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Billy Corgan
Webster Hall
Filter Grade: 84%
by Tom Birner | 01.01.2007

There isn’t a shirt in the world with sleeves so ample for Billy Corgan’s heart, even if its solemnity occasionally takes leave inside an ECW wrestling ring. It’s long been redundant to note the notorious gravity and self-devotedness with which he takes himself- more importantly the bald bard is responsible for some of the most inimitable something-rock since front men ditched skanks and leather for cynicism and plaid. Ironically, Billy’s never been shy about timeless rock anthems dashed with Eddie Van Halen solos. He’s viewed as obstinate yet eagerly vulnerable, and for all gloomy connotations, his associated hopelessness is usually scattered around soaring dynamics and decisive hooks.

So it was a suitably grim day, the kind that is impossible to tell morning from evening. Swells of grey clouds sweat deliberate ruffles of plaster-smelling city rain, as I waited in line, comparing tastes and scars with other urgently slight misfits.

Seeing your hero entails unfair expectations. You consider them godly for so many instances they made you feel the same way, and so their sweat surprises you; muddy sound, littered cups, and every imperfection seem all the more inapt. Corgan is my favorite artist of any kind and, written with penitent professionalism, not an especial live performer.

After an intense set of shattered art-pop by The Crimea (think a poetically-schizophrenic Coldplay), the stage was set-and intently so- for Billy’s entrance. Some futuristic shell-like alien pods stood as instruments. With James Iha likely being shy at another extravagant club, there stood only one guitar stand. I don’t much buy this "doing my own thing" humility--Corgan is trying to change music, again. Hard soloing over industrial has been done, but debut solo album TheFutureEmbrace has much deeper restraint and pop sensibility than Joe Satriani or contemporary Jeff Beck.

Anyway, the pods turned out to be organs that bathed "Tolovesomebody" in Cars-sounding woebegone (it’s actually a Bee Gees remake). "M.O.H.," the album’s first single, sounded good and leathery, as Corgan shared his perfectly wounded vocals with keyboardist/sexpot Linda Strawberry. But "Sorrow," a rather pedestrian downer, sounded forced, and alas, the surprisingly maudlin lyrics could be discerned over the somewhat aimless backing band (two faint organs and an aloof electronic drum set). He can still solo his defiantly bald head off, as demonstrated on the post-punk grind "A100," and write a natural pop song ("Walking Shade," "All Things Change").

There’s something powerful about seeing Corgan rip treble-laden chords--we all know where those fingers have been. No, I don’t mean Courtney Love (whose haven’t?). Billy Corgan’s written some of the most incalculable music of modern times. Now it seems he’s more than embracing the future- he’s rushing it.


Photo Credit: Kenny Caperton