Queensryche puts crowd into its version of nirvana

Geoff Carter

Monday, June 30, 1997 | 4:38 a.m.

If you're happy that Grunge rock is finished, just imagine how Queensryche feels.

The five members of the Seattle-based metal outfit, guitarists Chris DeGarmo and Michael Wilton, bassist Eddie Jackson, drummer Scott Rockenfield and vocalist Geoff Tatewere, were forced to watch their years of dedication being eclipsed by some talented upstarts as the Northwestern city was made out to be rock's last stand. Alice In Chains boosted the angry arena-rock crown. Soundgarden rose to claim the new Zeppelin mantle. Nirvana drowned out all other competition, becoming even stronger and even more influential in death. Kurt Cobain may be gone, but there's an unhealthy amount of little Nirvanas out there.

Queensryche remained calm through the media crush. They released a few strong records, including 1991's densely layered "Empire" and the new release "Hear In The Now Frontier." They covered controversial themes ranging from terrorism to substance abuse with a knowing, literate edge. They had a modest hit in "Silent Lucidity," a gorgeous power ballad about (of all things) lucid dreaming. They toured to packed houses, at home and abroad. Yet somehow, the band managed to pass through one of young America's ears and out the other without leaving so much as a power chord.

Today, Grunge is dead. Many of the bands that made it have broken up or are simply broken. Perhaps when Queensryche took the stage at the Aladdin Performing Arts Theatre last night, they did so armed with the knowledge that they were the most popular hard rock band out of Seattle still intact. If so, they deserve kudos for pretending the last seven years never happened. As David Bowie's "I'm Deranged" roared from the speakers, the band took its places under a giant, disembodied, inflatable human ear with a video screen planted inside it.

"We'd like to thank Evander Holyfield for donating what's left," said Tate, gesturing to the 50-foot oddity.

That was about it for humor, but not for the band's other talents. For every flagrant rock clichian overwrought guitar solo, a high-five to the earnest, screaming aficionados in the front row Queensryche pulls a tight rhythm track, smart lyric or plain terrific melody out of their disembodied, inflatable repertoire. DeGarmo's guitar work at the beginning of "The Voice Inside" really dazzled. The high harmony vocals of "Jet City Woman" contrasted nicely with the silly video footage of women in 1950's detergent commercials and bikini/surf films. And Tate's impassioned tirade against "brother killing brother/for the profit of another" in "Empire" came off as genuine, when it could have easily gone the other way.

Unfortunately, the energy level flagged more than once. Impressive though the sets and lighting effects were, they couldn't redeem a set padded by at least 20 minutes. If the band had simply elected not to play "Bridge," "Reach," "Breaking the Silence" and a few others, it's doubtful anyone would have requested a refund or trashed the joint. Most of the time the crowd shook their fists simply because Tate was shaking his, or banged their heads because there was nothing better to do. By the time "Silent Lucidity" came up, many were completely lost as the band unloaded one similar song after another.

"This one's about dreams," Tate introduced the band's biggest hit. Even in a cavernous, arena-rock setting, "Lucidity" is as beautiful a ballad as one could conceive. As Tate leaned into the song's final bridge, the crowd got a collective case of the shivers. From that point on, Queensryche had the crowd in the palm of their hand, rattling off a tight few songs from their "Operation: Mindcrime" album with practiced efficiency. The fiercely rhetorical "Revolution Calling," the hard cynicism of "I Don't Believe In Love" and the Budweiser-slurping gusto of "Eyes Of A Stranger" ended the regular set, and the band took less than five minutes to re-emerge and bang out two forgettable encores.

It seemed a shame that a band with this kind of talent feels compelled to coast on the anonymity of bombast, but the fans could care less. They pretty much drop-kicked the audience into its own version of nirvana, a place where the trend-making rock critics and marketing consultants who created Grunge have no power. Queensryche should hold the distinguished arena-rock chair for a while, provided Cobain doesn't rise from the grave or the band doesn't decide to relocate.