The above is something I've been meaning to post on social media recently but I have so far resisted due to fear of backlash or, worse, of it being completely ignored — and also because my oldest and closest friend is a committed eyes closed performer. He knows how I feel about it but I don't think he needs reminding - even if by reading this review that's exactly what will happen.
It would be tempting to say that it wasn't always this way. I was once convinced that singing with eyelids firmly shut was a novelty in pop. Bernard Sumner from New Order and Canadian national treasure Gord Downie of the Tragically Hip seemed to be the only people who did it back in the early nineties. Because they were the only people I noticed doing so, I allowed them to get away with it. Then, everyone started doing it. In fact, as long as there have been stage-frightened singers, there have been those who won't open their damn eyes while singing.
It isn't done simply as a matter of avoiding crowds, however; it is also, as my un-posted Thread suggests, a way to add gravitas, particularly when there isn't much there to begin with. Eric Burdon had the good fortune to come up during the initial burst of the British Invasion but he lacked the looks and stage presence of contemporaries John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger. He didn't have the look nor the personality of an entertainer. What he did have was a sick bluesy baritone. The combination of that gravelly voice and while keeping his eyes closed ensured that everyone knew that he meant it.
Being earnest in pop isn't my favourite quality but I will acknowledge that there is a place for it. As I previously blogged, the reason The Animals' "House of the Rising Sun" is so effective is because of what it does to impressionable young musicians. Forget 'Dublin Soul', this is the real music of commitment. Burdon lays it out on the line and puts everything he has into it. You've got to give that much to stand any chance of making it.
But this isn't "House of the Rising Sun" we're dealing with. No, "San Franciscan Nights" is an entirely different beast. Still, I don't doubt Burdon's sincerity. He has always struck me as one of those English rock stars who loves America while wishing to have as little to do with his homeland as possible — and fair enough. Celebrating the US is one of the most quintessentially British things imaginable (along with, of course, expressing nothing but contempt for the US; I can't think of any offhand but no doubt there are a handful who have done both).
Opening as if he'd missed his calling as a carnival barker, we're treated to a rare example of Burdon's sense of humour in song as he shills for the city as place that Europeans should "save up all your bread" in order to pay it a visit. Wait, is Burdon joking? It's impossible to tell with him but I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that for once he wasn't always such a deeply serious old downer. Sadly, it doesn't last once the song gets going. While there is an attempt at capturing the spirit of '67 with some wistful music and Burdon's flowery lyrics, it is nonetheless unconvincing. Eric Burdon was a blues singer from the north of England: the chap who sang "We Gotta Get Out of This Place" didn't need to tell us all about where he ended up.
Unsurprisingly, the idealism of "San Franciscan Nights" clashed with reality. George Harrison, his then-wife Patti and their entourage visited the Bay Area only a month or so earlier. Expecting to find enlightened people meditating and painting pictures, he was aghast to discover that the famed Haight-Ashbury region had become a ghetto full of stoned losers and homeless drifters. In retrospect, Burdon should have scrapped the paean to the centre of flower power and instead gone for a far gloomier take on hippie free love and dope and fuckin' in the streets in a kind of sequel to "House of the Rising Sun". Impressionable youths descend upon the city from all over only to wind up penniless and with crippling drug addictions. Those who did not end up as casualties of LSD are instead the target of cult shysters and dangerous madmen. If nothing else, it would've suited Burdon's overly-serious nature; hell, he could've even sung it with his eyes closed for all I care.
Score: 3
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