The ‘Indefatigable’ Foo Fighters Rock Boston
Dave Grohl and the boys raise the bar in Beantown
Make no mistake, a Foo Fighters concert is of epic, near-Springsteen-ian proportions.
The band is indefatigable. It’s a show where singer-songwriter-guitarist Dave Grohl promises at the outset that “It’s going to be a long night, motherfuckers!” and later threatens to play until the powers that be kick ‘em off the stage, vowing they’ve got hundreds of songs they could play. They could do another all-acoustic hour.
Out there in the crowd – we’re at Fenway Park July 21 — he teases us, copping an auctioneer’s bark. “You want two?” he asks, as the show nears the two-hour mark. “Do I hear two-fifteen? Two-thirty?” He calls us “motherfuckers” dozens of times (in an affectionate way, of course, echoing the MC5’s Rob Tyner on Kick Out the Jams) Of course, a quick check of www.setlist.fm does alert you that two-hours and 45 minutes is about the norm. It’s the illusion that’s fostered: That this will go on forever and the fun will never end. That’s showbiz, that’s rock ‘n’ roll.
Grohl doesn’t exactly say the Foo Fighters are the last rock ‘n’ roll (stadium) band standing, but that’s implied. With girl pop, hip-hop and bro country on the ascent, the Foos’ brand of curated raucous noise is not in the forefront of the minds of American youth – though very much so in the minds of a soldout crowd of 35,000 (mostly Generation Jones, Gen X and Millennials) at Fenway.
Grohl, very early in the show: “Guess what!” Us: “What?” Grohl: “Guess what!’ Us: “What?” Grohl: “I fuckin’ love rock ‘n’ roll music!”
He’s a tease, that Dave. He’s the Energizer bunny of rock, crisscrossing the stage, shouting and pointing, a 55-year-old vet with soaking wet hair whipping across his face at most all times.
Here comes the standard ballpark/stadium rock disclaimer: Our seats were good, on the floor second section back, fairly centered, but we were still mostly watching the giant, bright video screens more than the little men scrambling about on stage. The video direction was A-level, the cameras pretty much focusing where you wanted/expected them too – mostly Grohl, yes, but certainly muscular Foo newbie, drummer Josh Freese, bassist Nate Mendel and guitarists Chris Shiflett and ex-Germ Pat Smear.
Pre-history: It may be hard for some to remember that Foo Fighters – a band of three decades, arena and ballpark packers for some time now, inducted into Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2021 – were scoffed at by many at inception. By fans, critics, industry types. Or as Nasty Little Man’s Steve Martin, the Foos publicist from the get-go, told me last year: Grohl was known as the (very good) drummer for Nirvana which ended after singer-guitarist Kurt Cobain’s suicide. But he had switched to guitar and vocals – and to frontman and songwriter – and the rock world collectively said, “Huh? Really?”
Or as Martin put it, “People in the industry were saying, ‘So the drummer from Nirvana thinks he’s gonna be some superstar frontman?’”
Martin bet on the right horse.
Though Grohl has his detractors – you can Google ever-pissy Noel Gallager – he’s also tied Dream Syndicate’s Steve Wynn for the “nicest guy in rock” title. General amiability, charitable work like cooking barbecues for firefighters, battling wildfires, etc. He’s just so likeable. He is a rock star who hangs with rock stars and jams with rock stars, but seems more like a fan than a rock star.
What may also work against him, oddly enough, at least in some minds, is his ubiquity. It does seem like he’s everywhere all the time all at once, the Zelig of rock. “Enough! Dave,” some have crowed. He’s also been accused in the blogosphere of the high crime of “betraying punk rock’s roots,” and that bit of snark always brings a smile. What roots? More than three chords? Obscurity? Non-adherence to formula? Playing ballparks? (Shit, even the beloved Clash played Shea Stadium opening up for The Who.)
Here in Boston, the Foo Fighters sure rocked America’s Most Beloved Ballpark™, with sharp, loud sound and a booming low end that shook the solar plexus at times. Whenever Grohl sang (or screamed) if the music wasn’t loud, his vocals were crystal clear; when the din kicked in, a little less so, more tangled. The first three songs were sure bangers: A seven-minute “All My Life,” “No Son of Mine” – reminding me of Husker Du’s Land Speed Record album or any random Motorhead song – and “Rescued.”
