Friday, March 14, 1997 | 11:59 a.m.
It was round about the middle of the sixth song when things really began to get interesting at the Live (rhymes with "jive") concert Thursday night at the Hard Rock.
Not that the previous songs hadn't been perfectly mind-bending. They sure in the heck were. It's just that it wasn't until the middle of the sixth song that the lap dance -- and a completely unsolicited one it was -- began.
I was sitting at the end of the bar, carefully compiling my notes, attempting to glean the subtle layers of meaning from "S--- Towne." She was standing next to me, popping green olives from the rack and swaying to the beat.
Next thing I know she's rubbing her leather-covered self against my leg.
Upon regaining my composure, I was left to conclude that the music emanating from the stage had struck such a primal chord in her that she was powerless to do anything but rub-a-dub-dub.
This is what makes rock 'n' roll the great, wholly American institution it is. It never would have happened at Yo Yo Ma. So, I guess I owe Live a debt of something like gratitude for temporarily diverting my attention from the bandstand to the bar stool.
The show, which is said to have sold out in seven minutes when tickets went on sale, was a 16-song trip through the Pennsylvania-bred alternative band's "Secret Samadhi" and "Throwing Copper" releases.
They opened with a song ("Rattlesnake," from the new "Secret Samadhi") that may have been construed by the more sensitive listeners in the crowd as a subtle shot at Las Vegas, with its "crazy, crazy mixed-up town" reference.
But lead singer and guitarist Ed Kowalczyk defused any potential hard feelings after the eighth song.
"It's good to be here in Las Vegas," he said. "We've never been here before; I thought it was nothing but newlyweds and gambling addicts, but you guys have proved me wrong."
Live is a band that takes itself seriously but is still exhibiting growing pains, as evidenced by songwriting that can evoke unsettling imagery one minute ("I'll kill you in my dreams/I turn the other cheek during the day/I'll kill you all," from "Heropsychodreamer") and elicit an "oh, brother" the next ("I can smell your armpits ... the puke stinks like beer," from "Century").
Depending on the song, then, it is either fortunate or unfortunate that the lyrics are often masked by a wall of screeching electric guitar and thudding drums.
The band does have a couple of things going for it, however: a penchant for writing radio-friendly songs ("Selling the Drama," "I Alone" and "All Over You") mixed with a musical dynamism that has it switching gears from Metallica-like dirges to edgy soundscapes to out-and-out thrash.
On another personal note, I'd like to thank Amber Mull and Jessica Pachot for showing me their navel rings.
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