by Preston Jones
pjones@star-telegram.com

DALLAS -- A recent article in the New York Times asked the question: Will popular video games like Guitar Hero or Rock Band save rock 'n' roll?

For a generation of fans currently in grade school, sure, but as for the here and now, only bands like My Morning Jacket have any hope of saving a genre hopelessly bogged down by such heavy-rotation boilerplate as Daughtry and Hinder. Sorry kids, that's not rock -- that's posturing with an electric guitar and fooling many millions of fans.

Saturday night's epic, three-hour set at the Palladium Ballroom vividly illustrated the necessity of frontman Jim James and his flamboyant, ferociously engaging brand of performance; James -- who never met a bizarrely theatrical gimmick he didn't like; seriously, what's up with the cape? -- laid the foundation early on with his gleaming falsetto (sharp enough to cut titanium) and thick slabs of thunderous riffs, rendering tracks like Off the Record and What a Wonderful Man as delightfully explosive bursts of melodic release.

Evil Urges, the Kentucky-based quintet's latest album, is an expansive pastiche of sounds -- from stanky R&B to sleek electro-thump -- and so vibrant are these forays into uncharted waters, the band is only too happy to air nearly all of them out live (only the oddly sensual Librarian didn't make an appearance). But most of the Evil Urges tracks -- Touch Me I'm Going to Scream (parts one and two), the soaring I'm Amazed and the absolutely scorching Aluminum Park -- don't feel too far afield from the rest of MMJ's dynamic catalog.

Capable of supple ballads (the oblique Kurt Cobain tribute Bermuda Highway still glitters) and full-throated, strobe-lit freakouts (show closer One Big Holiday nearly tore the roof off), My Morning Jacket's versatility is both its strength and its Achilles heel. In doing so many things well, it becomes a bit tricky to place them on a shelf next to Three Doors Down or Nickelback -- this is rock music? -- but when you stop trying to shoehorn James and company into strict categories, the brilliance becomes all too apparent. This is a band whose time has come.

There's at least one North Texan who agrees: Erykah Badu, who joined the Jacket for an encore version of Tyrone, one of Badu's signature songs and a track that MMJ frequently covers. Badu (who sat off to the right side of the stage for the entire performance, even snapping a few photos for posterity -- see below) brought the house down, trading verses with James and stomping around onstage.

(Photo credits: Carla Scott)

Preston Jones is the Star-Telegram pop music critic, 817-390-7713

by Preston Jones
pjones@star-telegram.com

GRAND PRAIRIE -- Don't write off Stone Temple Pilots just yet.

What could have been a pathetic, crushing train wreck Sunday night at Nokia Theatre was anything but -- in fact, it was a pretty solid evening of rock music that showed there might yet be some life in this recently reunited quartet.

Led by perpetual problem child Scott Weiland (whose near-constant scrapes with the law have been exhaustively documented and, reportedly, led to the initial dissolution of STP in 2003), the set list heavily favored the California rockers' first three -- and best -- albums, 1992's Core, 1994's Purple and 1996's Tiny Music ... Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop, only occasionally dipping into the more erratic No. 4 and Shangri-La Dee Da.

While early reviews of the 65-city tour were (put kindly) lukewarm, the band, backed only by a simple LED video screen, seems to have now found its footing, locking into the groove early and allowing Weiland, who began the evening in a natty, three-piece suit, to slowly become topless, shining with sweat and egging on the brothers deLeo (bassist Robert, guitarist Dean). The interplay between all four members seemed effortless, as though no time had elapsed.

People often forgive a lot for nostalgia -- a bent note here, a muffed solo there -- but STP was on point throughout, pummeling the boisterous crowd with one killer track after another, all delivered with the band's trademark fusion of art school pretension, glam rock flash and crunchy hard rock 'tude. Beneath most of the foursome's most enduring songs flows a river of uncertainty -- a trait unquestionably enhanced by Weiland's on- and off-stage antics -- which infuses classics like Crackerman and Lounge Fly with a hint of danger, one on full and frequent display Sunday.

Sure, Weiland can't belt the arena-crumbling choruses to Big Empty or Dead and Bloated quite like he used to -- the wear and tear of years has sapped a bit of his power -- but the audience was more than willing to fill in. That said, if the lead singer (or any of the Pilots) is simply phoning it in for easy money, it's extraordinarily difficult to discern. More than once, Weiland worked his way into the pit in front of the stage, to share the mic with eager fans. The energy and, more importantly, the goodwill (at one point, Weiland displayed a fan's sign: "Don't ever leave us again.") was palpable.

