The 10 best rock concerts I ever saw at Vancouver’s Pacific Coliseum in the ’90s

By Steve Newton

Last week I posted a blog about the ten best rock concerts I ever saw at the Pacific Coliseum in the 1980s.

Well, I saw a few decent shows at the Coliseum in the ’90s too. 

Here’s 10 of my faves:

Aerosmith, October 25, 1997

from the newt’s collection

At the climax of Aerosmith’s two-hour-plus concert at the Coliseum last Saturday (October 25), muscular skin-basher Joey Kramer emerged from behind his rotating drum kit, trotted to the front of the stage, and jubilantly hurled one of his drumsticks into the roaring, near-capacity crowd.

Seeing as my chances were about 12,000-to-one of catching the prized strip of lumber, I wasn’t that interested, but as it soared high, end over end, I realized it was headed toward my section of the old hockey rink. A second later it was arcing down right toward me, so with glorified visions of nabbing a lifelong souvenir in mind, I reached out to claim the trophy…only to have the tall guy next to me casually throw up a hand and snatch it away.

It was my supposed buddy Bones, who wouldn’t even have been there if it hadn’t been for my spare reviewer ticket. “All right! Cool!” he exclaimed, inspecting the Zildjian-brand stick to find it emblazoned with Kramer’s name and splintered from his recent workout on the encore of “Walk This Way”, which made it extra special. Thanks to my so-called friend’s wicked catching hand, there’s one less rock collectible in my office, but that’s what I get for slagging Aerosmith’s latest CD, I suppose.

Even though I’m no fan of its current Nine Lives release, I wasn’t about to miss Aerosmith’s most recent Coliseum gig. I’d seen them play that same venue 20 years ago on the Draw the Line tour—with a Bon Scott–led AC/DC warming up!—plus three or four times since, and each time they’d gotten stronger as a live act.

They continued that tradition last weekend with a spotless 23-song marathon that mixed gritty ’70s gems such as “Back in the Saddle” and “Same Old Song and Dance” with today’s slick crotch-pop ditties (“Pink”) and mainstream power ballads (“Hole in My Soul”).

On a smartly designed stage decorated with red cats and fierce green cobras, Steven Tyler proved to be a hard-rock ringmaster of the finest sort, and it’s amazing that the 49-year-old guy can still sing—or screech, as the case may be—as effectively as ever. The loose-limbed dynamo may have originally copped his stage moves from the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, but they’re all his now, and more than 30 years of performance have honed them to raggedy perfection.

But while Tyler is the hyperactive frontman of the band, guitarist Joe Perry still cuts the ultimate Rock God figure, and his fashionable choice of duds for the night—long black gunslinger’s coat and black leather pants—didn’t hurt matters any. No wonder the swarms of curvaceous vixens given special access to the front of the stage seemed about ready to storm the swarthy idol’s barricades.

Partway through the gig Perry mentioned the abundance of tunes on the set list that were recorded in Vancouver, and before taking the lead-vocal spot on a cover of Peter Green’s “Stop Messin’ ’Round”, he dedicated that blues-rock classic to local producer Bruce Fairbairn, who helmed three of the group’s top-selling CDs over a seven-year period. Tyler also offered some complimentary asides about our city, remarking on how it’s the home of—among other things—The X-Files and “the best titty bars in the world”.

I’m not sure which of those two we’re supposed to be most proud of, but if all the rain-drenched titty bars in town pack up and move to sunny L.A., at least we’ll know which monotonic FBI truth-seeker to blame it on.

POSTSCRIPT: as you can see from the accompanying photo, I now have ownership of the Joey Kramer drumstick. My “so-called” buddy Bones is a lawyer, and after reading the review he threatened to sue my ass for libel if I didn’t accept its return as a peace offering.

So I did.

The Tragically Hip, November 8, 1996

kevin statham photo

At a private party in Yaletown last Friday (November 8), after the first of three Tragically Hip shows at the Pacific Coliseum, vocalist Gordon Downie leaned determinedly over a pool table to set up what he hoped would be a game-winning shot. He slammed the eight ball directly into a corner pocket, but it did one of those weird tricks where it rattles around right above the hole and then comes rolling back out. Then, to top things off, the cue ball disappeared into the opposite corner pocket: game over.

The double-edged defeat didn’t faze Downie, though; he just grinned, shook his head, and sauntered back to his seat to take solace in a swig of Spring Lager. Maybe he was pleased that the blunder had occurred in the presence of a handful of friends and music-industry schmoozers, rather than the 13,500 Hip fanatics who witnessed his self-described “screwup” onstage three hours earlier.

