In Search of Joe Jackson

It’s 7:30 on a relatively mild Saturday evening. I’m in the Brady Theater in downtown Tulsa where I’ve got a nice aisle seat view of the stage that will be occupied by Joe Jackson in just over half an hour.

Joe Jackson, the musician, typically comes up third in a list of famous people by the name of Joe Jackson. There is “Shoeless” Joe Jackson of Black Sox infamy and the abusive patriarch of the Jackson family. When people found out I was going to see Joe Jackson, very few thought of the musician.

I was then charged with describing his music; a task that proved difficult. In a career spanning forty years, Jackson has planted flags all across the musical landscape, emerging out of England as one of those thin, peculiar-looking new wave guys—along with Graham Parker and Elvis Costello. Jackson started with better executed, more cerebral sardonic punk than his underground contemporaries, incorporating elements of reggae and ska long before it was common.

Jackson’s commercial peak came in 1982 with Night and Day an adventurous mix of piano and percussion driven compositions book-ended by two hit singles, “Steppin’ Out” and “Breaking Us In Two.” Without unforgettable videos or a telegenic look, Jackson was nonetheless aided by MTV and was famous. Then he made a jazz record. And did soundtrack work. And symphonic compositions.

My best answer was the meaningless term, “eclectic.” Essentially, this meant I didn’t know. At least not in a sentence or two definition. Surely a live performance would help explain.

I’d learned of the show via social media. I would have like to have gone, but it wasn’t a cant miss, particularly with my daughter’s birthday and a vacation looming. I only vaguely remembered trying to win tickets the week before the show. The venue’s Facebook page asked followers why they should be given a pair of tickets. My response was that I look sharp. I don’t know if it was random draw or my seemingly clever name check that got me selected.

Around 8:00, an attractive, overdressed woman arrives in the row behind me wearing an all- access lanyard. She joins a group of three people already seated. When she declares that it is six minutes until showtime, it is merely the first bit of information I’d poach in the next six minutes. The man sitting directly behind me was quick to strike up a conversation. He was Australian and had been the road manager for a post-grunge band I didn’t care for. She on the other hand, was a child psychologist from New York—her tortoise shell reading glasses complimenting her look to striking effect. Admittedly, I’m distracted by her presence and search for a reason to get more than a glance. Instead I continue to eaves drop on her conversation.

The crowd is disappointing. I’ve never seen the Brady balcony curtained off. A black drape is pushed by the air conditioning vent, revealing the large No Smoking sign on the wall. This is ironic as Joe Jackson has actively protested smoking bans in the past. I don’t think this is the reason for the curtain.

The child psychologist notes that tonight’s show—and tomorrow’s in San Antonio—were by far the softest box office numbers of the tour. Most everything to that point had been a sell-out or near sell-out. I recall that Tulsa was the only market that Tame Impala didn’t sell out in advance on their Lonerism tour. I feel like we’re being judged as people and as an audience. She also mentions seeing Graham doing yoga backstage. I correctly assume this to be Graham Maby who has played bass with Jackson since 1978.

A blue and red spotlight falls softly atop the keyboard rig stage right. Jackson takes his spot and begins “It’s Different for Girls,” finding his range by the first chorus. Between songs, he is witty and engaging. His appearance reminds me Scott Thompson’s Kids in the Hall character, Tyrone Bibbens, Esq., though not bed-ridden and without the ascot.

His band joins him one at a time, beginning with the aforementioned Maby who has aged well and has gained weight, albeit not much. He is joined by dapper powerhouse Doug Yowell on drums and Teddy Kumpel on guitar, whose stature, purple suit and matching reporter’s cap give him a Vaudevillian look though he sprinkled crisp, clean licks in like Hiram Bullock or practically any other guitarist used by Steely Dan in the 1970s.

The first cover of the night demonstrates Jackson’s talent as an arranger—or in this case, a re-arranger. When I previewed the setlist, I was certain I didn’t need another version of “Big Yellow Taxi,” however Jackson’s Dr. John/Professor Longhair influenced reworking of the Joni Mitchell staple was fresh and imaginative.

The small crowd was engaged and well behaved until “Another World” when Pam Poovey showed up in the aisle behind me to the left. Though there was no specific mention of reheating chili in one’s cooch, the voice and other comments were unmistakable.

Like a touring professional, Jackson offered a large dose of his latest record, Fast Forward which came across as a modern version of classic Joe Jackson. Particularly interesting is “Ode to Joy,” a clever update of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. All the new material struck me as solid, though the special lobby souvenir price of 30 large for the vinyl allowed me to skip the line.

In another revealing moment, Jackson speaks of his admiration and distant relationship with David Bowie before cranking out a terrific version of “Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps).” This explains Jackson’s ambitious streak and habit of accomplishing success in one genre only to leave it behind.

A facelift of “Steppin’ Out” closes the set, surely to the dismay of many in attendance. I myself was looking for the raise of an eyebrow to signal the shift to regular tempo, but by it’s completion, I am convinced it is an effective update of the 1982 hit—now played slower and more brooding as if to demonstrate more pessimistic for the future.

The encore set begins with a surprisingly raucous version of “I See No Evil” which is perfectly juxtaposed with “One More Time” from Look Sharp! This brought into focus Jackson’s early punk influence which borrowed more from Television and Talking Heads than the Sex Pistols or Buzzcocks.

The night concludes as it started, with each member of Jackson’s band exiting in turn until it was just he singer and the piano for the end of “A Slow Song,” which tested the remains of Jackson’ voice. It held and the audience responds with a warm standing ovation.

As fans began to file out, I reached down to retrieve the bottle of water at my feet and return it to the attractive psychologist. She smiled and offered a gracious thank you; the house lights making the final revelation of the night.