Among the many impressive achievements of RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS, perhaps the most notable is the way they have drifted serenely into radio-friendly musical middle age without jettisoning any of their outsider credibility. Consequently there are as many Beckham-haired trendies in the crowd as there are rocker kids, generating quite a cross-tribe buzz of anticipation.
Opening with a Pink Floyd jam – an unspoken tribute to the newly departed Syd Barrett – they drop swiftly into Can’t Stop. Predictably it’s a set weighted heavily towards the last three albums, but with the welcome benefit of Flea’s contributions (often relegated to the background in the recent album mixes) cranked up in the sound mix. Consequently the increasing safeness of their latter-day output is enlivened by an edgier onstage delivery.
There’s also an impressive light and backscreen show – which is probably the least you’d expect given that tickets are £40 – and the musicianship is, of course, impeccable. Guitarist John Frusciante is elegant and economical (if we exclude his slightly wearing predilection for extended guitar solos at the end of each song), Chad Smith a model of unshowy power and swing, while Flea remains one of the great sights and sounds of contemporary rock, truly a man at one with his instrument. Clad in a garishly unpleasant body suit, he skitters and lopes across the stage, never bothering, or needing, to glance down to his fretboard as he flings out a succession of fluid, bubbling bass lines. Even his bass solo – usually two of the most dreaded words in the rock lexicon – becomes one of the highlights of the evening, a fuzz drenched affair which rattles the tooth enamel in slack-jawed mouths.
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For me the weak link remains singer Anthony Kiedis – admittedly I seem to be in a hefty minority here, but his vocals have always seemed a little soulless, and while he continues to look the part physically, he appears aloof and uncomfortable, consistently facing away from Frusciante, throwing in the odd dance move to keep appearances up, or so it seems. Despite this misgiving, the band operate on a tight-knit level most can only aspire to. Cheeky flourishes abound, casually dropping in a flash of London Calling and compulsively offering restless between-song jamming.
Another quibble on an otherwise triumphant night: Their musicianship is exemplary, but the place for extended bouts of noodling is surely the rehearsal room. For the encore, Public Enemy’s You’re Gonna Get Yours segues into a rather thin sounding Give It Away, which then drifts into an extended jam. After a time Keidis and eventually Smith simply absent themselves quietly from the stage before Flea and Frusciante eventually jam themselves into silence.
The lights come on, cheers commence and there is a burst of disappointed booing from those presumably expecting the unplayed Under The Bridge as realisation dawns that that’s our lot. Self-indulgence is perhaps understandable from a band at their level of achievement, but at times they do seem to forget that there’s an audience out there too.
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