It was during the early stages of the haunting “Titanic Terrarium” that Downie suffered a bout of singer’s block and couldn’t remember the lyrics for the tune. Less forthcoming “rock stars” might have tried to cover their mistake, hoping that the crowd hadn’t noticed, but not Downie. “I screwed up,” he confessed, “let’s start over.” His bandmates didn’t realize at first that Downie was serious about his intention to abort the tune, and they kept on playing for a while before the song derailed to Johnny Fay’s damage-control cymbal crashes.

When they started up again it wasn’t to give “Titanic Terrarium” another try, but to blast away memory of the misfire with the raucous single “700 Ft. Ceiling”. Rather than drawing attention to any weakness in the Hip’s live show, Downie’s unpretentious scrubbing of the tune helped drive home the fact that—Canadian rock god or not—he’s only human. If anything, his boo-boo endeared him even more to the assembled masses, whose devotion to the band owes much to its total lack of pretense and posturing.

Six songs earlier, the Tragically Hip had received a hero’s welcome when they started into “Gift Shop”, the opening track from their latest CD, Trouble at the Henhouse. Hordes of jubilant fans stood up to sway and sing along to Downie’s abstract lyrics. “The pendulum swings for the horse like a man,” sang Downie and a few thousand accompanists, “out over the rim is ice cream to him.”

The antithesis of your typical boy-meets-girl pop lyrics, Downie’s esoteric words seemed etched into the hearts and minds of his fans, and the obvious devotion to each tune would continue throughout the two-hour-plus set.

“This is a song about a man who lost his identity,” declared Downie about “Grace, Too”, the simmering opening track from 1994’s Day for Night. Like “Gift Shop”, “Grace, Too” exhibits the moodier, more atmospheric approach the band has taken in recent years, while the group’s early, riff-driven style was revealed in selections such as “Everytime You Go” and “New Orleans Is Sinking”.

Strangely enough, those were the only tracks offered from the band’s top-selling 1989 release, Up to Here. The decision to skip such proven crowd-pleasers as “Thirty-Eight Years Old”, “Boots or Hearts”, and—especially—“Blow at High Dough” revealed the band’s brave desire to focus on untested material and not rely on the conventional greatest-hits routine.

Downie’s current attraction to the acoustic guitar resulted in the previously free-to-roam frontman being anchored at centre stage for much of the show, and it wasn’t until halfway through the gig that the chrome-domed crooner started moving around, punctuating his minimalist gestures with cryptic pronouncements.

“Arnold Palmer is now president of the United States,” declared Downie at one point. “Bill Clinton has fallen ill and died. Al Waxman is the prime minister.”

Since the Tragically Hip are about as Canuck as a band can get, it was fitting that they played in a hockey rink, but unfortunately it wasn’t one of the famously iffy Coliseum’s finer acoustic moments. I’ve experienced the Hip at superior-sounding outdoor venues such as Seabird Island and Thunderbird Stadium, and the tinny cacophony of Friday night detracted plenty from my overall enjoyment of the concert.

The ringing in my ears didn’t stop until Sunday—but in the meantime I discovered how cranking up the Fully Completely CD could drown that interior drone right out.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, May 6, 1995

kevin statham photo

Some rock bands have a magical way of winning over a crowd straightaway, and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers are a prime example. I saw them do it back in ’78 at the Commodore on the You’re Gonna Get It tour, and they did it again on Saturday (May 6) at the nearly sold-out Coliseum.

This time it was the stripped-down clamour of “Love Is a Long Road” that got things going, with Everyman vocalist Petty casually rambling over to the front of the stage in low-rent runners to anoint the masses with a hoist of his ever-ready Telecaster.

The fact that the stage was strewn with Persian rugs and rows of flickering candles helped create a homey, let’s-hang vibe, and by the time Petty got around to his second tune, many fans had already taken its “let’s roll another joint” idea one smoky step further.

The Heartbreakers followed “You Don’t Know How It Feels” with one of their earliest tunes, “Listen to Her Heart”, instilling that jangly rocker with the same bouncy bluster I recall cheering for 17 years ago. The band lineup has varied somewhat since then, the most noteworthy change being original drummer Stan Lynch’s replacement by session ace Steve Ferrone, who also plays on the current Petty disc, Wildflowers.

Although I must admit to a real fondness for the workmanlike thump and clatter that heavy hitter Lynch conveyed over the years, Ferrone’s well-practised and precise drumming left little to beef about.