STP's future is rather murky (its label, Atlantic Records, is currently embroiled in a lawsuit with Weiland and drummer Eric Kretz) but hope springs eternal. One of the year's biggest rock reunions went off, at least in North Texas, without a hitch, allowing the fans a tantalizing glimpse of possibilities as yet unrealized. Who knows whether one of the most underrated bands of the '90s will record or tour again? Perhaps a performance as powerful and near-perfect as this one can be enough -- for now.

Preston Jones is the Star-Telegram pop music critic, 817-390-7713

by Preston Jones
pjones@star-telegram.com

DALLAS -- When you do stop and think about it, it is rather odd: Do not covet your neighbor's ox?

But these are the impenetrable mysteries of life pondered by one Eddie Izzard. During his sprawling, occasionally silly two-hour set Thursday night at the Majestic Theatre (his second North Texas gig in less than three months), the 46-year-old British comic had the sold-out audience frequently guffawing over the absurdity of everything from computer software updates to the idea of dinosaurs attending church. A bonus for the Cowtowners in the crowd: He bid good evening to both Dallas and Fort Worth at the top of show -- after all, the cities are "so very close together," as Izzard dryly put it.

For those possibly unfamiliar with his rapid-fire brand of tangent-prone comedy (and judging by the raucous reception, there weren't many neophytes in attendance), Izzard, dapper in a waistcoat and blue jeans, provided a pretty apt metaphor early on, discussing the wonders of Wikipedia (he even paused to pull out his iPhone and check the popular Web site for information on '30s child star Shirley Temple).

In talking about how easy it is to get from, well, Shirley Temple to carrots to balloons, he underscored the randomness of his own approach to stand-up -- leaning on a basic, skeletal structure, but frequently detouring into peculiar areas -- which essentially explodes the conventions of the form to great effect.

Somehow, with just the history and progression of mankind through the ages to play off of, Izzard was able to wend his way from giraffes playing charades to the logistics of Noah's ark to ninja sheep (don't worry, I checked my notes: It's "ninja sheep"). Aside from the ability to stray quite far from his original point, Izzard's also a gifted physical comic, unafraid of gesticulations or the odd bit of noise that often pushes something goofy like the differences between toilets and bathrooms into the realm of surreal genius.

His set thrives on a sort of genteel anarchy; watching Izzard find a joke's thread -- only to lose it again ("Don't worry, it's all scripted out," he cracked at one point) -- gives you the sense that his routine, stretching all the way back to the formative days of Unrepeatable and Definite Article, is a big gob of metaphorical, comedic clay, constantly being molded and mashed into new, unexpected shapes. It makes for an evening that's freewheeling, cerebral and fall-down funny.

Preston Jones is the Star-Telegram pop music critic, 817-390-7713

by Robert Philpot
rphilpot@star-telegram.com
DALLAS _ Near the reviewers' seats during the Police concert at Superpages.com Center on Wednesday were several young people dancing giddily throughout the show, including one guy who seemed to have learned all his moves from the Don't Stand So Close to Me video, which he replicated with abandon.

It was a little distracting, but why complain? After all, isn't this supposed to be part of what concerts are all about -- losing yourself to the music, letting it possess you a little? And it's hard not to get caught up when Stewart Copeland hits that drumbeat that signals the big tempo change in Wrapped Around Your Finger or Andy Summers launches a screaming guitar-solo blitz during When the World is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around or Sting exhorts you to sing along with his "yeahs" and "ee-yos" or when the whole band punches into overdrive on Can't Stand Losing You.

Given the receptive crowd, Sting probably could have sung the ingredients on a candy-bar wrapper and had complete audience control, but he and his bandmates weren't about to coast. Seeming relaxed and loose, they took a (mostly) straightforward approach to big hits like Every Little Thing She Does is Magic and Every Breath You Take (although Roxanne got a nice stretched-out treatment), saving the change-ups for deeper cuts such as Demolition Man and World is Running Down.

As always, Copeland was a combination of power and finesse, while Summers let loose several machine-gun solos. Sting's voice was, if anything, richer than it was when these songs were in the prime more than 25 years ago. It's a neat trick to take a reunion tour on its second stop through Dallas and not make it feel like a nostalgia act.

