Mistress Quickly
A Column By
Charlotte Bosarge
Sean
Lennon Releases Egg Sac
Sean
Lennon @ RKCNDY, Seattle
Let's start with
the obvious.
Anybody who
thinks, says, reads or writes anything about Sean
Lennon will have to decide right away to what
degree they will acknowledge the obvious. The
truth of the matter is that it is impossible to
put Sean Lennon on a musical centrifuge. And why
should we? He is, after all, the spawn of John
Lennon and Yoko Ono. Denying that fact is as
pointless as trying to act cool when one of those
tinted window stretch-job limos cruises by you on
the street. They know you're looking—you may
as well be honest about it and take a big, bold
look and hang your balls out there. That's my
philosophy anyway.
Sean Lennon must be the oldest
22-year-old alive. Imagine the life he has
lead—shielded by armed bodyguards since the
age of five, forced to witness his mother endure
incessant criticism and vilification, trailed by
the omnipresent ghost of a father who just
happened to be one of the most talented and
beloved human beings in history, watched since
the day he was born for evidence that would
provide proof of the genetic superiority we
expect from the progeny of famous people. It's
the proverbial double-edged sword for anyone in
that position: the name opens the door, but most
people are secretly hoping you won't fit through.
Silver spoon aside, Sean has more to live up to
than most other musicians.
After opening for
Pearl Jam at Memorial Stadium earlier in the
evening, Sean Lennon and his Krewe boarded the
stage in front of an eager crowd at RKCNDY. I
thought for sure they'd be too pooped to pop but
everyone in the club got their money's worth and
then some. RKCNDY's a great place to see a band,
but only if you get there early enough and don't
mind being packed so tightly that the stranger
behind you asks, "so what do we name our
children?" When I first moved to Seattle,
RKCNDY was the first club I went to, so it has a
special place in my heart despite its rapidly
approaching decrepitude.
The You-Know-Who
lookalike emerged to screams and picked up his
guitar while the other five members followed and
stood in line behind him, all holding their arms
in different mudras like a many-armed statue of
Shiva. One by one they moved out from behind Sean
and grabbed their instruments, opening the show
with a kind of loose and slow interpretive
feedback piece appropriately titled "Noise
Intro." Then they got into "jamming
stance." And jam they did, but in a way I
never expected. When they started in on the
second song, "Mystery Juice," the real
experience began, with my brain fighting to make
sense of the bombastic guitars fronted by the
sweetest voice on two feet. The best example of
this is the song "Home." Loud heavy
drums with guitars grinding juxtaposed with
lyrics about love and sunshine and dreaming? I
liked the mental challenge; it reminded me of
that "tharn" feeling I get when certain
artsy filmmakers play classical music over
something horrible. I pondered whether Sean wrote
those lyrics on purpose to create a paradox, or,
more likely, if it is his nature to hear lovely
words to harsh music. From what I know about the
way he views the world, I suspect he would rather
concentrate on fostering the good than dip into
darkness. There are some (albeit few) dark
moments in his music, but one gets the feeling
that Sean purposely doesn't go there, whiskey
flask in hand, trying to exorcise the demons. He
pushes them out with happy vibes and love, which
seems to be the way of all the enlightened beings
I know.
The first metaphor that came to mind
while watching Sean's band play was "garage
band." Now, I don't want to offend any of
you industry purists who think that's an insult.
I can, with all benevolence, say that there is
something about the band's sound and persona that
is inescapably youthful. It's loud, happy music
made by people who look like they're doing it
more to get off on each other than make a buck.
The entire band moved with the music, aided by
two percussionists and Yuka, Sean's beautiful and
petite girlfriend/producer/muse on keyboards.
Sean uses some wacky harmonies, taking steps up
and down the scale that you don't expect. They
moved together like a school of fish through a
half-dozen more songs, each one of them a
departure from the last. There was the
Poppy/Heavy Metal/Snugglebear anthem
"Home," the cowboy ballad (cryptically
enough called "Cowboy"), the
blame-it-on-the-bossa-nova title track "Into
the Sun" and the West Coast/Beach
Boys-sounding "Two Fine Lovers," during
which Sean instructed Yuka to "Take it away,
Honey!" for a keyboard solo as they
exchanged the kind of smile reserved for only the
most fuzzy of relationships. "Sean's
Theme" provided an interesting psychological
perspective of the artist; it has the honesty and
innocence of a first song. The lyrics say it all:
I never wanted to be sad / I only wanted to be
glad / To see the things I never have / I waited
and waited for something to catch / I waited and
waited for my eggs to hatch. The whole show (and
the album as well) is a pastiche of different
genres, instruments, volumes, and constructions.
