The show in Philly was … wow, loud. It all comes down to Chick Corea. His playing was phenomenal, across all keyboards. The harmonic subtlety of that music is thanks largely to him.
There were a couple too many moments of simultaneous bass-and-guitar shredding — good for getting peoples’ fists in the air but not very deep. Yet there were also times when the high volume actually enhanced the musicality. Big downbeats, dramatic held chords under dimmed lights and billowing smoke (smoke machines? you’re damn right there were).
On the way home my wife remarked that Al Di Meola was having a serious midlife crisis. Seems right to me. The partially open shirt, the sexualized strut, the leaning back rock-god style on the high bent notes — the guy’s a monster, but the ego was visibly out of control. I’ve rarely seen the guitar-as-phallic-extension metaphor so powerfully dramatized onstage.
There was also the strange moment, near the end of a guitar solo, when Chick suddenly altered his chording, like playing substitutions but in such a drastic way that it totally changed the music’s direction. Di Meola stopped and practically sulked; a few awkward bars of vamp later, Chick held out his arm toward Al, soliciting applause, like an attempt at an apology. Some weird passive-aggressive thing had just happened. You wanted to look away.
Lenny White, who played great, took the mic at one point to hold forth against boy bands and the state of pop, unaware that the boy band fad died at least five years ago. “This Is a Man Band!!” White concluded, to huge applause. Another testosterone blast. Can’t we leave this sort of thing to Toby Keith?
Philly was on fire for its native son, Stanley Clarke, and it added a lot. It was also inspiring to see Chick, a man of 67, freaking out on the Moog and making it work. Made me feel a little younger.
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