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YES, WE HAVE NO NOSTALGIA. The first part of the show is the venue itself. The Bottom Line is a gorgeous dive of a club. The paint peels, with intent, from the ceiling. The carpet is industrial grade and well-worn. All is dim and black, just as it has to be.
The hall itself is rectangular and shallow and small. Like a shoebox. It's hard to imagine how anyone could have survived a punk or heavy metal performance here. Maybe no one did. Not a stretch to suppose that the Cavern Club in Liverpool was a lot like this place.
Then there were the people. This was The Village and these were the village people. Bohemian, basically. And, funny about that, they did not seem like throwbacks. Maybe it's because their realm is not a nostalgia so much as it is a culture, and, so, not a function of fashion exactly. Maybe it's that very little has truly changed between "then" and "now."
We were there to see Roger McGuinn. Opening act was a blues guitarist, white, who was very good if you like that sort of thing. Had to admire his guitar-playing abilities. He was also funny, doing a set of songs called The Divorce Trilogy. Two of the three songs were in the same key. He explained: "I was too depressed to change keys." Paul Geremia is his name.
When Roger took the stage, he totally personified the spirit of the place. A 12-String Rickenbacker slung around his neck, he bounced into the room, instantly creating the sound he made famous, his head bobbing in a Byrdsian bop, a huge smile on his face. Thin and youthful, in black, he looked really happy to be there. He didn't say a word, but this is what he seemed to say, "Yes, it's me -- it's really me -- Roger McGuinn of The Byrds. Isn't it funny and great that I'm still here and so are you?"
Yes it is. What could be better? Roger McGuinn in Greenwich Village, where it all started for him and for everyone and everything else. And it was not all that different, possibly, in 2002 than it was in 1962. Nostalgia without the nostalgia. Can we bottle that and sell it?
What followed was simply Roger McGuinn in his element. Perched on a stool, he alternated between a 12-string acoustic and a 12-string electric. You had to see this electric. It had lights inside that fluctuated in response to whatever he played. He played just about everything you might pick to hear from Roger McGuinn if you had but an hour and a half to listen -- stellar selections from his Byrds and solo careers, as well as his new, Grammy-nominated CD, Treasures From the Folk Den.
Some highlights, just to give you a sense of it. When he sang Chestnut Mare it felt like a moment in history, not unlike the experience of hearing Paul McCartney -- himself -- sing Yesterday.
At one point, he picked up his acoustic and introduced a song saying, "This is a cross between John Coltrane and Ravi Shankar." It was Eight Miles High. Acoustically. And it sounded like a cross between John Coltrane and Ravi Shankar. At that point you remember that Roger McGuinn is not just another pop star from the '60s -- not that you ever forgot it.
Roger spoke quickly, and maybe just a little nervously at times, between numbers. At one point he accidentally slammed the neck of his electric into his acoustic. Ouch. He offered some interesting tidbits. Bells of Rhymney is actually pronounced "bells of rum-ney." He told a funny story about how he recently found out he had been mispronouncing it for 35 years, and then sang it with the proper pronunciation, and a wry expression. The song, King of the Hill, co-written with Tom Petty, is about Papa John Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas. Didn't know that.
At one point, it seemed the well-quenched crowd was about to spin out of control. One drinker yelled, Mr. Tambourine Man. Another shouted, Turn! Turn! Turn! Suddenly it seemed half the joint was screeching out requests as though Roger were a disc jockey. Rock and Roll Star! Fifth Dimension! Beach Ball! (Roger recorded it in 1963 with The City Surfers). Hell's bells. Within seconds the room sounded like it was filled with a pack of alley cats, yowling at The Star.
Roger did not appear amused and did not respond, at least verbally. He did shift firmly into a "greatest hits" mode and the crowd quieted. Smart move.
Two encores, there were, during which Roger abandoned his stool and stood there like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame legend that he is. How's this for a new approach to a sing along -- before launching into Rock and Roll Star, he had the audience practice screaming for four bars! We were very good at it.
For the second encore, lured back by a standing-oh, he played He Was a Friend of Mine, a song about the 1963 JFK assassination, and finished with Knocking on Heaven's Door. No more evidence needed that 2002 and 1962 really are not that far apart, at all.
Tim Manners, writer
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