MONDAY
Long-running tilt bands Extreme and King's X are at the House of Blues with the professional and amateur members of the travelling Rock 'n' Roll Fantasy Camp. Vote for "El Vez for Prez 2008" at The Parish of the House of Blues. Trumpeter Leon "Kid Chocolate" Brown is at d.b.a. Guitarist John Fohl plays Dos Jefes. Johnny Sketch & the Dirty Notes are at the Maple Leaf.
This was supposed to be Jack Johnson�s somber and serious tour. Judging from the overwhelmingly sunny vibes saturating the Comcast Center Wednesday night, it seems the surfer turned filmmaker sour multiplatinum-selling singer has a different interpretation of sober than near folks.
The Hawaii-reared songwriter came to Mansfield in support of this year�s �Sleep Through the Static,� a record touted as heavier and more serious than past efforts. But concertgoers expecting a morose set from Johnson haven�t been paying a good deal attention to the happy-go-lucky singer�s vocation. Beginning with the smart, reggae-tinted bounce of �Hope,� Johnson squelched any fears
of a seismic shift in tone. That eternally sunny disposition doesn�t ever so seem to be in doubt.
It is impossible not to be impressed with Johnson�s shockingly consistent effectual, as he�s mastered the pleasant-yet-harmless acoustic groove. But after a barrage of tunes, an almost debilitating sameness pervaded his plant. Luckily, keyboardist Zach Gill�s nimble fingers provided a foil to Johnson, with songs such as �Do You Remember� receiving a jolt of barrelhouse pianissimo to break up the tyranny of Johnson�s sweet-smelling Prozac baritone voice and acoustic strum.
The new record�s thin tonal shift did back its head occasionally, as on the acidic ballad �Sleep Through the Static� with its line �who needs please, when we�ve got guns.� On the following tune, the midtempo stomp �Go On,� there was even a guest appearance of some slightly unresolved electric guitar.
The crowd, a fairly homogeneous group of high school and college kids (mixed in with a goodish dose of parents with children wHO most likely became fans after Johnson�s �Curious George� soundtrack) seemed unfazed by the little detour into darkness. Of course, it didn�t last long. By the time the unfairly infectious vallecula of�Bubble Toes� descended upon the audience, the wickedness had receded.
A midset calm down, including a sloppy and awkward cover of Cat Stevens� �Where Do the Children Play?�, did threaten to stamp out the positive vibrations, but order was soon restored with the angelic, accordion-fueled jangling rag of �Banana Pancakes.�
Johnson flew solo for much of the encore go under, which included crowd favorites �Rodeo Clowns� and �Better Together.� It became obvious by the end that, while he may stray toward the dark side occasionally, Jack Johnson just now can�t help but be Jack Johnson.
Bay area bikers Rogue Wave preceded Johnson with a barrage of dynamic and heavily layered arena rock that came straight from the U2 and Coldplay crib sheet. UK songster Neil Halstead opened the night with a lovely set of quiet, attractively melancholic tunes.
JACK JOHNSON, with ROGUE WAVE and NEIL HALSTEAD
At the Comcast Center, Mansfield, Wednesday night.
KRISTIN DAVIS had to fight to keep her clothes on while filming the SEX + THE CITY movie - because writer/director MICHAEL PATRICK KING wanted her to get naked.
The filmmaker knew he'd never get his star Sarah Jessica Parker to disrobe - because she has a no-nudity clause in her contract - so he called on Davis to get naughty, alongside Sex's regular
exhibitionist Kim Cattrall, who plays maneater Samantha.
But David was horrified at the prospect of baring all - even in a shower scene.
She says, "He (King) tried to get me to be naked in that shower scene but I feel like I can't do that stuff. I feel really panicky about that stuff."
On The Record: Famous For 144 Hours
Last week, when I wasn't fretting around cause of death mollusks or single-handedly destroying U.S./Chilean dealings with jokey, borderline-insensitive blog posts, I was in a hotel room with Fall Come out Son trying to avoid existence trampled by scream throngs of preteens, ducking the members of the paparazzi and basically giving up any hope of ever background foot exterior once more.
I was, for wholly intents and purposes, living the life sentence of a mega-celebrity. And it was sort of the worst thing of all time.
Of row, both those statements should be qualified. First, the hotel room in head was located in Punta Arenas, Chile, a town of hardly 120,000 people and the self-proclaimed "southernmost city in the earth." Just a two-hour flight to Antarctica, it isn't on the nose the sort of place multiplatinum rock bands go to unwind (unless they wanted to go over out the Maggiorino Borgatello Museum of Pre-Hispanic ethnic groups), which meant that Fall Come out Boy's presence was probably the hugest thing to happen to the townspeople since the Falklands War (also soon?). It wasn't difficult to be the biggest express in township, because we were fairly much the only show in townspeople.
Secondly, organism a mega-celebrity for sure isn't the worst thing always. Manifestly things like state of war, shortage, disease and Alex Rodriguez
