By Ashley Zimmerman
By Dana Krangel
By John Hood
By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
"The pendulum swung," Poison guitarist C.C. DeVille recalls. "The backlash was strong, instant, and venomous. But time changes things."
That it does. Nirvana is long gone, along with most of the bands that followed in its flannel-flying wake. But a few of the so-called "hair bands" that were so suddenly made extinct now find themselves selling out arenas and amphitheaters once again. But that wasn't the case a decade ago. DeVille parted ways rancorously with Poison after falling out with lead singer Bret Michaels. DeVille then watched as his former bandmates tanked with 1993's Native Tongue. The follow-up, Crack a Smile, went unreleased for several years. However, it didn't take long before reunion seeds were being sown; Michaels and DeVille buried the hatchet.
"We started talking and said, 'You know, this is really stupid. We're having this goofy little hissy fit about both of us being divas. Why don't we see if we can put a tour together?'" DeVille recalls. "I think we secretly missed playing with each other." The original Poison lineup Michaels, DeVille, bass player Bobby Dall, and drummer Rikki Rockett hit the summer tour circuit in 1999 and began playing to ever-increasing crowds.
"There's a lot [more] younger kids than I would have thought there'd be," DeVille says. "I don't know if it's from parents who saw us in the day telling their kids and their kids telling their friends or if it's just that with the Internet, kids are more aware of things that went on before them. Thank God we still bring some sort of exuberance that's translating to the younger audience."
Of course, you also have to have hits at least enough to keep the crowd screaming, throwing devil horns, and flicking their Bics for a couple of hours. "That, I think, is why we get to still play," DeVille says. "Because no matter what we look like, songs like 'Fallen Angel' or 'Something to Believe In' or 'Every Rose Has Its Thorn' stand up."
Proof of that came several months ago, when The Best of Poison: 20 Years of Rock debuted at number 17 on the Billboard 200, the quartet's highest chart ranking in 13 years. DeVille is optimistic that Poison will soon go to work on its first studio set since 2002's Hollyweird. "Ultimately, that's what floats my boat getting into the studio and doing something new."
Whether Poison ever has new hits to play, the band won't stop rockin' now. And all four band members, now in their 40s, have come to terms with their respective pasts.
"Without a doubt, the first line of my obituary will read 'guitarist from Poison,'" DeVille says. "We have to embrace that. With 20 years comes a lot more acceptance, a lot more humility, and a lot more pride." Chris Neal
Poison and Cinderella perform Sunday, August 20, at Sound Advice Amphitheatre, 601-7 Sansbury's Way, West Palm Beach. The show starts at 7 p.m. with openers Endeverafter. Tickets cost $15 to $45. Call 561-793-0445, www.livenation.com.
How to view the regrouping of the Pixies, one of the most mercurial bands of the late '80s, a group many claim opened the door for Nirvana and the grunge generation of the early '90s? Those early efforts still sound shocking menacing, malevolent melodies pierced by torrents of jagged guitar and stuttering rhythms, all underscored by leader Black Francis' nihilistic pontificating. Internal dissension caused the band to split a scant five years after its first recording the superb Surfer Rosa and a mere three years after its major-label breakthrough, the dazzling Doolittle.
Following the breakup, Black Francis opted to reverse his moniker and venture out on a prolific if uneven solo career as Frank Black. His two most recent opuses, Fast Man Raider Man and Honeycomb, showed him newly entrenched in Americana territory and soaking up a sizable infusion of Blood on the Tracks. Bassist Kim Deal went on to moderate success with the Breeders and struggled with sobriety. Drummer David Lovering and guitarist Joey Santiago formed the Martinis before Lovering left to tour with Cracker, study engineering, and reinvent himself as a performance artist, or, as he terms it, a "scientific phenomenalist." Santiago's lately settled into a more urbane occupation as a soundtrack composer.
What a surprise, then, that a tentative Pixies reconciliation resulted in a 2004 tour that found the band as potent as ever. Two new DVD releases LoudQUIETloud: A Film About the Pixies and Acoustic: Live in Newport show opposing views of this perpetually conflicted outfit and its retooled presence in the new millennium. The former is perhaps the most revealing, an intimate portrait of the personalities involved who, between various concert clips from their recent reunion gigs, lay bare their inner souls, a tack that makes them decidedly less intimidating to their fans and, one supposes, to one another. The acoustic offering shows them in the most unlikely of circumstances at the venerable Newport Folk Festival, the venue where Dylan went electric and was bombarded by catcalls in return. "We're a rock band," Deal announces before they launch themselves unplugged on an opposite route, managing to make angst-ridden anthems like "Monkey Gone to Heaven," "Bone Machine," and even "Wave of Mutilation" less a series of sanitized sing-alongs than actual hints of the essential if irascible melodies that lie at their core.