The instrumental star of Petty’s universe has always been lead guitarist Mike Campbell, who pulled out all the stops on a wild twang-o-rama version of the Ventures’ 1964 surf classic, “Diamond Head”. He even used a pink Fender Mustang for added authenticity and tossed in a few bars of the James Bond theme for extra coolness.

Petty also snuck selections by Chuck Berry and J.J. Cale into the mix, which he likely does to break up the monotony of performing his own compositions night after night. I would have preferred it if he’d included the sadly missed “Breakdown”, “I Need to Know”, or “Don’t Do Me Like That”, but, as usual, Petty forgot to call and put me in charge of the show’s set list.

He did save the best for next to last, though, and the tactic of flicking the houselights on during the penultimate “American Girl” helped to further undermine any audience/performer partitions that might have held during the Heartbreakers’ two-hour barrage of cannonball rock.

Tina Turner, June 10, 1993

kevin statham photo

Before heading over to the Coliseum for Tina Turner’s show last Thursday (June 10), I popped in to the grand opening of the new Mongolie Grill near Robson and Thurlow. The place was jam-packed with hungry schmoozers lining up for free food and booze, and I found myself squeezed in beside Coast 1040 on-air personality John Tanner.

When I asked him if he was going to see Turner too, he said no way, and that if he wanted dinosaurs he’d go see Jurassic Park. But as I found out later, Turner is far from being a prehistoric monster. If she’s a dinosaur, find me a time machine and set the controls for 100 million B.C.!

It’s downright amazing how great Turner looks for 53, but the best news is that she can still sing up a storm. From the opener, “Steamy Windows”, to the show-closing “Better Be Good to Me”, Turner showcased the gutsy style and raw emotionalism she built her name on. When she sings about her own much-publicized domestic trials (“I Don’t Want to Fight Anymore”) and the tribulations of women in general (Mark Knopfler’s “Private Dancer”), all the glitz and glamour of her superstar status can’t camouflage the fact that her art flies from the heart.

As usual, Turner was accompanied by a group of highly-skilled, veteran musicians, the kind who play their parts to polished perfection. She also had two female dancers who, while they were obviously a lot younger than Turner, didn’t show her up a bit during serious work-outs to old Ike & Tina Turner staples like “Nutbush City Limits” and “Proud Mary”. Turner should certainly consider putting out a Shape Up with Tina video, and showing wimpy Richard Simmons how to really sweat to the oldies.

Even with heels on.

“How many of you know about the blues?” asked Turner, before displaying her own blues prowess in a slinky version of Tony Joe White’s “Undercover Agent for the Blues”. By the time of her first encore, “Show Some Respect”, Turner had earned a ton of that from the 8,500 fans in attendance.

And with the new movie about her life, What’s Love Got to Do With It, set for release this week, no doubt thousands more will find inspiration in one of rock’s classiest and most driven performers.

Jeff Healey, Robert Cray, and Colin James, September 3, 1992

The PNE isn’t normally the type of place you’d go to save money, but Vancouver blues-rock fans who paid just $7.50 (plus fair admission) to see guitar heroes Robert Cray, Jeff Healey, and Colin James last Thursday (September 3) got themselves a heckuva good deal.

They also got to see a youthful Canadian axe-master outplay a fellow countryman and a Yank in a marathon Battle of the Strats.

After a brief opening set by some comedian I couldn’t hear from the beer garden, super-smooth American bluesman Cray took the stage with his new six-piece band. A personable performer with a soulful, lusty voice and a subtle, less-is-more approach to guitar,

Cray quickly won the crowd over with familiar tunes such as “Strong Persuader” and “Smokin’ Gun”, and tempted them with new selections from his forthcoming album, I Was Warned.

His classy, B.B. King-influenced style and funky brand of lovesick blues were a tasty appetizer for the rowdier things to come from Jeff Healey.

I’ve never seen Healey put on a poor show, and I don’t know anyone who has. The guy was just unreal, whether playin’ it pretty on the sultry hit “Angel Eyes” or raunching out on a dramatic, Hendrix-style rendition of “See the Light”, which earned him a standing ovation.

Unlike Cray, Healey takes the more-is-more approach, sitting down and sending out blues-drenched bolts of energized noise until he couldn’t help but leap up and shake his booty across the stage.

I’ve said it before, so I won’t bother to mention that the sightless string-bender could use a stronger rhythm section to push himself to even higher heights.

Ooops.

Now Colin James—there’s a guy with a wicked rhythm section, in particular monster drummer Darrell Mayes. And iron-lunged saxman Johnny Ferreira was his usual stalwart self, sounding particularly sharp on the boisterous “Five Long Years”.