And I love that Grohl is the kind of rock history/legacy/tribute buff that they worked a bit of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” and Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” into “No Son of Mine.” Later, downset during the band intros, we heard bits o’ Van Halen’s “Eruption,” AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck,” the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage,” Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop and Nine Inch Nails’ “March of the Pigs,” owing to Freese’s tenure in Trent Reznor’s rotating cast of characters. I’m also pretty sure Grohl nicked a vocal bit in “Shame Shame” from David Bowie’s “Fame.”
I know there’s no way around this as the band had to start and finish at a certain time – union rules and all that – but because of it, Foo Fighters took the stage in daytime and although twilight approached, it remained light-ish for an hour. I mean the Foos aren’t the Jesus and Mary Chain or Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – who never should be seen in daytime let alone play – but I don’t think any hard and heavy rock band should play in daylight. As the Damned’s Dave Vanian sings in “Wait for the Blackout,” “The darkness holds the power that you won’t find in the day.”
In darkness, you get the proper lighting cues and dramatic FX and there’s less opportunity for your eyes to wander away from the main action – ooh, look, there’s David Ortiz and Pedro Martinez’s uniform numbers up on the ledge! It’s a focusing thing. And a mood thing. This ain’t a neighborhood barbecue; it’s not Jazon Mraz; it’s hard rock, dammit!
Another problem, for me at least, was during the first part Grohl was too much the hyperventilating cheerleader and carny barker, or for you old SNL fans, too much Hans and Franz, always wanting to pump us up. I don’t care much about cussing one way or the other, but pretty much every time Grohl addressed us, the f-bomb was in the mix – c’mon, Dave, find a new fucking modifier! As many a sage has said, the more your curse, the less effect it has.
So, yeah, I was flagging as the first hour went on – fast/loud songs with scream-sung vocals (singalongs encouraged), some hooky, some less so, but overall settling in the department of redundancy department. And also thinking the power the best punk bands of yore had was in the impactful brevity of their sets: Get in, go nuts, get out, leave ‘em wanting more. Were the Foos thinking quantity was quality?
But no. Things shifted for me mid-set, and that’s hard to do when the momentum has been going sideways. That’s when the Foos hit the variety pack part of the show – the accordion/acoustic guitar-led “Skin & Bones” with Grohl and keyboardist Rami Jaffee front and center and then Grohl’s pained acoustic-driven “Under You,” the singer recalling memories of a loved one and admitting “There’s no getting over it.” And then came, I guess you’d have to say, the prog part of the show, where the chops and songcraft really game to the fore and the band stretched out, without diminishing the intensity.
The knockout was “These Days,” where Grohl was singing how one of these days your heart will be broken and your pride will be stolen, offering the admonishment that “It’s alright.” True, that. We all move on. The key line, though, came midway through: “One of these days, your heart will stop and play its final beat.” Pause. “But it’s alright.” Yes, the fun will not go on forever, neither will you or me. Mortality gets us all. It was a profound note in an upbeat rock show. Then, the band kicked in again and the rocking resumed, but the sentiment remained and resonated.
The bliss-inducing “Aurora” was introduced as late drummer Taylor Hawkins favorite Foos’ song. As everyone knows, Hawkins suffered a fatal drug overdose in March, 2022. Hawkins may not have made a good call on the THC, Tricyclic antidepressants, benzodiazepines and opioids mix (all found in his system upon autopsy) but he did on the song choice – chiming, raving, cathartic — and Grohl said “I think he’s here with us tonight.” After “Aurora,” they segued into “Best of You.”
The two-song encore started with a song that was definitely not a pop song, the ambitious and expanded prog standout “The Teacher,” penned we’ve been told for Hawkins and Grohl’s late mother. It took its time and mutated from whisper-to-a-scream and then all over the map. A slow – then fast – dazzle, you might say. “Everlong,” one of the Foos’ best, closed the night in rousing fashion, the band taking extended bows, before exiting as The Clash’s “London Calling” played softly over the PA.
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