When Joan Jett enters a room, well, what can you do? Fawn and gush? Hope you don't make too much of a fool of yourself? Obsessively memorize every detail?
You'd think that when she walks into a room, it's hard not to notice. You'd expect that the most perfect power chord combination ever-the opening riff to "I Love Rock 'n' Roll"-would come blaring through unseen speakers, that the door would open and a haze of dry ice and cigarette smoke and the musky scent of hash would precede a
grand entrance, wherein she would stagger in, mullet perfectly mussed, and punch some journalist in the face just because she could (please let it be me!).
But when she made her way into the bland meet 'n' greet area backstage before her show at the Route 66 Casino last Saturday, no one really noticed at first. She just kinda
slipped in there. It took a few seconds before the awe set in and the music writers and radio people in the room descended on her like 5-year-olds on a birthday cake. Clad in a dark blue hoodie, black gloves and-of course-tight black leather pants, Jett's diminutive stature and deep, quiet, New Jersey-tinged voice combined to form a surprisingly composed, very personable package.
Which is not to say she was not a bad-ass. The leather pants, for example, scooted down her booty to reveal a good two inches of butt crack. The woman is pushing 50, and either did that intentionally (which is cool) or not (which is cooler). Signature thick black eyeliner. And a modification of her legendary haircut, the mullet now updated, more choppy, back to black after its good-looking but nonetheless disappointing platinum period rounded out the look.
Meet 'n' greets are an uncomfortable and contrived bit of planned publicity. Sometimes interviews are available, sometimes not, and there's much awkwardness and sycophancy and jockeying for position amongst the media. It must look, to the artist, ridiculous.
Jett handled it with great aplomb, however. She worked the room. She talked about guitars (she loves Gibsons, won't touch a Fender), signed leather jackets, listened patiently to people's stories about the first time they heard such-and-such song. She told me she loves Northern New Mexico- "I could just, you know, sit here forever," she said, which was the only thing I was allowed to get on record.
And believe me, after the show, there was a lot more I wanted to ask her. It would be easy to feel sad and disappointed that this woman who revolutionized rock and inspired so many young girls to pick up guitars, who appeals to bikers and feminists alike, now plays at casinos, the traditional dumping ground for has-beens (it should be noted, for instance, that Starship opened for her). But Jett subverted the situation with a show that oozed sex, smarts and power.
It began innocuously enough. Still riled up from the final keyboard strains of "We Built This City," the crowd, mainly an older group that reflected the striations of the classic rock caste system (you know-from speed freak to Harley enthusiast to pager salesman), seemed pretty pumped through straight-ahead renditions of "I Love Rock 'n' Roll," and "Bad Reputation."
Seeing Joan Jett rip through those two songs would have been reason enough to make the hour-and-twenty-minute drive to Rio Puerco. I could have left then and happily died, crushed under the wheels of one of the ubiquitous I-40 semis. But then things took a subtle turn towards the odd and revealing, and the stakes got higher, though I'm not sure much of the crowd noticed.
Jett announced the next song was one from her upcoming album (due out sometime this spring). "It's about people who like to, you know, straddle the
line
, if you know what I mean," she growled into the mic. Hmm. Turns out, it was a cover of the Replacement's "Androgynous," Paul Westerberg's homage to shifting sexuality. Jett's voice is in top form, and she made no pains to hide lyrics like "Here comes Dick/He's wearing a skirt/Here comes Jane/you know she's sporting a chain" as she worked a little burlesque bump and grind. It was then I noticed she had removed the hoodie to reveal a black and red latex tank top that revealed her belly. Hmm.
The crowd reacted mildly, not surprising for a weird mid-tempo song they probably never heard before. And then Jett kicked into "Fetish," from her 2001 album of the same name, a mediocre one to which I never really paid much attention. But at the casino, there she was, loud and clear, singing lyrics like, "Pain turns to pleasure fast/Relax, while I pound your ass…" That's a long way from "Put another dime in the jukebox, baby."
That pretty much killed the good humor of the crowd for a bit. Jett played a few more songs from the new disc, and they are some of her best work in a while, especially "I'm Naked," which lyrically shows a vulnerability that glaringly contrasts with "Fetish." But the songs weren't her hits, and the audience seemed a touch shell-shocked.
By the time Jett won them back with "I Hate Myself for Loving You" and "Everyday People," however, this show was not about classic rock, not anymore. "Fetish" had shifted the balance. Suddenly the words to "Crimson and Clover" seemed really important; suddenly every move, every fist pump, every sly Joan Jett grin took on a whole new meaning. This show was about naughty, half-hidden secrets. This show was an S/M mindfuck, and the whole audience was on the bottom, only they didn't even know it. And I thought she was such a
nice
lady.
