Jane says the unthinkable has happened, and by some 90s-alt-rock-infused miracle – Jane Addiction has reunited and taken their madcap rock to Raleigh’s Red Hat Amphitheatre.
Formed in 1985 by Perry Farrell, Dave Navarro, Stephen Perkins and Eric Avery, Jane’s Addiction quickly rode the wave of L.A. rock with a mélange of punk ideologies, arthouse theatrics and the mad dog rabid funk-fusion of bands like Red Hot Chili Peppers—though I would attest that Farrell and his motley crew did it bigger, better and meaner than RHCP ever could dream of.
However, from an outsider looking in, it is nigh short of a miracle that all four original members made it through the 90s and into a space that would welcome a reunion.
Not to say they were a flash in the pan, but they certainly weren’t a band that foretold longevity; they were hard-living men, and hard-living men seldom long for this world.
Yet, here we are in 2024, and by some strange turn of events, the original lineup has taken to the stage once more.
In a co-headlined tour of North America, Jane’s Addiction and Love and Rockets launched a dual-ended attack on our alt-rock sensibilities.
And what a night of dualities it was.
Starting strong, Love and Rockets were everything you want to see out of a New Wave act: sparkly suits, thinned hair teased to high heavens, droning guitars, heavy synths and a voice that inexplicably has not aged.
Following a lackluster opening act, Daniel Ash and co. came out swinging with “The Light,” cranking up the synth lines in something more reminiscent of Nine Inch Nails rather than the radio-friendly Bauhaus off-shoot.
The band shot from one song to the next with little intermission or crowd-friendly banter in a blistering fuzzy wave of guitar-driven rock that spanned their discography.
They were good, but dare I say they were almost too good; by the time they closed out their set with a rollicking, raucous rendition of “Yin and Yang (The Flowerpot Man),” I didn’t just want more, I was hungry for more – but you can have too much of a good thing.
Now, I respect their art and I commend their work to stay fit for the stage. However, I can’t help but miss the grit and mess that rock used to come with.
And then Perry Farrell bounded onto the stage…
In Defense of the Rock Star
Before I even bought my tickets for the tour, I had heard mixed reviews about how the reunited band performed together on stage, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled.
Rumors and shaky cellphone footage of slurred words and drunken ramblings filled my feed whenever I looked for anything about the show, and that’s not something I can pass up in good conscience.
Let me tell you, that good conscience paid off in spades.
At a minimum, the setlist was everything you need to hear from a Jane’s Addiction show: a nearly even split between tracks off of “Nothing’s Shocking,” “Ritual de lo Habitual,” and a stray few across their relatively small discography.
Navarro, Avery and Perkins were unrelenting in their sonic assault, driving the set forward so powerfully your seat would vibrate beneath you. There were moments in the set when I felt it so strongly that I had to sit back to get my bearings.
When I say it was heavy, it was heavy.
But it was also so incredibly, wonderfully, beautifully messy in the same breath.
Above, I wrote “Perry Farrell bounded onto the stage…” when in reality, it was somewhere between a stagger and a slink as he whined his way through the opening lines of “Kettle Whistle.”
To be fair, Farrell is a lot like Rod Stewart in a way because we all know that it’s not technically a “good” voice, but an interesting one, and interesting ones hardly stand the test of time.
He’s not a man who knows how to sing; he’s a guy who figured out he sounded halfway cool screeching into a mic, and it worked.
Long story short, the voice didn’t quite hold up over the years, but it was never going to – the writing was on the wall all along.
Speaking of “writing on the wall,” addiction haunted the band since its 1985 inception, far beyond name-only
Anyone who cut their teeth on the Sunset Strip is more often than not inclined to taste the hard stuff – Farrell’s poison of choice were speedballs: go big or go home.
All that is to say, anyone who bought tickets expecting a nice, clean, presentable act came to the wrong show.
As the night wore on, it was plain to see that something on stage was wrong; something or rather someone, wasn’t on the same page as the rest of the band.
While the instrumentally inclined members of the band laid down what I can only describe as sonic bedrock comparable to Led Zeppelin, their charismatic frontman slurred his way through song after song, somehow managing to stay just a hare off beat every single time.
And I loved every single minute of it.
Culturally, we’ve come to a point where rock isn’t big and bad any more.
There’s nothing to warn your children about or straighten your mother’s curls…guys in polos are going to gigs.
At what point did we defang rock’n’roll?
Was it when the Eagles crooned their country-fied California easy listening over the air waves?
Or maybe when your favorite band became a “sellout?”
Either way you want to spin it, we all have our own “whys” as to the mass acceptance of rock as a genre.
But sometimes, you need a reminder that a lion in the winter is still a lion; an aging rockstar is still a goddamn rockstar.
From often incoherent stories sandwiched between fumbled and unintelligible lyrics to joining the pit for a smoke (true story), Jane’s Addiction, but more specifically, Perry Farrell revived the long extinct archetype.
Despite being under the influence, he owned that stage and that crowd; I’ve hardly ever heard more voices in unison than when the band broke into a tenderhearted, surprisingly gentle acoustic rendition of “Jane Says” in the middle of the debauched and flamboyant set.
So yes, to the man in Brooks Brothers beside me – I’m sorry it didn’t quite live up to your thirty-something-year-old memories (though I would argue: If you saw Jane’s Addiction in their heyday, you might not have been so lucid yourself).
But, sometimes, the old gods need to step down off their mountain and remind us of how things used to be; sobriety be damned.
