POP MUSIC REVIEW : Parker for the Defense : The Rocker, Who Got a Bum Rap Commercially Years Ago, Makes a Strong Case in Live Show

The verdict has long been in on Graham Parker. It is an unjust one that has subjected this first-rate rocker to a life term in the commercial Gulag.

That didn’t stop Parker from giving an eloquent summation Thursday night at the Coach House, where he opened a monthlong solo tour.

The wry and crusty little Englishman, who seems to take perverse delight in cracking wise about his mishaps in the marketplace, cheerfully acknowledged that he is touring to pump sales of a new double CD retrospective, “Passion Is No Ordinary Word: The Graham Parker Anthology, 1976-1991.”

Playing to a half-capacity house of fans who probably already own many of the Rhino collection’s 39 tracks, Parker went far beyond a rote recycling of oldies. He played with the intensity of a man who relishes the chance to give his own summation, to make the final case for his body of work.

Parker’s 90-minute set covered 21 songs from the anthology, plus a poignant, beautifully rendered encore reading of the Supremes’ “Stop! In the Name of Love,” in which a soft vibrato gave his firm, grainy voice an extra measure of plaintiveness.

More than adequate as a rhythm guitar player, and capable of the occasional tricky lick, Parker accompanied himself on an acoustic guitar or a reverb-washed Fender Telecaster, along with some sweetly blown harmonica to lend an added bit of wist to ballads.

In the solo setting, Parker’s songwriting and the dominant themes of his career came into clear relief.

One could appreciate the imagination he brought to bear in appropriating legends from the lives of da Vinci, Marilyn Monroe and Joan of Arc to construct “Get Started, Start a Fire”--among the best of his many songs calling for underdogs to assert themselves against the forces that keep them down.

Parker’s skill at drawing a scene as a backdrop for a moment of emotional revelation stood out in such songs as “Big Man on Paper,” in which a trip to a lifeless suburban mall leaves the protagonist feeling small and overpowered, and “Watch the Moon Come Down,” in which Parker looks to the heavens for relief from a desolate street scene, a gesture that is transcendent for the moment, but ultimately doomed to disappointment (the moon is setting, after all).

Over the course of a set programmed to underscore the emotional juxtapositions in his work, Parker sang songs that lashed out at the stupidity and callous abuses of power that raise his famous ire, and songs that tempered that anger with compassion for those trying to cope with the hurt life often presents.

A line from “Temporary Beauty” crystallized an essentially bleak vision: “You might be the sweetest little girl in your heart/but still the world ignores that and tears you apart.”

Parker didn’t stay mired in the tragic: In “Temporary Beauty,” he soulfully urged a search for beauty and love, even if it must inevitably prove fleeting. He offered no easy uplift. In songs such as “Pourin’ It All Out” and his signature anthem, “Fool’s Gold” (both of which he said he hadn’t previously performed in a solo concert), Parker affirmed the need to struggle against the odds, without pretending there is a glad outcome for those who will only strive hard enough.

The set took a while to gain its focus. Parker’s first three songs, “White Honey,” “Back to Schooldays” and “Howlin’ Wind,” followed the opening sequence of the new “Anthology” while tracing musical roots in R&B;, rockabilly and reggae, respectively. His performances on the first two didn’t have the spark he would soon gain. Early on, he also tossed off the new compilation’s one previously unreleased song, “Museum of Stupidity”--a lyrically blatant and musically stiff broadside that stands not with his career best, but among his worst (Parker seemed to acknowledge its weakness by introducing it as “a bit flip for me, but Rhino liked it, so they put it on the album”--which doesn’t mean he has to include it in his shows).

He steamed from song to song, keeping between-song banter brief and witty. As is his wont, Parker alluded a few times to his testy relations with record companies: He has gone through more labels than Henry VIII did wives. So far, there have been no beheadings, unless you count “Mercury Poisoning,” a vitriolic tirade against the first of several companies whose promotional efforts Parker deemed woefully lacking. He gave it a Dylanesque folk-ballad treatment.

Parker’s edgy side also came across in the hard-charging “Empty Lives.” The lyric issues a hard slap at hero-craving rock fans, but there was an urgency in Parker’s voice that suggested it was a slap meant not simply to punish its targets, but to awaken them from the stupor of star worship.

Next, “just to prove there is a gentle soul beating within,” Parker played a glowing version of his love ballad, “Wake Up (Next to You).” He soared with pretty songbird crooning on the sweet, soul-style “ooh-ooh-ooh” refrain, and supported his singing with glistening finger-picking on the Telecaster that suffused the song with a moonlit shimmer.

He capped the pre-encore set with a full-on outpouring of feeling: a searing rendition of “You Can’t Be Too Strong.” While the ballad depicted abortion as a harrowing experience, it ultimately was not a position paper on an issue, but a close-up look at souls swept up in pain and turmoil.

Parker’s prospects for marketplace success seldom have been dimmer. Even though his studio output has been consistently excellent over the past five years, encompassing such fine albums as “The Mona Lisa’s Sister” (1988), “Struck by Lightning” (1991) and last year’s “Burning Questions,” he is currently without a recording contract for new material. In a recent Times interview, Parker said he has set aside songwriting indefinitely and is working on a novel instead.

That’s a shame. But Parker’s concert, with its passionately presented brief for his musical career, proved that he is still heeding the admonition of one of his own song titles: “Don’t Let It Break You Down.”

Opening the show was E, a melancholy young fellow who spent his set sifting the ashes of lost love.

The Los Angeles-based singer-piano player established himself as a pure-pop contender with a good 1992 debut album, “A Man Called E.” Most of his set consisted of songs from an upcoming release, “Broken Toy Shop.” They didn’t reveal any new dimension in E’s work or offer any distinctive takes on an old pop theme.

E’s backing band, featuring an adept pop-rock guitarist in Parthenon Huxley, gave some heft and spine to songs that otherwise might have come off too weedy.

Obviously a student of the Beatles, E knows how to write appealing, if not always memorable, melodies, and he surrounded his husky voice with good harmony singing from his band. At this point, he’s no threat to crack the pop-rock starting lineup occupied by such peers as Matthew Sweet, Michael Penn, the Posies and Jellyfish. But on craftsmanship alone, E makes the varsity and earns his letter.