It is THE Perfect Summer Album of 1998—and
commercialism be damned—Sean's music is
about as experimental as you can get and still be
allowed to have a video in rotation on MTV. I
think that's what is most worthy of
respect—that he's just following his bliss
and doing what feels good instead of trying to
sing over the rattling chains of his father's
ghost.
The crowd, in
general, was probably par for the course for
Sean. Several people had on Beatles or John
Lennon t-shirts. One guy screamed "Hey,
Beautiful Boy!" and another guy bellowed,
"How's your mom?" to which many
"tsk" responses were heard. Halfway
through the set, Sean asked "Are y'all
hot?" and everybody groaned in assent. He
soothingly offered, "Well, you know...I
think it's...hotter up here...under these
lights..." and paused, as if he were
thinking. Some enthusiastic science student in
the crowd screamed in agreement "AND HEAT
RISES!" Sean's face went blank and he said,
"Okay, enough of that, let's play."
Each song was
introduced with some bit of humor. I mean, he
didn't pull out a rubber chicken or anything but
he was genuinely funny. About midway through the
set, Sean said, "Now we'd like to play you a
song that cannot be found on any format: vinyl,
LP, CD, 45, or otherwise...this song is so bad
ass...well, I don't know what to say." So
they jammed and then, wonder of wonders, Sean and
his percussionist started to rap. I would be
lying if I didn't say it freaked me out to see
Sean Lennon rap, but he is on the Beasties' Grand
Royal Label. He then invited three kids from
"the slums of the Upper East Side" to
come onstage and rap. I wish I could write more
about these special guests, but the truth is that
the only thing I heard come out of the mike was
the phrase "Like Ernie to Bert." They
had a good time, though, so what do I care?
After the
"leaving of the stage only to come back on
after sufficient clapping of hands has taken
place," the band cut into the two most
intense songs of the night, the jazz delegate
"Photosynthesis" and
"Spaceship," a spooky techno-guitar
smorgasbord love song that dissolved into the din
of Sean's guitar as again, one by one, the
members left the stage. My favorite part was when
Sean turned to Yuka and said, "Yuka, as a
special favor on this last song, would you take
off your sunglasses? For me?" Yuka looked at
him and haltingly took off the glasses—an
act to which anyone who has a girlfriend with low
self-confidence can relate.
I was lucky enough
to meet and talk quickly with Sean following his
"change of shirt." Though he has a
ready smile, through his black-framed
yellow-tinted glasses I was not surprised to see
guarded eyes. I asked what was the best thing
about this tour and he said in a high,
soft-spoken voice, "You know, it's so nice
to headline because I can really get up and do
what I want to do—it's me calling the shots
so I can cut loose and do whatever I want. That's
what's great " I asked how the tour was
going and he said, "It's almost over. It's
been great, but I find a lot of people want to
talk about my parents, which is fine, but I've
answered those questions so many times." At
this point, on the verge of actually getting past
small talk and into a conversation with this
amazing artist, he was besieged on all sides by
autograph seekers. I still don't know where they
came from, but I deferred to the universe to just
watch Sean shift from one-to-one to
hundred-to-one, signing autograph after
autograph. He was so gracious. As the fans turned
away they would squeal in sheer delight from
meeting him, hugging each other, looking the
autograph over to make sure it was indeed real.
It makes sense why most artists balk at meeting
crowds face to face like that; not to mention it
must get old after a while hearing the same
compliments over and over again, even if the
words do come from the heart.
Sean must have
stood there for half an hour signing posters and
albums and deposit slips and whatever else was
handy (no breasts, sadly). Then, quietly he
turned and said, "I have to go.
Goodbye," and padded off to the tour bus
where Yuka and the rest of the band were waiting.
His gentle presence was replaced with RKCNDY
security sweepers herding everyone off the
premises (thankfully reminding the crowd that if
they were under 18 there was a curfew). I left
with the thought that Sean had just invested half
an hour into giving those hundred people a story
to tell their grandchildren. It takes a lot of
will to open up to love, and if I had to swear on
a stack of ham hocks, I'd say Sean Lennon stood
in line twice when that was handed out. As
Shakespeare said, "Good alone is good
without a name."
Email Charlotte Bosarge
Past
Service From Mistress
Quickly:
MQ#2-The
Splendor of DJ Nasir
MQ#1-There's
Always Room For Jello Biafra
