POP MUSIC REVIEW : Country Legends at Universal

The aggressive on-stage merchandising at Tuesday’s formidable “Legends of Country” triple-bill at the Universal Amphitheatre of George Jones, Merle Haggard and Conway Twitty almost rivaled that of a New Kids on the Block show for pure hucksterism. Among the countless sale items pitched between sets: a $40 video biography of Jones, which, we were promised, contains “the bad years . . . on up through these years, the good years.”

But are these really the good years for Jones, or either of his two co-headliners? The charts indicate that the hits are getting fewer and farther between for all involved, and even the action-packed classicism of this inviting, gitcher-money’s-worth bill couldn’t quite fill the Amphitheatre. Up on stage, though, the music had not the aura of survival, but (at least in Jones’ and Haggard’s cases) the playful kick of nicely aged White Lightnin’. And though Jones complained of bronchitis and Haggard of “something close to pneumonia,” the healthiness of the Pre-New Traditionalism prevailed.

Jones is the most likely of the three to tweak a heart string, and did with his cast-iron set of sad-sack dirges--now rote enough that it even included his usual early bluff of “You’re beautiful. I may stay here till 4 or 5 in the morning,” even though he was cast in the opening slot this time. The wide collars on the baby-blue suit and the Wally George-style haircut haven’t changed, nor have the voice nor the set list, both still as classic as they come in country.

Twitty held down the middle position, and though he has probably sold the most records out of any of the three, his set suffered by comparison due to a decided lack of chat or stage personality. (Using a synthesizer to get a steel guitar sound didn’t win him back any points.)

With the night’s loosest, jazziest set, Haggard had the handle on honky-tonk spontaneity; fans were treated to the Muskogee Okie trying to decide whether to sing “That’s the Way Love Goes” in E, E flat or C with his only slightly faltering, illness-reduced register. The occasional swing feel afforded by the big band, including horns and fiddle, was a timely reminder that Lyle Lovett didn’t just come out of nowhere.