Speaking of rich voices, Elvis Costello's was in fine form for his nearly hour-long opening set with the Imposters, which was highlighted by Sting coming out to help Costello sing Alison, a surprisingly good meshing of disparate voices.

Costello and his band -- the ever-versatile keyboardist Steve Nieve, muscular drummer Pete Thomas and reliable vocalist/bassist Davey Faragher -- followed their usual recipe of combining new stuff (unfailingly picking the best cuts from the brand-new Momofuku) with Costello war horses (Alison, Watching the Detectives) and the occasional surprise (the 1983 hit Every Day I Write the Book; Clubland, the lead track from 1981's Trust).

But it must be a little frustrating for Costello, who has headlined North Texas shows many times, to be an opener, even if it does get his songs in front of a larger crowd than he usually plays to. By the end of his set, as he did extended versions of Watching the Detectives and (What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding, you got the feeling that he didn't want to leave. Wonder if he went and jammed somewhere after the show?

Robert Philpot, 817-390-7872

by Preston Jones
pjones@star-telegram.com

DALLAS -- An unmistakable urgency threads through Radiohead's catalog like a high-tension wire. Whether bleak or beautiful, the British quintet excels at making music that's both intricate and desperate -- not to mention awe-inspiring.

During Radiohead's sold-out Sunday night show at Superpages.com Center, the final stop on the first leg of their North American tour (after a jaunt in Europe, they'll be back Stateside in the fall), all that intricacy and desperation were on full, mind-blowing display.

Call it a master's class in foreboding rock 'n roll: Frontman Thom Yorke anchored the fiendish rhythms and often melancholy moods with his invigorating presence, leaping about onstage and barely able to contain himself when songs like There There or Idioteque built to their multi-layered climaxes. From first note to last, Radiohead delivered one of the finest live performances yet witnessed in North Texas in 2008.

Of course the last time Radiohead swung through town, they were a year past 1997 and the release of the epochal, chilly OK Computer; the ensuing decade saw the five-member band (along with Yorke, it's Jonny Greenwood, Colin Greenwood, Ed O'Brien and Phil Selway) move to the forefront of top-tier bands with more ambition than merely heavy rotation on MTV.

So few successful acts have found the balance between art and commerce that you forget how easy Radiohead makes it all look. It's a rare breed of artist that would take an elegant, fevered work like Computer, enjoy massive success and then promptly turn it inside out for the next album.

But in concert, it's not the sizable sonic maturation that first grabs hold so much as you appreciate more fully the delicate balance of the albums, particularly the garish experimentation of Kid A and Amnesiac. This is a band thriving as it sees fit, with seemingly little regard for the fans who clamor only for the played-to-death hits.

Indeed, during the encores, when Yorke and company moved from Fake Plastic Trees, an early hit from The Bends, to House of Cards, a lovely cut from last year's In Rainbows, the audience response was no less enthused. If there were any fair-weather fans in the building, you wouldn't have known it from the roar that greeted almost every tune, however obscure, during the two-hour set.

Matching the music step for step was the astonishing light display the band brought with 'em. My apologies to Kanye West and his much-ballyhooed Glow in the Dark Tour, but this is easily the most impressive set-up I've seen so far in 2008. Shards of light dangled above the band, often exploding in a glorious riot of color that fairly fried the optic nerves, while multiple video screens projected chaotic montages behind them, reflecting and refracting the five men onstage.

Moments of shattering beauty mingled with moments of searing, explosive power -- that's Radiohead, in a nutshell. One of the world's most important rock bands continues to push forward, setting the agenda while synthesizing art and commerce on its own terms. It's visceral, it's cerebral and it's utterly unforgettable.

Preston Jones is the Star-Telegram pop music critic, 817-390-7713

(Photo credit: Carla Scott)

May 18, 2008 SET LIST
(HT: Ateaseweb.com)

1. All I Need
2. There There
3. 15 Step
4. Bangers and Mash
5. Nude
6. Pyramid Song
7. Weird Fishes/Arpeggi
8. The National Anthem
9. Dollars and Cents
10. Faust Arp
11. Videotape
12. A Wolf at the Door
13. Optimistic
14. Reckoner
15. Everything In Its Right Place
16. Idioteque
17. Bodysnatchers

Encore 1
18. Fake Plastic Trees
19. Jigsaw Falling Into Place
20. House of Cards
21. Exit Music (For A Film)
22. The Bends

Encore 2
23. You and Whose Army?
24. Paranoid Android

Who knew there were this many M.I.A. fans in North Texas? The British female rapper of Sri Lankan descent doesn't get a lot of airplay around these parts. Her cacophonous blend of booming electro and hip-hop beats with South Asian and African rhythms punctuated by gunfire -- the whole thing often sounding like a riot in progress -- doesn't exactly fit on a playlist between Daughtry and Mary J. Blige.

