The Darkness's talent is no joke
Watching the Darkness onstage, it is possible to conjecture that the innocent genre of hard rock has now become so cunningly self-aware, has achieved such a level of preening knowingness that -- like the computer HAL in "2001: A Space Odyssey" -- it threatens to turn on its human creators. The British glam-metal four-piece, currently usurping the American charts with their album "Permission to Land," are ironic kings, crowned with a single raised eyebrow.
"Gimme a D!" singer Justin Hawkins called out to a sold-out crowd at Avalon Saturday night. "Gimme an 'Arkness!" The crowd responded joyously: Everyone was in on the joke. The blond, stringy Hawkins is a born frontman, a poser of Wildean proportions. Gleeful and energized, he whipped between costume changes (three striped unitards, one with exotic fur up the spine). "Our album went gold over here three weeks ago," he announced. "Just imagine our delight!" Visually a crossbreed of Peter Frampton and a toothy European duchess, Hawkins's secret weapon is his fabulous, flaring falsetto, which rises out of him as effortlessly as steam from a kettle. His brother Dan, on rhythm guitar, is the muscle of the band, rocking out in the minimal style of AC/DC's Malcolm Young -- the foot stamping in place, the head bobbing stiff-necked, a sort of primal shudder. Justin, by contrast, is lethally unserious. Raising his arms in a stadium salute, he took a quick, frowning sniff of his own armpit. Between executing David Lee Roth-style jumps and chorally pure high notes, he complained cheerfully of a bad back and an `ulcerated esophagus.' His guitar solos were long, twiddling, shaggy dog stories.
Is this the end of the line, the death of rock? Not likely. The truth of the matter is that hard rock has never been that innocent. The nimblest wits in the genre -- Ted Nugent, Lemmy (of Motorhead), AC/DC's Bon Scott -- always had a keen sense of the ridiculous, of the comedy of overstatement, and the biggest and best joke about the Darkness is how good it is. Certainly its songs quote liberally from the sources, from Bad Company to Thin Lizzy, but this music is the place where cliches, reverently rehearsed, amass archetypal power. "Black Shuck," "Get Your Hands Off My Woman," and ``Stuck in a Rut'' are genuine contributions to the stack of hard-rock classics, riff-based fantasias in which we are allowed to imagine what might have happened if "Powerage"-era AC/DC had been fronted not by a heavy-drinking Australian but by a plumed and strutting androgyne with tattooed flames shooting from his groin.
Support was provided by the likable and rough-edged Wildhearts, also from the UK, who made a blatant play for local affections by doing the theme song from "Cheers."
