Tony Stewart NME
ALTHOUGH OUR entry into the European Economic Community is being saluted with umpteen art forms and rock concerts in the capital, perhaps the greatest — and certainly the most significant — was the unofficial celebration at Manchester’s Hardrock on Sunday night. With the magnificent Focus.
True, the concert was not part of the Fanfare For Europe, but it should have been. Because, if musicians of Focus’ calibre are to grace Great Britain, then to hell with Rule Britannia and lay a Heineken on me any day of the week.
On the opening night of their third British tour Focus were at a peak of sparkling musical brilliance. Some of the concert was disturbing, and a little disappointing (those criticisms will come later). Even so, by ‘ell, lads, you did yourselves right proud.
First savour the scene: the Hardrock, Greatstone Road, Stretford.
It’s some way out of the City Centre, a 60 pence cab ride from the station. Yet the Mancunion cats know how to find it. Two human caterpillars sway into an arrow-head aimed at the front doors. An unbelievable sight, which demanded frequent exclamations of “Bluddy ‘ell fire” from the stragglers who’ve realised it’s going to be a long, cold wait. And maybe a hassle to get in.
How right they were. The Polydor Artiste Liaison Officer, a nice guy in spite of the pomposity of his title, reckoned over a thousand people were sent home.
Inside: phew, it’s hot. Manchester Music Lovers aren’t “hip”, nor do they display the arrogance of their London counter-parts. I mean, they even hustle George Best in the boozers now. A Night Out to them, means pints of Northern Ale and Carling Black Label with plenty of froth on top. A plate of chips, maybe even a hamburger.
Always in the true tradition. “Chips without vinegar — never”, a guy tells his lady as he clambers over a table to get the Sarsons.
The early comers — or those lucky to have tickets — play pinball on the machines in the entrance hall. In the half light, ultra-violet strobes pick out white clothing and young fillies pull back cardigans to show off their gleaming new bras. Which they must have bought fresh for the occasion.
But as soon as Harvey Andrews hits the stage, a roar goes up and the budding Tommies and the lasses put their boobs away and barge through into the concert hall. At least they’ve got their prerogatives right.
Dear Harvey, he’s so good. Got himself a beautiful guitar and a batch of delightful tunes and an excellent voice to sing ’em with. There’s no messing with the man and, quite rightly, many people are already lifting him up on to Ralph McTell’s level. Yes, and I detect a touch of the traditionals in there.
But who were we there for? Focus. The supreme masters in contemporary rock. This guy was only saying the other day it’s where Emerson, Lake and Palmer should have been before they hit the egotistical ritual. Not that I agree, but he has a point.
Comparitives are useful, but sometimes confusing. Focus, I reiterate, are unique. Few bands have made such an impact in so short a space of time and can be heralded as musically profound.
On Sunday afternoon they’d rehearsed and Hans – their engineer – had achieved a remarkable sound balance. Just before the concert the Rock dj was saying how good it should be. That guy’s got taste. When all these super-stars have been up and bopping in Manchester — you know, like Bowie and Roxy — and still the dj gets excited before a Focus gig, it tells you more than any written piece could — ever. Steve Stills and Mannassas didn’t even fill the place.
Yde de Jong, the massive manager who’s always smiling (and why shouldn’t he?) hustles the four out into the side wings. Then a deafening cry rings out from the packed house as they make the stage. Lots of people squatting, others rich enough or crafty enough to get seats. But once Focus start tuning up — all part of the show — you couldn’t have squeezed a mouse into the place.
Cautiously the gentle melody of “Focus III” starts to filter out of the PA from Thijs van Leer’s organ. Suddenly Jan Akkerman, standing quite still and looking his usual moody self, an epitome of a rock ‘n’ roll superstar, cuts in with his guitar line. The band starts up and the beauty of the piece bowls you over.
My God, I’ve dreamed of a night like this since I came back from touring with the band in Holland.
It’s a total emotional experience. Looking very much like Van Dyke’s Laughing Cavalier, Burt Ruiter is bent over his bass, diligently springing out the notes. His style is reminiscent of the technique used on the up-right, something like the old jazz greats. And he’s got so many good ideas that make his job more than just holding down a basic thread.
He with drummer Pierre van de Linden make up the most imaginative rhythm section heard for a long time. Linden hugs his kit, making each drum work separately, and rarely is he content to lay back and merely keep the timing. They say he’s the greatest in Holland; I say he’s just the plain greatest.
If it were not for those two, and the intricate undercurrent they fearlessly provide, Akkerman and van Leer wouldn’t be able to get off so often. During “Anonymous”, with the “stolen” classical introduction, the whole of the audience are clapping along. Stage right, a handful of acrobatic youngsters clambered onto the speakers to get a better view. Three heavies pushed through and helped them down. Dose guys is okay.
We got the Focus themes: “House Of The King” with Thijs huffing and puffing on the flute; part of “Eruption”; the hard-biting “Hocus Pocus”, — with the yodelling — and “Sylvia”. Akkerman who maintained his form throughout the evening, shuddering out the metallic chords which always dance around the recognised sequence. And the roasting organ comes in with the theme.
This is my sole beef: why did they find it necessary to give us their established pieces? Surely more on “Focus 3” was possible? The conclusion one can easily reach is they were playing it too near to the cuff. Alright, what they did was great, even phenomenal. But we want more new things.
Which is not to imply the concert fell short. No, never. There’s no misconception of so-called “entertainment”, and pretty-rinsed mops with Christmas fairy decorations are absent. Stick your silly glitter and sparkle onto your full-frontal nude photos and get into Focus.
Finally I ask, what is the best way to measure the success of a concert? Well, watch for one of the venue’s Directors and if he’s rubbing his hands, opening his own bottle of whisky and smiling, then it’s a good `un. The ever-young Mike O’Shea (be kind or we’ll reveal your age again) was overwhelmed and he’s having them back again, and then again. And probably again.
Now to blow my own trumpet: wasn’t it just last week I was telling you all how well they were going to do in ’73? Can I chalk the score up now?