But not only did M.I.A. attract a huge crowd Friday night, it was one that enthusiastically knew the lyrics to the songs on her two albums, Arular and Kala. And it was a crowd that spanned the social spectrum. Black, white, Asian, Latin, trendy, preppy, all were out in force. In fact, when M.I.A. put a call-out for ladies to come up onstage during an extremely funky 10, those who swarmed the stage looked as much as ready for a sale at NorthPark as a concert by a British cult pop figure.

Still, for all of the surface sense of noise and rhythmic anarchy, M.I.A.'s music is actually very accessible. The beats cut through, offering an anchor of groove. Backed by a DJ, a dancer, and a back-up rapper/singer, M.I.A.tore through her near-90-minute set (including an opening 15-minute set by her DJ) playing a good variety of tracks from her two CDs. Though it wouldn't have been surprising if she couldn't pull off live versions of her songs, most of the tracks actually worked better live. M.I.A. didn't offer much of a glimpse into her personality during the show but with beats as convincing as these, that didn't matter too much.

---Cary Darling

by Preston Jones
pjones@star-telegram.com

DALLAS -- No one could ever accuse Kanye West of taking it easy.

From his trippy albums to his lippy tirades, West is a fearless multi-genre maverick, an artist most comfortable when he's on the edge of his abilities, simultaneously pushing pop and rap forward.

During the Dallas stop of his ongoing Glow in the Dark Tour at Superpages.com Center Thursday night, West was the focal point of a furious, fantastical and fatiguing 90-minute set that married his out-sized ego with his seemingly limitless ambition. The dazzling display of smoke, flame and not a little hubris made for an evening of endless peaks -- West designed the show to be a continuous high, remarkably fat-free and lightning fast.

Pulling most heavily from his latest record, Graduation, West kicked off with the Elton John-sampling Good Morning, after setting up the concept of his show (crash landing on a faraway planet with only the company of a sultry computer named Jane). From there, his sleek, stylish set took over; it must've cost the rapper a fortune, but his stage designers should take a bow -- this was one impressive set-up. High-def screens, rapid-fire light shows and evocative video loops combined to form a non-stop sensory overload.

The highlights were many -- a poignant run-through of Hey Mama; a grimly defiant Can't Tell Me Nothing; the scorching take on Jesus Walks -- and the hiccups were non-existent. West runs an extremely tight ship, but the grin on his face as the near-capacity crowd messily roared verses of Stronger or Gold Digger belied his compulsion for perfection.

Graduation marked a modest artistic leap forward for West, as compared to its predecessor Late Registration; the touring stage show for his previous album was also a visually inventive endeavor but nothing approaching the go-for-broke bombast of this Glow in the Dark outing.

Few modern musicians could hold their own in a 20,000-seat amphitheater with nothing more than a few pricey gadgets and copious charm. Performers like Kanye West are a timeless, rare breed; a genuine artist who understands the balance between creativity and charisma, deftly extracting adoration while delivering unforgettable moments.

He's also got great taste in opening acts: Lupe Fiasco, unfortunately, was saddled with a sparse crowd, but one that warmed up toward the end of his 30-minute set. Chad Hugo and Pharrell Williams, of N.E.R.D., fared much better, particularly since the amphitheater was beginning to fill up. The penultimate act, Rihanna, was far more ambulatory than her last North Texas appearance toward the end of 2007. Free to move about the stage, she ripped into her catalog with a surprisingly ferocious sexuality.

For all four acts on the bill, there was one constant (aside from quality) -- concussive, muddy sound was the only element not up to snuff for anyone. The thudding, rib-rattling bass overpowered each performer at some point, drowning out vocals and eliminating any nuance. Why the bottom-heavy sound mix wasn't tweaked to provide some sonic relief (and enjoyment) is baffling.

Preston Jones is the Star-Telegram pop music critic, 817-390-7713