Review: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers at the Royal Albert Hall

Monday, June 18, 2012



Humility isn’t usually Tom Petty’s strong suit.

The Floridian rock star has twinkingly commandeered members of other bands, fiercely clung onto songs written for other voices and largely swaggered through a 35-year career that has seen him pegged variously as a punk rock upstart (see Peter Bogdanovich’s doc, Runnin’ Down a Dream, for how he earned that improbable accolade), FM radio regular and nostalgic balladeer.

Tonight, though, he’s overwhelmed. First by the venue – he says twice that it’s been a long-held dream to play the Royal Albert Hall, later adding wistfully, "What a place" – and then by the rapturous crowd, which gives him at least a half-dozen standing ovations (mine was permanent, as I was in the gallery).

After a supporting set from Jonathon Wilson that begins in an average vein only for the singer (who seems to have wandered in from the 1970s) to reveal unexpected levels of musicianship and originality - his every song better than the last - Petty treats the packed hall to a two-and-a-half hour set that includes blistering blues (Good Enough from his most recent album Mojo), acoustic crooning (Something Coming, from the same LP) and a gaggle of glorious hits that span three decades. As opening gambits go, the words: “We’re going to play a lot of songs for you tonight” are about as welcome as they come.

The highlights include a triumphant I Won’t Back Down – a song that simply evokes the stoicism and steel beneath Petty’s blonde, perma-grinning persona – and two cuts from the near-legendary Damn the Torpedos: the romantic rocker Here Comes My Girl (as sweet an evocation of the redemptive power of a good woman as you’ll ever find) and Refugee, which has an unwittingly tasteless chorus but gorgeous verses and one hell of a riff. The former is faster than on record, but still lifts you above the world, while the latter is heavy but crashingly anthemic.

There are crowd pleasers in the shape of the inevitable, wonderful Free Fallin’, Last Dance with Mary Jane (not a personal favourite, but lovely in London), a sing-along Learning to Fly and the iconic early single American Girl. Elsewhere, Petty gives a rare outing to the Hard Promises album track Something Big - which he's striving to rescue from obscurity - and even proffers an invitation to “mosh” via the tuneless audial assault of I Should Have Known It, a rare dud tune on a thrilling night. Don’t Come Around Here No More, which Petty wrote with Dave Stewart then refused to hand over because he was too fond of it, is successfully transformed from a choppy, synth-heavy curio (one of the finest and least typical Petty tracks) into a conventional, pleasing rocker, while the lovely Traveling Wilburys single Handle with Care gets a breezy, beautiful airing, dedicated to fallen comrades Roy Orbison and George Harrison.

Complemented by the Heartbreakers (was there ever a better name for a backing band?), who include Mike Campbell – Petty’s long-time co-conspirator and one of the most underrated lead guitarists around – as well as the wonderfully gifted pianist and organ player Benmont Tench (not Ben 10, that’s a different person), Petty is on top form throughout, exhibiting an effortless stage presence, some tight, tasty licks and an easy rapport with an avid audience who've flocked from across the country.

That inimitable voice has barely faltered since 1979, Petty's energy levels can never be faulted (he even engages in some questionable bum-wiggling at a couple of junctures) and his all-conquering self-confidence is as evident as ever. But tonight, playing his first UK gig in 13 years, at a venue he’s never graced before, it’s coupled to something else: a sense of excitement, wonder and ultimately jubilation. A dream realised – and not just for him.

Setlist:

Listen to Her Heart
You Wreck Me
I Won't Back Down
Here Comes My Girl
Handle with Care
Good Enough
Oh Well (Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac cover)
Something Big
Don't Come Around Here No More
Free Fallin'
It's Good to Be King
Something Good Coming
Learning to Fly
Yer So Bad
I Should Have Known It
Refugee
Runnin' Down a Dream
Encore:
Mary Jane's Last Dance
American Girl

Tom Petty, ghosts and living on blood - Reviews #37

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers: Runnin' Down a Dream (Peter Bogdanovich, 2007) attempts to do for the Heartbreakers what Scorsese's No Direction Home did for Dylan - and turns out astonishingly well. Bogdanovich weaves his epic tale of artistic integrity, human tragedy and lasting friendship via interviews, live footage and a wealth of home video and in-studio footage that stretches back to the band's formative weeks. Petty and the group - including fellow founders Mike Campbell and Benmont Tench - are often bracingly candid as they chart their journey from young upstarts bundled in with the burgeoning punk scene to wiser, though no less ambitious, old-timers. Their story takes in ego-driven rifts, substance abuse and the death of bassist Howie Epstein from heroin addiction, as well as the frontman's personal battles with industry bigwigs. There's one telling moment where the singer says: "People ask if it seems like 30 years. It seems like a hell of a lot longer", but this four-hour portrait has entirely the opposite effect, fairly flying by in a blaze of irressistible melodies and telling soundbytes. Fittingly, each band member is given an introductory sketch and a significant amount of screentime. There are also sub-sections dedicated to key themes, like the source of Petty's ambition (a single-minded drive that sees him pinch songs and band members from various collaborators) and the creative process.

