POP MUSIC REVIEW : Moody Blues Dwell on Moldy Oldies

So may I introduce to you . . . the act you’ve known for all these years . . . Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band--now appearing as the Moody Blues.

No, the Moodies were not especially Beatlesque Friday night at Irvine Meadows. But these old grads of the British Invasion were utterly Pepperesque.

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, you’ll recall, was not the Beatles, but a wry construct the Beatles used to poke affectionate fun at the notion of old-line musical performance. At the very moment when they were striving so mightily to create a new school of music-making, worlds removed from previous notions of song as a phenomenon of showmanship and stage, the Beatles indulged in some tongue-in-cheek humor. They pretended to be an appealingly nostalgic, play-your-faves ensemble: Sgt. Pepper’s.

Which is precisely what the Moody Blues were at Irvine, except without a glimmer of ironic intent. This appealingly nostalgic, play-your-faves ensemble showed no great ambition, but, for the most part, its show provided small pleasures.

The four Moody Blues, all veterans of the band’s ‘67-72 heyday, were augmented by a second drummer, two female backup singers and a pair of synthesizer players who could uncork a Wagnerian orchestra and half the heavenly host at the press of a key. For nearly two hours, they invited you to tap a toe, sing along to catchy classic-rock hits, and take in a smattering of lightly enjoyable newer material, while ignoring any of the deeper possibilities of rock.

The fact that the Moody Blues’ appeal is all on the surface today is itself a little ironic because back in the ‘60s no band tried harder to be mysterious and deep. Today’s Moodies cannily concede that, in the ‘90s, fun plays better for them than profundity. They played their oldies as oldies--true oldies being songs that become distanced from their original impact and intent. The on-the-button performances emphasized the sweep of the arrangements and the luster of the melodies without trying to underscore any weightier meanings.

Justin Hayward, dapper enough to have stepped out of a fashion magazine, sang in a clear, companionable voice and provided some needed bite with good, concise guitar solos that emphasized melody along with punchiness. Bassist John Lodge sang the occasional number in a grainier but still tuneful voice. Hayward and Lodge were the singer-songwriters who brought the Moodies into their orchestral era after joining the band in 1966. Also still on hand are drummer Graeme Edge and flutist Ray Thomas, both original members dating back to the lineup that scored a 1965 hit with “Go Now!” The singer in those pre-Hayward/Lodge days was Denny Laine, later a member of Paul McCartney’s Wings.

One has to salute Thomas, if only for the fact that he has one of the easiest jobs in show business. His work for the evening consisted mainly of banging on a tambourine while trying to appear fully engaged. He did that well and was ready with the occasional flute or baritone vocal embellishment when needed.

One also had to appreciate the match between band and tour sponsor. Anybody can plug beer and soda pop. The Moodies are pumping for a brand of hair-care products. With three woolly heads, plus Hayward’s silken blond locks (like Warren Zevon’s Werewolf of London, his hair was perfect ), the Moodys were a better advertising vehicle for that particular line of merchandise than most aging rockers.

The show included just a handful of post-’72 songs. Only three of them, played in succession midway through the set, were from the current album, “Keys of the Kingdom.” Most of the recent material wasn’t quite so grandiose as the vintage stuff, which made for a welcome contrast. The band’s two big hits of the past few years, “I Know You’re Out There Somewhere” and “Your Wildest Dreams,” were both fetching pop pieces with nostalgia-laden lyrics embodying the Moodies’ present outlook. The band’s latest single, “Say It With Love,” was a chugging guitar anthem that provided some ballast amid the symphony-in-a-box stuff.

The Moodies’ pomp became wearing with repetition, especially on “Isn’t Life Strange,” which took the canned chorale and orchestration to bombastic excess. At times, the keyboard-generated symphonics drowned out the rock band (Hayward’s tasty guitar did a disappearing act toward the end of the show). If the Moodies had been in a mood to experiment, they might have tried a few songs as a stripped down rock quartet, sans keyboards, or attempted an acoustic duo reworking of one of their old production numbers.

By throwing its audience something unexpected, the Moody Blues might have filled a moment or two with immediacy. Instead, they spun out the fond memories--”Tuesday Afternoon,” “Nights in White Satin,” “Story in Your Eyes”--making their music a backdrop for humming along to yesterday. No matter how hummable the tunes, failing to engage thoughts and feelings in the here and now is a flaw. With their hazy pretensions, the songs of the Moody Blues no longer speak. But at least many of them still sing.

Neverland, a young Los Angeles band, opened with an earnest enough melding of U2 chiming riffs and Rolling Stones crunchy licks beneath singer Dean Ortega’s husky, Rod Stewart-like vocals. While Ortega conveyed honestly felt passion, Neverland’s songs lacked any distinctive means of expressing it. Like the great majority of young rock bands, Neverland showed some skill and desire but fell far short of the personal vision it takes for a band to make a mark. In a word, forgettable.