My best mate’s older brother played drums in a rock band in the ‘70’s. Whenever he sauntered out of his bedroom in his frayed denim flares I would be struck dumb with lust.
Later we would sneak into his room and check out his record collection.
There, nestled between Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, we discovered a little band with a big name; America.
Their guitar driven, driving rock sound came to represent everything we aspired to be. Camped out on the bed, awash in a heady mix of male sweat and patchouli oil, we would listen to Ventura Highway and dream about starting our own band.
Flash forward forty years.
Last night I got to hear America play live at HBF Stadium in Mount Claremont. These journeymen of rock and roll brought with them two other legends of the music industry; Australia’s own Russell Morris and Irish singer/violinist Sharon Corr.
Sitting on plastic stadium seating, surrounded by concrete and steel, I wondered just how this organic combination of folk, blues and rock and roll would translate. I needn’t have worried.
Russell Morris simply stepped out on stage with his four-piece band and seized control. Starting with his most recent Blues influenced release Sharkmouth, Morris took us on a journey backward in time. He joked about Molly and music festival antics before launching into his biggest hit The Real Thing and then, too soon, he was gone.
Fortunately the beard brigade was out in force providing plenty of eye candy as we waited for Sharon Corr. Her voice, smooth, sweet and sensuous, oozes between the instruments making a delicious confection. The single, Take a Minute, from her new album was a crowd favourite.
America charged into their set with a vitality and enthusiasm that was infectious. Forty-five years into their career, they gave us a tutorial in how to ‘play tight’. Guitar hooks sounding as fresh as the day they were conceived; fluid bass lines and punchy rhythm section underpinning the close harmonies.
The crowd lapped it up. People danced in the aisles and I was transported back to the time a boy of thirteen furtively scoped out his best mates brother. As the familiar songs wafted across the crowd I swear the music carried with it a hint of Patchouli oil. What a rush. What a concert. What a night.
Stan Schirmer
