O.C. POP REVIEW : Bumpy Return to ‘60s Rock Led by Spirit, Arthur Lee

The ‘60s isn’t such an easy decade to pin down (not that any decade truly is).

And sure enough, Saturday night’s bill at the Coach House, which featured Arthur Lee, Spirit and Canned Heat, three Los Angeles rock acts from the ‘60s, offered nothing like a unified fix on what ‘60s rock was about, or how it ought to be regarded today.

Opener Lee is the mainstay of Love, the Los Angeles band that, back in the ‘60s, could at its best equal its hometown competition, the Byrds and the Doors. Playing alone and with a band, Lee’s performance was enigmatic, chaotic and frustrating. But take away a bunch of extracurricular nonsense, and what was left was a still-impressive and charismatic singer whose music retains an undeniable power and passion.

Amnesia seems to be Spirit’s way of dealing with its past. In a vastly disappointing hour of not-so-spirited oldies and mainly colorless new songs, the band seemed to have forgotten the invention and adventure that were its hallmarks during the original lineup’s four-album run.

Canned Heat’s attitude toward the decade might be characterized as: “Who cares about the ‘60s? This is da blooze.” And very good blooze they were. A band that two years ago looked as if it ought to be laid to rest, put on a sharp, cohesive performance full of fresh vigor, much of it injected by the recent return of Junior Watson, an ace guitarist who lives in Stanton.

Watson’s performance was the blues-guitar equivalent of a Robin Williams monologue--his fingers summoned offbeat, unexpected ideas in a torrent that added up to a virtuoso display of playful wit.

As spotty as it was, Lee’s 52-minute set has to be rated a significant rebound. Four years ago at the Coach House, on another ‘60s bill with the Seeds and Big Brother and the Holding Company, Lee gave a desultory, uncomfortable performance that showed only fleeting flashes of remaining talent or enthusiasm.

So it was a welcome turnaround to see him in good spirits and grand voice. One of the most remarkable singers of the ‘60s, he showed that his abilities have diminished little.

The problem was that Lee was almost completely unfocused when he wasn’t singing--which was far too often. Some of his stalling and dithering was engaging. You have to admire a man honest enough to admit that the reason his left leg was in a cast was that he got out of bed and tripped over a videocassette.

And Lee seemed genuinely touched when a cake for his 48th birthday (which was actually Sunday) was delivered to the stage and the audience serenaded him with “Happy Birthday to You.”

But a great deal of Lee’s stage time was taken up with stories that didn’t develop, non sequitur comments, repeated greetings to buddies in the audience, and much, much laughter. Some of it was genuinely mirthful, but some of it seemed out of place, and you had to wonder whether all the chuckling, the numerous delays and digressions weren’t a defense mechanism for a performer who hasn’t come to terms with what he means in the ‘90s, and how he ought to present himself. At least part of the near-capacity audience lost patience with him, tuned him out, and chattered away as he tried to present a solo-acoustic ballad late in the show.

Judging from the nine songs that Lee got through, he ought to just plunge into the music and stay there. “Signed D.C.,” the great anti-heroin song from Love’s 1966 debut album, hit with fiery impact in an almost startling display of lung-power. In his heyday, Lee was as versatile a rock singer as the ‘60s produced--and darned if he didn’t pull off the yowling hard rock howl of “Seven and Seven Is,” the vibrato crooning of “Orange Skies,” and the innocent tremulousness and dramatic urgency of “Alone Again Or,” which hails from “Forever Changes,” a strange and gorgeous album that is one of rock’s treasures, a one-of-a-kind landmark.

Lee, who recently issued the first Love album since 1981 on the French label, New Rose, also mixed in acoustic performances of a few new songs, including a couple of pretty ballads, and a reggae-beat number called “L.A. Caloco” that may have been an oblique response to the city’s rising tide of violence. In an echo of Bob Marley, Lee donned a Jamaican accent and sang: “We’re gonna dance to the music and chase all our troubles away.”

Joining him for about half the set was a sharp bass-drums-guitar trio that lent potent backing to the rockers, yet had the sensitivity and subtlety to make his more delicate gems work as well.