With full use of the stage and lights, James delivered the kind of high-energy, party-time appeal he’s noted for, although it’s hard to appreciate him in an arena after seeing several of his Commodore gigs.

Having witnessed James holding his own with the awesome Carlos Santana at the Orpheum earlier this year, I don’t doubt his guitar-playing abilities, and the way he plays with equal parts finesse and flash.

But on this particular occasion he didn’t conjure up the same magic as Healey, who easily walked away with the Guitar God of the Night trophy.

Metallica, May 23, 1992

You don’t have to be a big fan of Metallica’s furiously thrashy—albeit recently refined—sound to give the band credit for blazing a formidable trail since its inception in ’81. The group has always gone against the grain and done things its own way, riding the precarious rail between huge commercial success and strong identification with and dedication to its fans.

At Saturday’s (May 23) sold-out show—which was followed by a second date on Monday—I saw a number of things that surprised me. First off, there were the longest and loudest line-ups I’d ever seen outside the Coliseum. These folks were heavily hyped, but intelligent enough not to rush the too-few doors and make admission even more difficult.

And for the first time in nearly 20 years of concert-going, I saw official t-shirt vendors with their stands set up outside the hockey rink. Maybe it was greed that motivated that unusual move, but it could also be Metallica’s way of thwarting bootleggers and guarding their fans against cheap imitations.

Once inside, the surprises continued with a live video broadcast from backstage. Drummer Lars Ulrich managed to fend off the chummy distractions of his bandmates and send this message: “It’s Saturday night, and we’re gonna kick your fuckin’ ass!”

That got the capacity crowd even more worked up, as did Ulrich’s threat that the band might just decide to play for five hours. (The show would actually clock in at closer to three hours, which proved quite all right.)

After a 25-minute documentary of the band’s history—with particular emphasis on the contributions of late bassist Cliff Burton—the familiar strains of the band’s big hit, “Enter Sandman”, heralded the arrival of the quartet in all their black t-shirt ’n’ jeans glory (except for the bare-chested Ulrich, whose shirt would only have gotten in the way of his furious percussion assault).

Ulrich actually had two complete drum kits—another first for these eyes—which would rise up from trap doors on either side of the stage. A few dozen lucky fans managed to score seats in the “snakepit”, an enclosure near the centre of the stage that put them right in the action and brought home the band/fan closeness that Metallica so successfully conveys.

Original ear-burners like “Creeping Death” and “Welcome Home Sanitarium” mixed with loose instrumental covers of ZZ Top’s “Tush”, Rush’s “Bastille Day”, and Deep Purple’s “Mistreated”, and while the music was loud enough to flake the wax from your ears, it was channeled forth so cleanly that there was no pain.

The great sound, lights, staging, pyrotechnics, and live video ended up giving the paying customers more than their money’s worth, yet another first from those awesome practitioners of the kill riff.

Neil Young & Crazy Horse, April 17, 1991

kevin statham photo

The chameleon-like Neil Young has traveled through a kaleidoscope of musical styles over the years, switching effortlessly (and with varying degrees of success) between acoustic folk, bare-bones country, futuristic techno-bop, rockabilly, and whatever else happened to pique his interest at the time.

But anyone who’s been out of touch with Young’s latest projects—or who might still have visions of a hippie balladeer warbling “Old Man” or “Heart of Gold”—would have been rudely awakened by the onslaught of guitar-drenched rock that this favourite son delivered at the Pacific Coliseum last Wednesday (April 17).

With solid accompaniment from the Crazy Horse line-up of rhythm guitarist Frank Sampedro, bassist Billy Talbot, and drummer Ralph Molina, Young produced enough gorgeous noise during his non-stop, 90-minute set to out-raunch the meanest heavy metal band.

On a stage sporting left-over props from the Rust Never Sleeps tour—oversized reproductions of road cases and vintage Fender amps—Young served up some of the finest tracks from the Crazy Horse archives, including the Sex Pistols homage “Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black)”, the much-covered “Powderfinger”, and the recent “Mansion on the Hill”.

His long-underrated lead guitar prowess was vividly displayed throughout but particularly during the majestic “Cortez the Killer” and on a gut-wrenching intro to Dylan’s “Blowing in the Wind”.

Continually stomping along and bending into his more strenuous guitar strangulations, the raggedly attired long-hair was living proof that you’re never too old to rock ’n’ roll. My only beef with the entire performance was that the encore consisted of only one throwaway tune.

