, what is it you do, Priapus?
PRIAPUS: I’m a god.
ME: Really? Of what?
P: Jock straps.
ME: um . . . Nice to meet you. I’m going to freshen up this
drink.)
Frampton has good cause to be nostalgic: this is his
Farewell Tour. Victim of inclusion body
myositis, a progressive muscle disease, he is bowing out while he can still
play – another reason the guitar-slinging was impressive. (Don’tcha hate it
when someone losing their fine-motor skills can still smoke your
ass on guitar?) After ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’, he tipped his hat to lost
bandmates John Siomos and Bob Mayo with a photo montage behind ‘Lines on My
Face’, the first song they did together. Frampton told the story of how they
met and how, years later, he’d bought Siomos’s drum set on eBay – the very
drums on stage this night.
Ah, yes. The stories.
Frampton is one chatty Kentsman. So much so on more than one
occasion I was able to leave my seat, divest myself of my rented beer, and
return without missing a note. Stories of Alvin Lee. Stories of winning a
Grammy. Stories of buying a house and writing The Lodger. So many damn stories.
A talented, professional band supported Frampton. After 50
years of touring, that’s to be expected. I’ll say one thing for these amphitheater
acts: they don’t sound like Hole at Mississippi Nights. They weaved a blues set
and an instrumental version of ‘Georgia’ in around the remaining hits as well
as a tribute to Chris Cornell with an instrumental cover of ‘Black Hole Sun’ from
Frampton’s Grammy-award winning album, Fingerprints.
Encore came in the form of a mini Humble Pie set including ‘I
Don’t Need No Doctor’ and capped off with ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’ (the
second night in row I heard that covered, courtesy of Jake Shimabukuro at Old
Rock House Saturday night). I’d expected something from Sgt. Pepper’s given
Frampton’s starring role, but maybe he wants to forget that as much as we do.
It seems odd to be reviewing Frampton. I’d heard enough in
the mid-70s to hold me for a few decades. I’d written him off as another Shaun
Cassidy or Leif Garrett – an above-average singer, an above-average guitarist,
an average songwriter, a caricature of the 70s, drug out on occasion for irony
by The Simpsons or Family Guy. A guy who’d had three good songwriting days and
four live shows caught on tape that represented an era.
But he soldiered on, puts on a good show, and is loved by
the old coots in audience that remember when they were young and good-looking
too.
