Sometimes it’s hard to appreciate The Eagles. They took the spark of country rock created by Gram Parsons, and refined by The Byrds, JD Souther and Little Feat and turned it into a ridiculously successful commercial formula. Along the way, The Eagles climbed the mountain of comfortable Californian rock, a band whose vapid, ubiquitous presence on the FM dial in the ‘70s provided a focal point for punk rock’s war against the jive.
Tonight sees the first show of the Melbourne leg of The History of the Eagles world tour. Bernie Leadon, the one-time member of The Flying Burrito Brothers, whose dissatisfaction with The Eagles deviation from their original country style saw him leave in 1975, is back in the fold for the first part of the set – the second song of the night, the Dillard and Clark track Train Leaves Here This Morning, is a poignant reminder of The Eagles’ country rock conception. Don Henley looks like the slightly bumptious bloke down at the cricket club who’s still trading off the handful of first grade games he played in the mid-‘70s. Glenn Frey was born in Detroit – Detroit, for Iggy’s sake – but you’d never know it, and even when he’s notionally cutting loose, he’s as close to Wayne Kramer as John Farnham is to Stevie Wright. Timothy B Schmit is a Californian rock cadaver, his gaunt face a reminder of the blizzard of cocaine through which The Eagles meandered for so many years. Joe Walsh, the hotshot guitarist who replaced Leadon, has more personality than the rest of the band put together, and offers the only obstacle between The Eagles and the yawning chasm of complete mogadon rock.
The band is mellow. The songs are mellow. The audience is mellow. Even Glenn Frey displays moments of frustration – why isn’t anyone jumping into the aisles and laying down some whitebread dance moves for Witchy Woman, or moving their hips in suburban excitement for Heartache Tonight? Joe Walsh does his best to excite the crowd, pulling out the indulgent guitar licks symbolic of rock’n’roll’s most self-indulgent era. Henley’s introduction to The Long Run affords the song a prescient quality – while the LA punk rock community of yore is littered with tragedy and death, The Eagles live on.
Gradually you’re sucked in by the pop rock sensibility omnipresent to the Eagles’ catalogue. Every song has a comforting familiarity about it: Doolin Dalton, Tequila Sunrise, Lyin’ Eyes, The Best of My Love. Take It To The Limit is dedicated to the ailing Randy Meisner; not surprisingly, there’s no mention of the estranged Don Felder, still mired in a legal battle against his former bandmates. Walsh brings the mood up a notch with In the City and Life’s Been Good beforethe second bracket ends with the speed limit-respecting Life in the Fast Lane. There’s a short break and we hear the distinctive melody of Hotel California. It’s got to be the millionth time we’ve heard it, and it’s as insipid and insidious as ever. But the harmonies are note perfect, and Walsh’s guitar glistens like the sun on the Malibu shores.
The second encore is perfect: the talismanic Take It Easy, Rocky Mountain Way and Desperado. Like Norm Smith’s backhanded compliment to Collingwood after the 1958 Grand Final, you might hate The Eagles, but by geez, you’ve got to respect them.
BY PATRICK EMERY
Loved: Hearing Bernie Leadon play a Gene Clark song.
Hated: The sedentary existence of the crowd.
Drank: Mellow beer.
