Lilith Nation

The anti-Woodstock's farewell party

by Jon Garelick

Judy Collins, Mya, and Chrissie Hynde

"Okay, no more folk songs: let's have it!" said Chrissie Hynde. The Pretenders had just finished "Back on the Chain Gain" and were getting ready to tear into "Night in My Veins." And Hynde strutted and kicked, scraping crunchy rock guitar chords, cracking wise, the only bad girl at Lilith Fair

The third and final (for now) Lilith tour came to the Tweeter Center a week ago Tuesday and raised all the old questions. This is the "celebration of women in music" that Sleater-Kinney and Hole never played. It's the "safe" tour, the middle-of-the-road tour, the tour whose founder, perennial headliner, and guiding spirit is almost invariably its least interesting musician. Even the feminism of the tour has been of the most traditional sort: female singers of a predictable folk-rock tenor fronting all-male bands.

So with all that, where's the subversive edge? Which is to say, where's the rock and roll?

Lilith does have its own hard-to-define but very palpable aura -- my wife calls it "the march-on-Washington" vibe. And for me, for the past two summers, that's been subversive enough. Maybe it's having to hunt for a men's room because all the restrooms have been redesignated. Maybe it's that I know the Pretenders come on at 7:40. Maybe it's the admirable list of charity donations the tour makes (and that it compels its corporate sponsors to make). Or maybe it's just the relief of hitting a big touring package of teen-appeal music that isn't defined by a testosterone-fueled mosh pit.

Whether you jump in or not, the mosh pit defines a big rock event. It's the nucleus of the party, around which all the electrons orbit and from which they draw their energy. Its absence is what immediately set apart midnight raves, and what helps distinguish Lilith. The pit is a different event at a mass concert. In clubs, the spirit of community prevails, even when it includes warring tribes. At the '96 Lollapalooza in Pownal, Vermont, I talked to a hardcore kid while Metallica thrashed away on stage. She was a Vermont teenager who traveled all over New England to go to shows. I asked her how come she wasn't in the pit. "They don't know what they're doing here," she said, shooting me a look and laugh. "They're running around in circles, jumping up and down." Her friend added, "It's not very friendly. It's more malicious, more angry. It's not supposed to be angry."

It's when rock shows pass out of the clubs and into the arenas and football fields and airbases that rock holds out its promise of social . . . not unity, maybe, but a kind of grace. That's when it begins to cross social divides. That's when Kurt Cobain started to worry that his music was attracting the kind of people he couldn't abide -- the kind who would spit on gays back in Aberdeen. The old ideals of peace, love, and freedom sound like corny Woodstock '69 notions until you see how ugly Woodstock can get. In the passion for a kind of music, you discover a common experience with millions, across whatever terms of difference. When it goes wrong, the differences only sharpen. In simple terms, you start running into people who don't know how to mosh.

The Lilith line-up has its own quiet subversive edge. Sure, it's Sarah McLachlan rocking out for 20,000 middle-class white chicks. But the juxtapositions on the bill defy formats and demographics. Local folkie (and mother of three) Lori McKenna twanged her South Shore version of Appalachian folk backed by fiddle and guitar, then gave way to Norwegian trip-hopper Bertine backed by turntables, bass, and percussion. Aimee Mann sang some of her famously hookless art pop followed by teen R&B diva Mya, who not only featured breakdancers and a big soul show but even tap-danced for the folks! And in maybe the freakiest juxtaposition of all, in the grand finale, Chrissie Hynde, Mya, and special guest Judy Collins all in a row sang "I Shall Be Released."

The show defeated cynicism at every turn. McKenna, winner of the local Lilith talent search, was cheered on by a heavy home-town crew who knew the words to her songs, but she lived up to their cheers with a voice that was strong from top to bottom and inflected with a touch of that Appalachian twang, fiddler/cellist Kris Delmhorst joining her to harmonize on the vocals. McKenna's songs were heartfelt and crafty, with solid choruses, and they didn't get goopy, even when she sang, "I see Mars in my little boy's brown eyes/He said, `Momma, I'm gonna get there someday.' " She kept introducing Delmhorst and guitarist Meghan Toohey as "my friends," and the effect was to conjure not a major touring pop package but a regional music fest, not teen product but friends making music, friends who'd be doing it whether they had a "career" or not.

Bertine followed McKenna on the tiny village stage a cappella. She was a sight -- blue-eyed and spiky bleached hair -- dancing the lyrics to her songs with her arms held aloft, her breathy fairytales turning all goth with bloodstained dresses. Her voice piped and leapt like a cross between Björk and Tori Amos, but her tunes and arrangements were sharp, even when she cooked up Norwegian-samba disco.

Kendall Payne's second-stage show mixed lively if generic guitar pop and folk. The Dance Hall Crashers did ska punk with overlapping dual female vocal leads and nearly got a mosh pit going by urging the crowd to start pogoing. Veruca Salt's Nina Gordon launched her solo career with what she said was her first show in two years. She played a series of pretty but wan ballads, backed by Letters to Cleo guitarist Michael Eisenstein. On disc, Me'Shell Ndegeocello's ambient soul music is breathy and intimate. On the Tweeter main stage, despite the size of her band, it got lost.

Aimee Mann

A huge throng jammed the grove of the second stage to hear former Bostonian Aimee Mann, whose long-suffering travails with record companies were documented in a Times Magazine article a couple of weeks ago. Whatever her contractual difficulties, the Mann talent was all there -- the sharp-witted lyrics, her voice's cool low register negotiating bittersweet chord changes. In the Times article, Mann protested too much that the record company wants singles; an A&R man rebutted that he wanted her to write stronger choruses. It was all too true -- Mann's set (with a keyboardist and guitarist) passed hooklessly and sort of wore out its 30 minutes despite some artificial respiration from an occasional drum loop.

Mya followed Mann on the main stage with her lavish soul revue and tap dance, singing prettily in a nearly inaudible voice (Michael Jackson at 10?); she even did "I'll Be There." Chrissie Hynde lived up to expectations and then some, playing one hit after another and even some pretty good stuff from the new Viva El Amor (Warner Bros.). Sheryl Crow's 55-minute set was a disappointment after her triumphant rock-revival Orpheum show last May. Blame it on a bad mix that, among other things, turned her usually dulcet bass playing into typical arena-rock thudding. One revelation: she's Aimee Mann with strong choruses.

Sarah McLachlan

And Miss Thing herself? As always, she was the perfect hostess, showing up throughout the night to help out (and jack up the crowd) during her friends' sets. She played the fool, shaking her butt, letting herself get made fun of ("We've gotta keep those road crews away from Sarah," cracked Hynde). And every time she sang one of her piano ballads, you half expected it to turn into "Bridge over Troubled Water." It didn't matter. She rocked on the opener ("Possession"), sang the one hit I can get with ("Building a Mystery"), and had her adoring fans singing along with every word. And "I Shall Be Released" was a killer finale.