Opening act Drivin’ ’n Cryin’, though a fine up-and-coming Georgia guitar band, didn’t cause much of a stir in the half-empty (at that point) Coliseum, and a couple of stretched-out selections nearly provoked yawns. But the band showed some spark on the more compact tunes, like the title track of the band’s latest album, Fly Me Courageous, and a set-closing rave-up on the Stooges’ “Search and Destroy”.

The second warm-up act, Sonic Youth, spent most of its set testing the limits of the crowd’s eardrums with barely controlled fits of feedback and distortion. The band was very skilled at that sort of thing, but its frenzied, discordant howl didn’t go over big with the more traditional Neil Young fans, many of whom beat a hasty retreat to the Coliseum beer garden.

AC/DC, January 11 and 12, 1991

So what’s a devoted rock critic to do when one of the genre’s most potent acts hits town for two back-to-back, sold-out shows? Does he pick one night and hope to hell it’s the best one?

Not likely.

He checks ’em both out, of course.

Talk about journalistic integrity! Talk about hard-rock greed!

As it turns out, there were a couple of minor differences between AC/DC’s Friday and Saturday (January 11 and 12) shows at the Pacific Coliseum. The crowd threw more firecrackers and clothing on stage the second night, and sang along more exuberantly to the choruses of “You Shook Me All Night Long” and “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap”. And the band took a lot longer between tunes on Saturday, which slowed the rhythm of things down a bit.

But the crowd appeared to behave itself both nights—as far as I could see there weren’t any fights among the typically volatile AC/DC fans. Maybe all the trouble-makers who took part in the gatecrashing, bottle-throwing riot that occurred the last time AC/DC played here—at B.C. Place Stadium in ’88—have grown up since then.

The setlists were exactly the same each night: the band started the show off on a high note with the recent “Thunderstruck”, and finished it with several cannon blasts on the metal anthem “For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)”.

The stage—with ramps on either side for lead guitarist Angus Young to scamper up and roll around on—was outlined with a string of bead-like red lights and backed by a stack of metal cages like the ones occupied by head-banging kids in the “Thunderstruck” vid.

A huge bell with the band’s logo emblazoned on it was rung for the intro to “Hell’s Bells”, and hundreds of phony bills were dropped onto the frenzied floor crowd during the band’s latest single, “Moneytalks”.

An enormous horned head and a hand clutching a pointy tail were inflated behind the drum kit for the tune that garnered the best response both nights, “Highway to Hell”.

Young’s undying energy and guitar prowess were startling, Brian Johnson’s throaty growl hung in there, and the rhythm section was a churning, relentless machine. Former Firm member Chris Slade had the best drum sound I’ve ever heard in the Coliseum, and the guitar onslaught—while loud enough to cause earthquakes—came through clean and clear.

In the metal realm, it doesn’t get any better than that.

Robert Plant and the Black Crowes, September 21, 1990

Stevie Ray Vaughan and Joe Cocker, July 22, 1990

As far as arena spectacles go, Sunday’s (July 22) Stevie Ray Vaughan/Joe Cocker double-bill was pretty lame. No huge banks of lights, fancy lasers, or explosions.

But there didn’t need to be.

Those who laid down bucks for the Coliseum show got their money back in spades with a solid three hours’ worth of top-class, no-frills R&B.

Cocker appeared totally at ease as he ran through old faves like “Feelin’ Alright” and “You Are So Beautiful (To Me)”, as well as more recent hits like the super-funky “Unchain My Heart”.

He left the audience of 8,000 in a good mood with his historic reworking of the Beatles’ “With a Little Help from My Friends”.

Concentrating on tunes from last year’s In Step album, Vaughan slightly riled the crowd with his first bit of showmanship—people go a little crazy when a fellow plays guitar behind his back.

In a strange reversal of usual mob antics at the Coliseum, the audience on the floor barged up front during Vaughan’s mellowest song, “Riviera Paradise”, though for the most part the normally rowdy Vaughan contingent seemed relaxed.

“It’s good to be alive with you today,” announced Vaughan, who in recent years has managed to corral a life-threatening drug habit.

Then he called out a couple of horn players for a stormy rendition of Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition”.

As usual, Vaughan’s Double Trouble band was a steady workhorse. Now if only they could persuade Stevie’s brother Jimmie (ex-Fab Thunderbirds) to join the group.

POSTSCRIPT: Stevie Ray Vaughan would only play six more shows before his tragic helicopter-crash death on August 27, 1990. But it sure was good to be alive with him that day.

To read more than 300 of my other Vancouver concert reviews go here.