Wild vs. Mild : Action Heroes Rage at Galaxy; Philosophers Reconcile Themselves to Second-Class Status at Coach House

To have and have not was the theme of two recent local-band showcases at the county’s two flagship concert clubs.

In Orange County rock, the haves and haves-in-waiting almost all play some variant of punk rock, metal, ska or post-Nirvana hard rock. That company includes the Offspring, Korn, No Doubt, Sublime and several other bands that have record deals or big grass-roots followings, and therefore a reasonable belief that the rock ‘n’ roll dream might be within reach.

To have not, locally, is to be a pop-rock band rooted in classic-rock sources. Nationally successful acts Live, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Counting Crows, Gin Blossoms, Matthew Sweet and Jars of Clay have shown that it is possible to thrive today without being punk, metal, ska or grunge, but in Orange County the talented pop-rocker has long been a poor stepchild, lacking local models of success and struggling to find an audience.

The haves had their celebration Friday at the Galaxy Concert Theatre in Santa Ana, where Sugar Ray and hed, both with major-label contracts in their pockets and new albums in the pipeline, headlined before the kind of packed, sweaty, quaking and receptive house that is a rocker’s dream.

At the Coach House on Saturday, one of the county’s good pop-rock bands, Psychic Rain, refused to whimper as it played what may well be its last show. But you could hardly say that playing to a dwindling house of 100 or so fans is going out with a bang.

Singer Greg Stoddard’s sartorial progression during the set could have been taken as a comment on the prospects of the O.C. pop-rock cohort in general: He began the set decked out in a gold dinner jacket and ruffled shirt and finished in a black T-shirt that said “Loser.”

Some other fine local acts might well identify.

Vinnie James, D.D. Wood, Altered State, Water and Aunt Bettys all have had major-label shots during the ‘90s; all have met with varying degrees of disaster and no longer have deals, and, in some cases, careers. Unable to get record contracts in the first place, Mark Davis, Willoughby, Standard Fruit and Lunar Rover’s Jon Melkerson haven’t even had a chance to be be spat out by the music business.

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The Coach House lineup of Psychic Rain, Mission Delores and Heads of State was a good one, though not quite the top shelf of local pop-rock that includes most of the above-named acts.

Psychic Rain’s well-played and unsentimental maybe-farewell set included several gems that can stand with the likes of Live and Toad. Stoddard’s grainy-voiced passion, guitarist Brian Stewart’s impressive mastery and tonal variety and presence and drummer Norm Antonini’s able backing vocals gave the band a strong arsenal.

But on its two CDs, and in the faithful stage renditions on Saturday, Psychic Rain has not developed the second and third gear needed to deepen its appeal. It was a band stuck in a rut--which sometimes became a lofty but narrow peak--of big-scale rock anthems full of straining feeling.

Stoddard said last week that he will break up the band and try a different approach unless one last chance comes through: an upcoming private audition for a Nashville-based start-up label. Whether the future configuration is Stoddard on his own or Psychic Rain after an 11th-hour reprieve, the act needs to build on its current base by broadening its repertoire of moods, styles and lyrical approaches.

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Mission Delores’ members need to take a chapter from Homer: The next time singer-songwriter Phil Whittles gets the urge to heed the siren’s call of his passion for Michael Stipe and R.E.M., strap him to a mast like Odysseus so he can’t reach for his guitar and write another superfluous clone of Athens, Ga.’s finest.

Mission Delores showcased material from its new album, “Hello, My Name Is . . . ,” in which the R.E.M. addiction remains all too apparent. Some of it is very nice R.E.M.-ish stuff, circa 1985. But rehashing a style R.E.M. itself has left behind is a ticket to “Nowhere Town,” the title of a new Mission song patterned after the REMsters’ “Don’t Go Back to Rockville.”

The band’s ray of hope shines from other new material, including “A.M. Radio,” with its bright, bouncy feel akin to Bruce Springsteen’s “Fire,” and “Tonite,” with its well-drawn and thoughtful reflection on sexual gamesmanship in a singles bar. They prove that Whittles has a shot at finding a livelier and more distinctive voice than his Stipe fixation permits.

Opening band Heads of State could be on to something interesting if it continues to develop the more distinctive half of its repertoire: haunting, tense songs such as “Hell to Pay” and “Time Goes” that recalled the folk-blues-pop fusions of Blind Faith or “Bare Trees”-era Fleetwood Mac.

Solid musicianship propped up more standard blues-rock fare, but the darker stuff--and the fine vocal harmonies between front man Rod Frias and his younger brothers, Darrell and John--give the band its chance to make a mark.

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The surprise at the Galaxy was Sugar Ray showing signs of maturing from a bad joke into a potential guilty pleasure.

Previously a charmless and stupid exhibitionist who would climb to precarious perches, bait audiences and by and large make a ridiculous and pointless spectacle of himself, singer Mark McGrath stuck to the matter at hand: embodying the energy in the band’s hard-riffing and sometimes catchy metal-rap alloy.

He bounced about the stage, flashed comically intended devil signs and dived briefly into the crowd, where he sang from a tail-up position that resembled a foraging duck. McGrath’s mindless impulsiveness flared just once, when he shoved a security guard, but at the next pause he shook the man’s hand and offered a sincere apology.

“I’m too old for this,” McGrath said, announcing his impending 24th birthday. Or maybe he’s finally old enough. Still, there’s something unsettling in a band obnoxious enough to celebrate a convicted rapist--in an ode to Mike Tyson--and technically savvy enough to turn the number into a well-wrought, exciting end-piece for its set.

Sugar Ray’s second album, due in June on Atlantic, will tell more as to whether the band is irredeemably stupid and offensive, or whether it can be turned into a silly-but-fun act like AC/DC.

Rap-metal band hed had just returned from a recording studio in Massachusetts, where it has been laying down tracks for a major-label debut on Jive Records. Rapper MCUD gives hed an imposing focus with his muscles, swinging braids and hefty bark, and the entire lineup was able to bring a convulsive energy to peak songs. The energy drifted when the subject shifted from underdog anger to sex.

The band, which is changing its name to hedpe--the “pe” is for “planet earth”--rather than face possible trademark challenges, relied on irate, yell-along catch-phrases to give its music coherence, but it remained in doubt whether that will be enough without more melodic content.

Korn, the gold-selling Huntington Beach band that is a model for hed and others on the local metal scene, has gone far by using hooks that are essentially primal-scream therapy set to a beat, and never mind tunefulness.

Wesstyle, lead guitarist of hed, may be even more skilled than Korn’s players at concocting strange, ominous high-end squiggles and groans to give the music a spooky, off-kilter edge.

Well-honed guitar work in a similar vein highlighted otherwise derivative sets by two Korn-influenced opening acts, Suction and R-Tribe. Suction paused in its set of howling ire to deliver one good, actual song that featured some Doors-like anxiety played at a quiet dynamic and an episodic buildup to its refrain, “I can’t erase my mistakes.”

On these two contrasting nights, the pop-rockers played Merchant-Ivory music, with crafted songs that took studied looks at the human condition. The metal dudes were strictly Hollywood, staging sonic car chases and shootouts.

The audience at the Galaxy more than doubled the 300 or so present at the peak of the pop evening at the Coach House, so you know where the box-office appeal lies. Raging action heroes are in, and local pop’s poets and philosophers must reconcile themselves to second-class status, to following their muses while the masses go moshing.