With his talent intact and a band that can support him well, it is not inconceivable that Lee could make a real comeback bid--assuming he can manage to keep his train of thought on track. But that’s a proposition nobody who saw this haphazard show would back without a great deal of trepidation.

“The Family That Plays Together” was the name of Spirit’s second album in 1968--a reference to the fact that drummer Ed Cassidy is the stepfather of singer-guitarist Randy California (nee Wolfe). At this point, the Family ought to think of adopting a few new members, because this trio version of Spirit lacked the spark and the resources to make the flights of improvisation that were once the band’s hallmark.

California remains a fluent player, although he seems to have misplaced the distinctive fuzz tones, jazzy chording and Santana-like note shredding that spiced the early Spirit albums. In his biggest moment at the Coach House, he paid tribute to Jimi Hendrix’s style in a flashy version of “Red House.”

Cassidy is a remarkable musician, a deft and muscular stylist who will turn 70 on May 4. Lack of a strong rhythmic foundation wasn’t Spirit’s problem. The problem was that the band needs real keyboards and a real bass.

New addition Scott Monahan tried to handle both those chores with his synthesizers. The synth-bass lines were routine and lacked bite, and the keyboard tones were tinny and ersatz-sounding. More musicians and less reliance on electronics might bring what’s needed to prod the band. Only during a spacey, churning jam in the middle of the oldie, “Fresh Garbage,” did the band show a flash of the old adventurous spirit.

On virtually all its other old material, Spirit sounded little better than a technically proficient cover band that plays songs adequately without investing much feeling in them.

As for the new material, most of it affected bland album-rock formulas that were current a few years ago, with heraldic synths and unimaginative power chords. The Spirit of the ‘90s sounded as if it aspires to be the Starship of the ‘80s. One exception was “Tales From the West Side,” a stately new song that had some of the melodic sweep of prime Procol Harum.

Canned Heat was hurting when it pulled into the Coach House in 1991--thanks mainly to a standoffish, aimlessly noodling performance by the band’s then-guitarist, Harvey Mandel. This was different: a crisp, interactive show that leaned toward the wry material that particularly fits the musical personality of Junior Watson, who recently rejoined Canned Heat after having played on its last album, the 1990 release, “Reheated.”

Now that bassist Larry Taylor also has been replaced by another Orange County musician, Ron Shumake, Canned Heat’s only connection to the ‘60s is Adolpho (Fito) de la Parra, the drummer and bandleader. While the set included such oldies as “Goin’ Up the Country,” “On the Road Again” and “Amphetamine Annie,” the emphasis was on simply playing lively blues, rather than nostalgic exploration.

De la Parra’s attempt to re-create the late Al Wilson’s distinctive falsetto on “Goin’ Up the Country” and “On the Road Again” was game, but ultimately a bit pallid.

The versatile front man, James T. (for Thornbury), helped add color to those chestnuts with flute and harmonica. A jack of many trades, though commanding at none, James T. also sang serviceably in a burry voice, and offered sufficiently raunchy bottleneck guitar work. De la Parra was able to generate a sense of swing with his crisp, economical drumming.

When James T. took the lead on guitar, Watson complemented him with nuanced rhythm chording. As the show progressed, Watson stepped out more and more, until de la Parra, acknowledging the guitarist’s hot hand, virtually turned over the last 20 or 30 minutes to him as a showcase.

On a slow blues about a guy who sends “five long letters” to the object of his affection, only to never hear back from her, Watson sang in a wry deadpan, then let his guitar fill in the full measure of his chagrin as he stirred up a flurry of comical protest that rivaled one of Donald Duck’s temper tantrums. In fact, listening to Watson was like watching a time-lapse film of a good comic strip artist at work--a slashing line here, a curlicue there, topped off with a surprise punch line in the cartoon balloon--except that the guitarist’s unpredictable maneuvers unfolded fluently and masterfully in real time.

Only about half the house was left for Canned Heat’s after-midnight hour, but Watson made it worth staying up late for.