Roast of the Town

The glitzy kid stuff was too much for any promoter to resist. Hence the trumpeted reunion of KISS--a band that KROQ never plays in its modern-rock format unless a DJ gets really silly on a Saturday night--wound up top dog of the Fourth Annual KROQ Weenie Roast.

So Saturday’s 9 1/2-hour festival at Irvine Meadows became a fitting forum for the second-billed Red Hot Chili Peppers, former Lollapalooza headliners who were being elbowed aside on their own alterna-turf, to make a surprising statement--not by running their mouths, but by playing their music.

If kid stuff was going to rule the night, the Chili Peppers--infamous for indulging their own mile-wide puerile streak--would be contrarian by being grown-up. They came through with a splendid set that featured the most cohesive, interactive and mature musicianship of the 11-band bill.

There were passages of party-ready metallic funk, a Chili Peppers trademark, but subtle, satisfying ensemble work dominated the 40-minute performance. The cool funk of “Walkabout,” the episodic excursions of “One Big Mob” and the hard-driving “Coffee Shop” all showcased a honed, purposeful band.

Guitarist Dave Navarro set the tone with all manner of choice parts, now creamy, now biting; drummer Chad Smith added swing to his funk and his hard-rock clout, and Flea, much-praised for his bass playing, earned it this time by being a team player instead of trying to come off as the funkiest, most frenzied dude on the block.

Anthony Kiedis is a limited singer on stage, so he stuck to his strengths, rapping and half-sung drawling, as two airy, female backing voices filled out the sound. The Chili Peppers didn’t play any hits, unless you count a set-closing bit of Jimi Hendrix’s “Manic Depression.” It was a night for them to be musicians first, not cut-ups, not hit-paraders. Without sacrificing a kinetic, leaping and bounding stage presence, they came through as consummate players.

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Overall, the Weenie Roast, apart from KISS (see accompanying review), offered a good sampling in which strong song craft was the key to most of the top performances.

The noir-flavored atmospherics of Garbage worked just fine in daylight; the sun may have threatened singer Shirley Manson’s perfectly pale complexion, but it couldn’t touch her lacerating mood weaving. Circling compulsively or bouncing like a prizefighter eager for the opening bell, Manson spun out bitter vignettes--but not without implying a touch of humor in such extreme declarations of angst as “Happy When It Rains.”

Angry energy was a big part of the message, but sitting balefully on the drum riser at the end of “Vow,” Manson embodied the futility of obsessive anger. Complex, incessantly catchy, and with plenty of instrumental crunch, Garbage was a treasure. There wasn’t much interaction between Manson and her bandmates, though, leading one to wonder whether Garbage is a recording project that translates well to the stage thanks to Manson’s presence, or something that can become more visually cohesive and convincingly bandlike in the future.

Everclear’s dense, garagey pop was too loose and tangled at times (recalling live Husker Du). But when the trio from Portland locked into some amped-up countrified twang for “Santa Monica” and “Heroin Girl,” it was something potentially special, a strong heir to Neil Young & Crazy Horse as well as Nirvana.

England’s Lush was a pleasant surprise in its trend-hopping transformation from gauzy, textured “dream pop” to straight-ahead power-pop a la Elastica. “500,” with its Hollies-like ‘60s zing, was the highlight; Miki Berenyi ranged flexibly from low, smoky tones to plaintive high notes, with Emma Anderson’s chiffon harmonies for support. In 25 minutes, Lush covered the gamut of romantic extremes, from complete infatuation to pure contempt.

Anaheim’s No Doubt was once more a reliable party band; Gwen Stefani’s broad comic play-acting and energetic bounding was the focus. The hit “Just a Girl” offered a nice triumphal moment as Stefani mugged like a mortified Lucille Ball wanting to crawl into a hole, then came back with a rousing, assertive-woman’s flourish. “Don’t Speak” was the band’s best chance for some contrasting subtlety and intimacy, but No Doubt went for standard big-rock-ballad gestures.

Korn played the glowering, slab-rock heavies on a bill dominated by poppy and upbeat acts; a lot of the set by the band from Huntington Beach and Bakersfield was given to diffuse groaning and hammering, but Korn showed how vivid this style can be when done well with the closing “Faget.” Singer Jonathan Davis seemed to embody every put-down, pushed-around kid who ever walked in terror down a high school hall.

L.A.’s Goldfinger has lots of good, catchy material; too bad the band didn’t trust it enough to cut the tiresome punk-rock drill--cussing, mooning the crowd, acting generally and needlessly obstreperous. Yeah, there’s a punk creed to uphold, but the punk creed is turning into everybody else’s ritualized cliche. Playing good punk music should be good enough to keep up a band’s punk bona fides. Goldfinger needs to tighten up a lot before it can turn its compositional ability into a rewarding show.

311, also from L.A., by way of Omaha, scored with a forthright, cheerful attitude to go with its catchy blend of punk, funk-metal, reggae and rap. The band might be too much the stylistic salad-spinner at times, but most of its ingredients were tasty.

Crafty in its borrowings on record, Michigan’s Verve Pipe was blatantly derivative on stage. We heard Beatles (including a heavy-handed go at “Strawberry Fields Forever”) plus cloning of Oasis and Bush. There’s always promise when a band has a knack for melody, but a distinctive band personality is equally essential.

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Smooth running in the past, this year’s Weenie Roast hit a horrible glitch that resulted in the plug being pulled on the Fugees, a move that left the eager crowd booing as the high-flying rap group was silenced midsong.

According to KROQ official Gene Sandbloom, the band arrived 30 minutes late for its scheduled 25-minute afternoon performance, then was delayed further because its turntable wasn’t ready.

The Fugees were absolutely at fault for not being professionally prompt, especially at a festival with scheduling as tight as KISS’s costumes. Hitting the stage with limited time, the trio from New York didn’t help matters by dithering at the outset with a groggy instrumental jam.

Still, the set was gaining force when the group launched into its cover of Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly,” only to be spun out of view on the rotating stage. You simply don’t do that to a No. 1 band playing one of its signature hits. With the schedule already set back 45 minutes, another song wouldn’t have mattered much.

As Sandbloom said later, “it was just a really bad scenario” on all ends.