POP MUSIC REVIEW : Despite Woes, Agent Orange, Palm Prove ‘It’s Not Over’

Mike Palm, the leader of Agent Orange, turns out to have been a teen-aged prophet--a distinction he probably would gladly have forgone.

When Agent Orange, one of the first and best bands of the Orange County punk rock boom, emerged in 1981 with its first album, “Living in Darkness,” the songs were etched with Palm’s deep qualms about embarking on a career in the music business. In the dark vision of songs like “The Last Goodbye,” Palm , then 18, could foresee his creative freedom being choked by the dictates of music-as-commerce.

Now, nearly a decade later, Palm is still trying to free himself from the sticky entanglements of the business side of music. Agent Orange hasn’t released a record since 1986. Scott Miller and James Levesque, the two other members of the original recording lineup, are gone, following messy partings with Palm. Agent Orange has been on rocky terms with its label, Enigma Records, for almost a year, and the band is trying to negotiate a release from its recording contract that would free it to record for another company.

But if Palm’s darker prophecies have come true, Agent Orange’s vibrant, celebratory concert Wednesday night at Bogart’s reaffirmed the accuracy of a more affirmative prediction that he made in the last chorus of the last song on the last Agent Orange album, “This Is the Voice.”

There’s only one more thing I want to say to you,

So long for now, be sure to keep in touch.

This is not the end.

Despite the ensuing silence since then, Agent Orange’s fans obviously have kept in touch and kept the faith. They packed Bogart’s for a concert that marked the band’s nearest approach to its namesake county since a show about three years ago at Night Moves in Huntington Beach.

The fans--including the obligatory slam-pit denizens and stage divers--were well-rewarded with a blazing performance by a lineup that played with an impact and assurance that easily eclipsed the recorded versions of songs from Agent Orange’s catalogue. Palm, now based in Hollywood, was accompanied by fellow Orange County punk veterans Brent Liles and Derek O’Brien, the bass and drums team from Social Distortion’s early recordings.

The oldies that made up most of Agent Orange’s hourlong set didn’t sound dated in the least. Only one song, “Bloodstains,” was based on the shouted vocals and thrashing rhythms of stereotypic punk. Virtually everything else in the Agent Orange catalogue is founded on enduring rock values: charging guitar parts that spring from ‘50s surf music and ‘60s psychedelia, memorable chorus hook-lines and melodies, and themes that are as immediate now as they were in 1978, when the band was formed.

In Palm’s world, darkness is always imminent, and fatalistic ends are always in view. But a flicker of hope never quite dies out, and it rises into a flame of determination to endure, and perhaps even transcend, life’s threats and struggles.

The four new songs that Agent Orange played all were obvious reflections of the band’s ongoing career struggles.

“I need time to pick up all the bits and pieces of these broken dreams,” Palm sang during “Broken Dreams,” which transcended that pain with music that recalled the Replacements in its bright pop chorus and forthright surge.

In “The Truth Should Never Be Concealed,” Palm sang about being stranded on a top-floor ledge: “I’m not going to fall, I’m going to live before I die,” went the lyric. “It’s not over yet, I’m still with my guitar.” And again, on the hard-driving “This Is All I Need”: “This is all I need, and this is all I need to know/I’ll be lost until the music takes control.”

For an hour, with the music taking control, Palm was anything but lost. He was cheerful and energized as he introduced songs with the zest of a happy show-biz trouper. Palm’s voice is grainy and his vocal range limited, but his singing is tuneful, and full of heart.

His guitar playing was a strong suit, adeptly moving from thick chording to noisy-but-clean solos. With his dark features and shoulder-length hair, Palm bears a passing resemblance to Neil Young--a resemblance reinforced by the way that Palm, like Young, performed with a blend of intensity and visible enjoyment.

Bassman Liles was an engaging performer as well, taking running leaps and launching his little, black-vested frame into the air when the music hit a peak. O’Brien’s drumming was crisp and propulsive, and his backing vocals were always on target. In every respect (unless you were looking for ballads), Agent Orange was a hard-hitting, effective band.

In a recent interview, Palm said that a resolution with Enigma might call for Agent Orange to record a live greatest hits album for the label. From the evidence of the Bogart’s show, that would be something to look forward to.

Lately, Palm, Liles and O’Brien have turned into double agents: The three Agent Orange members opened the evening under the alias of Wipe Out, playing a half-hour set of instrumental surf music. They were far less sure in this role, however.

The set got off to a balky start with some desultory noodling from Palm that had little to do with either surf music or being in tune. Things got better later on, after Palm traded in a Fender Stratocaster that wouldn’t stay in tune for a less traditional, but more effective, Gibson Les Paul.

Good surf music calls for the musicians to perform with the aplomb of matadors, making musical passes that evoke the drama of a wild ride on a wave. Wipe Out never came close to that level, although it did have a few good moments with chestnuts like Dick Dale’s “Misirlou.” The set’s highlight was a new Palm original, “Tikiti,” that was a beautifully constructed guitar composition featuring deft chordal riffing and a swirling, dramatic buildup. It sounded like a forgotten classic from 1961.

Agent Orange did one other thing right. It handpicked the warm-up band, Lost Souls, which contributed a fun, fierce set of biker blues. Just about everybody in this five-man Long Beach band looks as if he belongs on a Harley. The band’s sound, a sort of punk-and-metal-meet-the-Allman Brothers hybrid, featured a nice, non-gimmicky surprise: vibraphone solos by singer Mike Malone (who looks like a cross between Roger Daltrey, Robert Plant and Dee Snyder, and plays a mean harmonica to boot). Malone’s husky voice didn’t have a great deal of range, but he made up for that with authoritative swagger.

Overall, Lost Souls offered plenty of range. One song sounded like the sort of punk-inflected alternative rock anthem that bands like All and Big Drill Car are adept at. Other highlights included “Inside the Walls of the Penitentiary,” a raunchy melding of blues and hard-core punk, and a wired rockabilly-blues number, “Scooter Trash,” that sounded like Elvis Costello’s “Mystery Dance.”

“What you call trash, baby, I call class,” Malone howled on the latter number. The kind of trash that Lost Souls serves up should go down just fine in any proper roadhouse in the land.