POP MUSIC REVIEW : Facsimile Rockers Take Dead Aim at Idols--and Miss

In rock ‘n’ roll, as in George Romero movies, the dead don’t stay dead. They come back, and they look and sound--or shake a hunka hunka burnin’ love--like the dearly departed, but they aren’t the same. They’ve turned into something spiritless and distinctly sinister.

In the words of Jim Morrison: Cancel my subscription to the resurrection.

Or, in the words of Stephen King: Sometimes dead is better.

Elvis impersonators have been big business since even before his death, so with the graying of the baby boomers, it’s only natural that the next step would be immortalizing the late, great rockers of the ‘60s. Sunday at the John Anson Ford Theatre, three acts who make their way doing just that in clubs came together for a dead-rock-star bill, precisely re-creating the images and music--but not the essences--of the Doors, Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin.

But while fake Elvises draw an audience mainly of oldsters who recall and want to relive the real thing, the ersatz Janis, Jimi and Jim seem to attract a crowd largely on the youngish side of twentysomething. Many, perhaps a majority, had not yet breathed their first breath when their drug-casualty heroes vomited their last vomit.

Their reaction was enthusiastic Sunday, borderline ecstatic in moments, and not without reason. All three acts--Wild Child as the Doors, Randy Hansen as Hendrix and Mickey Mars as Joplin--do what they do well, with remarkable vocal and instrumental mimicry. Those who indulge in the willing suspension of disbelief could no doubt undergo a real rush during enduringly exciting passages like the dynamic chorus of “Soul Kitchen” or the spookily accurate soloing of “Voodoo Chile.”

But, finally, all this had less to do with music than animatronics. Visiting Disneyland’s Abraham Lincoln exhibit is fine, as long as you don’t think you’re seeing a real person or learning something about the Civil War. This facsimile rock may be equally harmless, insofar as kids don’t leave convinced they’ve experienced the real feeling of the ‘60s.

For this show was mostly a look back at the ‘60s as costume pageant, or living wax museum. The campiest moments came during Mars’ opening set: The bell-bottoms were true to the times, but the keyboardist (who had an American flag draped over the organ) seemed determined to draw dumb laughs by flashing the peace sign as often as possible and bellowing “Stop the war!”

Mars’ own patter was only slightly more historically justifiable, as she reiterated the word “man” like a mantra, drank something or another out of a whiskey bottle and (as Sparks once put it) pretended to be drunk. At some point, the line separating Joplin and Bette Midler approximating Joplin probably blurred in a lot of young minds. But the vocal power was there, and it would be interesting to hear Mars (who is much more conventionally attractive than was Joplin) in her own voice, if she has one.

Randy Hansen did try to find his own voice several years ago, when--after imitating Hendrix for years--he did a brief stint trying to mix his own material with his late mentor’s. That didn’t work, and now he’s back to doing all-Jimi sets.

Like the other acts, Hansen proved obsequiously willing to re-create the pointless theatrics (like playing “The Star Spangled Banner” with his teeth) along with the musical brilliance. And once you’ve heard an ‘80s group like Living Colour expand on what Hendrix started and make it relevant, who can settle for mere grave-robbing?

As the Doors, Wild Child--which engendered the wildest audience response--managed the most technical accuracy and the least amount of real feeling. The lanky lead singer seemed more uncomfortable re-creating Morrison’s loose stage presence than the distinctive voice, and the real Morrison certainly wouldn’t have timidly ignored a pretty young thing who jumped on stage, as this phony Morrison (David Brock) did.

All this revivalism is not without its unintended rewards: You can’t fully comprehend just how dumb much of Morrison’s poetry is until you’ve heard someone recite it trying to mimic that earnest, arrogant, stoned voice of his. A veritable revelation, it was.

Lucky that Dylan didn’t die in that motorcycle accident, or he too might have been on stage Sunday. Perhaps he and other famous rockers should take up the rallying cry heard in the current movie theme sung by the Ramones: “I don’t wanna be buried in a pet sematary.” Amen.