Though the movie's first three or four musical clips may make you wonder just how the group acquired such a fanatical fanbase, the next 40 will leave you in no doubt, as Petty emerges as a composer and performer of rare talent, happening upon songs as timeless and diverse as Don't Do Me Like That, Here Comes My Girl, The Waiting, Southern Accents, The Best of Everything, Free Fallin' and Learning to Fly. Bogdanovich occasionally fixates on the wrong details uncovered during interviews (surely Petty's descent into drug abuse is more interesting than the fact he broke his hand?), certain passages don't pack the wallop they rightly should and there's a slight dip in the last 25 as the director takes us up to date, but for the most part this is a fascinating film that gives one of America's greatest songwriters his due and reveals the inestimable part the Heartbreakers have played in his legacy. It's also an arresting portrait of a nonconformist - or "a badass", as Dave Grohl calls him - with Petty fighting MCA for the rights to his songs, stopping them from hiking up the price of his 1981 record Hard Promises and preventing his hero Roger McGuinn from selling out. If Runnin' Down a Dream isn't in the same league as No Direction Home, that's largely because Dylan's story has no equal in modern popular culture. This is still a major work - and a hugely entertaining one at that. (4)

***



Let the Right One In (Tomas Alfredon, 2008) is one of the best films of recent years: a heartbreaking coming-of-age tale about a 12-year-old boy who falls in love with a vampire. Kåre Hedebrant is the victimised, white-haired Oskar, who ends up "going steady" with quiet, pale neighbour Eli (Lina Leandersson) before a series of grisly murders and an ill-advised attempt to become her "blood brother" alert him to her real identity. Alfredon's lack of affinity with the horror genre means he zones in one the story's more reflective elements - loneliness, sorrow, love that knows no boundaries - allowing the nerve-shredding suspense and appalling blood-letting to form an offbeat, brilliantly-realised backdrop. Let the Right One In is a one-of-a-kind movie: superbly plotted and full of breathtaking imagery, while the leads offer two of the finest kids' performances I've ever seen - despite the fact Leandersson is dubbed. (4)

***


There really aren't many pictures from this film knocking around.

That's the Spirit (Charles Lamont, 1945) is an absolutely delightful ghost comedy, among the best of the succession made in the '30s and '40s. Jack Oakie plays a vaudeville performer in the early-1900s who gives up his life for that of his wife (June Vincent), as she suffers complications during the birth of their daughter. Unfortunately, he's seen shuffling off this mortal coil with a not unattractive (though bloody creepy) woman who just happens to be the spectre of death. Oakie spends the next 15 years begging to be sent back to Earth to mend his wife's broken heart, and finally heavenly bureaucrat Buster Keaton relents, allowing the chubby comic a week to clear his name and rescue the happiness of his hoofing offspring (Peggy Ryan), herself desperate to climb out from beneath the thumb of grandfather Gene Lockhart.

The film wears its heady sentiment lightly, aided by Oakie's unexpectedly poignant, powerful turn, and there's top support from peerless, pug-faced villain Lockhart, Keaton - well-used for once in a talkie - and Vincent, in a quiet, affecting performance. Ryan, well-known to '40s audiences as part of a double-act with future Singin' in the Rain dancer Donald O'Connor, is also ideal in her key role, starring in a handful of superlative numbers alongside Johnny Coy, with How Come You Do Me Like You Do the absolute standout. That's the Spirit isn't as sophisticated or as slickly-plotted as - say - Here Comes Mr Jordan, placing a greater emphasis on sheer silliness, but I found it completely winning, and was taken aback by Oakie's touching central characterisation. (4)

***



Killer of Sheep (Charles Burnett, 1977) is a compelling portrait of life in an inner-city L.A. estate - and of listlessness and depression. The rich atmosphere, often brilliant eye for poetic detail and stunning jazz-blues soundtrack makes up for the occasionally confusing plotting. There's a fantastic shot of kids chasing a train that recalls the euphoria of the most celebrated sequence in Satyajit Ray's Pather Panchali, while the images of youngsters leaping between buildings are stunning. The film also makes occasional nods to surrealism and absurdity that have influenced countless subsequent films. Like having the put-upon young girl suck her hand whilst wearing a cartoonish dog mask. The leads are superb: director Burnett uncovering a couple of real talents when casting from amateurs, even if some of the supporting players tend towards woodenness. Many have hailed the film as a masterpiece. I think it's too bitty and erratic to earn that tag, but you're unlikely to have seen anything like it before - or since. NB: the abbatoir scenes are stomach-turning, says this veggie weakling. (3.5)

***



The Leather Boys (Sidney J. Furie, 1964) is a moderately-interesting period piece notable in its day for the atypically frank treatment of homosexuality, which means a lot of innuendo, one spat epithet and a strange scene in a bar with two overbearing sailors. The film combines elements of Victim (it's not afraid to just about mention gays), The Wild One (it's not afraid to overtly mention bikers) and A Taste of Honey (it's not afraid to feature Rita Tushingham as a schoolgirl claiming to be up the duff), but it's nowhere near as good as those films. Colin Campbell is the bike-crazy young man who weds the 16-year-old Tushingham, then realises that probably wasn't wise.

The film has a decent sense of the unexpected, with Campbell being the compassionate, thoughtful one and Tushingham's fictional pregnancy backfiring terribly, but it's badly-written and inconsistent in both tone and quality. Added to which, Tushingham is incredibly irritating, save for during a brief reconciliation with Campbell in the final 30 that's appealing and extremely well-acted. Goodness knows what direction she was getting from Furie the rest of the time. The second half is dominated by Dudley Sutton, giving a formidably peculiar performance as Campbell's gay mate. He has screen presence and produces several moving moments, but consistently undermines himself through whatever-that-voice-is-that-he's-doing. If you do decide to check out the film, stay with it till the end: the climax is surprisingly strong. (2)

***



SHORT: That's the Spirit (Roy Mack, 1933) is an OK Vitaphone one-reeler showcasing yet another forgotten jazz group, this time Noble Sissle and His Band. It's pretty much par for the course, with future Monogram Charlie Chan foil Mantan Moreland and F.E. Miller as spooked nightwatchmen who discover the (inexplicably miniature) Sissle and co playin' hot jazz inside a warehouse. The band are above average, with vocalist and dancer Cora La Redd particularly impressive, but the setting is uninspired and the comic bookends aren't funny. Didn't black people scare easily in '30s America compared to whites? (2.5)