By LA Weekly
By Henry Rollins
By Weekly Photographers
By Shea Serrano
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Dan Weiss
By Erica E. Phillips
By Kai Flanders
In case you need reminding after all these years, Grace Jones isn’t like us. If, halfway through her astounding show Sunday night at the Hollywood Bowl, a flying saucer had descended from above and carried her away, few in the crowd would have been too surprised.
She is, and always has been, the Other, a transcultural singer and performer whose post-disco work in the late 1970s and 1980s merged bass-heavy Jamaican dub, grooving New York City dance music, funky British post-punk and even a little French chanson to create a sound that’s as sturdy and vital today as when it arrived.
Few artists command the microphone and the stage as Jones. It makes you yearn for a world in which Madonna was the one-hit wonder, with Jones occupying the Earth’s Most Celebrated Diva throne. From her odd accent, which has tinges of French, British and Jamaican patois within, to her carved, menacing face, to those legs, which seemed forged from steel, Jones somehow seemed too large for even the Bowl stage.
She began the set draped beneath a glimmering silver sheet, the first of many wild, outrageously engaging creations forged by Oscar-winning costume designer Eiko Ishioka. Jones’ nine-piece band offered “This Is,” from her most recent album, Hurricane. As the music grooved, Jones moved her arms beneath the fabric like an android ghost. And then, all at once, she pulled it off, and there she was, this statue of a human, still as solid and impressive as her “Warm Leatherette” days.
Dressed in what is best described as “35th Century Origami Trojan Woman” get-up, Jones’ mere presence was jaw-dropping, and as the night proceeded and she moved through her repertoire with complementing costumes, it was hard to imagine how she’d one-up herself. After each song, she exited the stage, her microphone still hot, and as she changed costumes she spoke to the crowd. Her deep, contralto voice echoed up the incline like some sort of goddess commanding her people. She acknowledged Michael Jackson, her mother in the crowd, her son in the band. All the while you could hear her rustling into the next outfit.
Yowza. More than a few eyeballs popped out when the singer returned for “My Jamaican Guy.” She donned some sort of Native American cheerleader get-up or something — I don’t know — and she wore it like a weapon, with a defiant and proud energy. The band — sturdy bass, two guitars, keyboards, drums, congas, backing vocals — filled the basin with a steady, rhythm-heavy vibe, as Jones turned her back to the crowd and pumped her skirt tassles to reveal her (very well-toned) ass. Oh yes.
She left the stage again.
During this break, as she changed she talked about Paris, about her son (who’s the band’s percussionist), and, again, you could hear some rigorous, breathy clothes-changing going on. The band began the diva’s commanding take on “La Vie en Rose.” And then, lo, she entered as a rose, scooted across the stage as the audience gasped in disbelief. As the song progressed, Jones rather coyly turned around to reveal that her costume was backless, and we were treated to a full shot of Grace Jones’ bare body from the back. Wow.
Throughout the night Jones had, if we’re counting correctly, at least six amazing costume changes. For her take on Roxy Music’s “Love Is the Drug,” she came out as a sparkly bubble woman with a mirror-ball bowler hat that reflected onto the Bowl shell a million points of shimmering green light. She was an S&M devil for “Devil in My Life” and “Demolition Man.” She dedicated “Libertango” to Astor Piazzolla while in that spider-esque get-up.
Jones’ set, however, was not without its flaws. She relied way too heavily on music from Hurricane at the expense of some classics (she ran out of time before she could finish with “Slave to the Rhythm,” and didn’t do “Warm Leatherette”). The between-set transitions could have been more seamless. But that’s a minor quibble. So commanding was her performance that even a few missed opportunities were eclipsed — of course, — by Jones’ presence. She stomped around the Bowl stage in high-heeled boots that would have sent lesser humans, like Shaquille O’Neal or Martina Navratilova, tumbling into the crowd.
She made opener Of Montreal look like Liluputians. You had to feel for them. Though a nice ratio of the crowd was excited to see the Athens, Georgia, glam pop band, the majority here were for one towering reason only. No doubt Of Montreal realized this, because for their 15-song set, they went all out. In addition to the six musicians, the band brought an acting troupe who performed silent skits during the songs. They were good, and they were working hard, but at times it felt like all the activity surrounding them was a decoy, a tacit acknowledgment that they needed a bunch of make-up, outfits and antics to compete.
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