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Concert
Review by Nick Morgan |
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CONCERT
REVIEW by Nick Morgan
STEVEN SEAGAL AND THUNDERBOX
Shepherd’s Bush Empire, London, March 18th
2007
I
don’t really watch a lot of TV, and when
I do it’s mostly in hotel rooms scattered
around the world at some awful time in the morning
when I can’t sleep (why – I’m
in one now). The strange thing is that wherever
I am, and no matter what time it is, there’s
always what seems to be the same Steven
Seagal film showing. You know. It’s
the one where Mr
Seagal karate-chops and kicks his way up and
down a train, (and along the roof and quite possibly
underneath it too) packed with nasty guys who
want to destroy the world, or some such. They’ve
also kidnapped his daughter (or was that another
film?), which as I recall turns out to be a pretty
dumb thing to do as that just makes him mad. And
you wouldn’t want to see Mr Seagal mad would
you? I mean he’s a pretty serious aikido
black belt, and he’s also a reincarnated
Tulku, which is something to do with nirmanakaya
and puts him on the same level of consciousness
as the Dalai Lama. Oh yes – and in addition
to all of that he’s a blues guitarist, with
a band with the unfortunate name of Thunderbox.
You can all make your own jokes about that. And
maybe a bit like this nirmanakaya stuff, when
he plays guitar he transcends his corporeal being
and transmutes into the Mojo Priest (which happens
to be the title of his new album). And as we’re
reminded for much of the evening – Steven
Seagal is THE Mojo Priest. |
 |
| Actually
despite the queues outside, the Bush is less than
half full. It turns out that the queue is made up
of ‘competition winners’ – that
old last-minute way of trying to give away tickets
to fill a theatre. And the previous night’s
gig in Oxford had been cancelled and ticket holders
urged to travel to London instead – free buses
laid on too. Inside there are some of Mr Seagal’s
diehard fans – middle-aged Mums and daughters
mostly – (and whom I bet weren’t expecting
THE Mojo Priest), together with, I have to say,
some pretty weird types (more nirmanakaya perhaps).
Almost half of the seats in the first balcony (the
upper two are dark, silent and closed) is reserved
for guests – many remain empty – but
TMP does take time out to tell us that one of them
“someone who I was very privileged to meet
this afternoon” is Yusuf
Islam. I thought Mr M. Priest was taking the
piss, but no, he’s there opposite us, furrowed
brow, chin on hand, looking very perplexed as the
band’s two singers genuflect, bow and scrape
in the presence of, well THE Mojo Priest. I wouldn’t
have thought Yusuf was really a fan of Mr Seagal’s
almost pornographically violent action flicks, and
can’t imagine he’s too keen on worshipping
false gods and graven images (and with his wooden
bearing TMK could definitely be classified as the
latter) so his presence ‘till almost the very
end was a mystery. |
|
Super
Chickan (left) and Magic Slim (right) |
| A
pleasant surprise was Clarksdale blues veteran Super
Chickan – “won’t somebody
shoot that thang” - who turned in a enjoyable
and engaging novelty/blues set to open the night
featuring his wonderful home made guitars that you
can buy (I nearly did) here
should you visit. It was all a bit too jokey –
“won’t somebody shoot that thang”
- but the
Chickan is a much better player and singer than
the comedy routine suggests and worthwhile seeking
out. Another surprise was the presence of legendary
Chicago bluesman Magic
Slim, one of the last exponents of a traditionally
gritty roadhouse blues, who joined THE Mojo Priest
towards the end of his set and eventually managed
to make his Flying V heard over the din. Not perhaps
the best way to hear one of the last greats, but
it’ll do. |
|
Magic
Slim and THE Mojo Priest |
| And
what of the main event? Well – it was like
a real concert. All the kit’s got “Steven
Seagal” stencilled on it. Thunderbox, name
notwithstanding, are an accomplished band, no slouch
among them, and Mr Seagal, or should I say THE Mojo
Priest, clearly takes the band, the music, and himself,
very seriously. His impassive features are etched
with concentration as he takes solo after solo (really
I think the good work is being done by the two guitarists
in the band) and I have to say that insofar as one
could tell over the pretty rough mix, he’s
not bad – he’s certainly better than
me. He sings with a growl, struggles with high notes
and relies on his two excellent singers to carry
the hard work. I was instructed not to mention his
purple tunic and bulging biceps. There’s a
camera crane on stage and at least two other mobile
cameras, fixed cameras on both sides of the balcony
and another mobile. It’s big money rock and
roll DVD time. Which is why the two singers are
working so hard (they deserve to have been paid
overtime) to try and make the audience appear to
be enthusiastic – which to be fair some of
them are. |
|
However I think even the most ardent Seagal fan
must have cringed when he came out with a southern
swamped version of jive talking. He certainly didn’t
learn to talk like that when he was brought up in
Michigan or California – and living in Louisiana
doesn’t really give him the right to affect
such a ghastly and embarrassing parody of the real
thing. First of all it was something about alligators
down on the Bayou in Louisiana (this, I think, to
introduce ‘Alligator ass’, with the
memorable lyric “Someone took me to a restaurant
and I had to eat something fast, I ordered me some
chicken, they gave me alligator ass”). Later
he introduced ‘We gotta quit’ (I think)
with an even more excruciating “Ahhh wuzz
waulkn daan Beale Street the other day and this
chick hit on me …..” Oh dear, oh dear.
I swear even Yusuf had his head in his hands at
this point. Oh yes, and if we’re on the subject
of lyrics (which we’re not really, but what
the hell) then what about this from ‘Gunfire
in a juke joint’: “I call my mama, I
tell her I'm hot as a pistol, she say baby you better
come on home you know, I'm wet as a whistle”.
Hmmmm. |
| Vanity
rock and roll? Well it’s hard not to think
so really – but some people seem to like it.
The Priest was even given an award for all the records
he’s sold in France by a fellow who looked
alarmingly like a greying Alain Prost. And I know
it’s easy to take a big slow moving target
and deliberately tear it to shreds. Which I’m
not even going to think of doing, because Mr Seagal,
and Mr Priest, are both much bigger and tougher
than me. No, instead I’m going to light up
some of Mr Seagal’s organic Red Crystal incense,
keep track of my mantra recitations with a Seagal
Mala Prayer Counter, and crack open a can of Steven
Seagal’s Lightening Bolt, which “contains
the secrets of true energy that martial arts master
and actor Steven Seagal discovered in his travels
all over the world”. Maybe it will help me
get my nirmanakaya back. - Nick Morgan (concert
photographs by Kate) |
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