Hall and Oates

We went to see Hall and Oates play the Saint Augustine Amphitheater this weekend. Before the show we had a quick dinner at a local restaurant that had moved all its tables outside to accommodate a small indie show.The fans were hanging about outside, waiting for the band to finish setting up, and were easily identified by their penchant for black and the orderly rows of small tattoos marching into their sleeves. They talked earnestly amongst themselves, snapped pictures with cell phones, and sometimes hopped up and down in place, their chain wallets jingling, their straw fedoras unsettled on their heads. A tremendously thin young man with black glasses and a mop of sandy curls held up a cardboard sign that proclaimed his need for a ticket. Later, possibly trying to carry of some subterfuge, he entered the queue only to be unceremoniously ejected when he reached the reception table that had been set up just outside the restaurant.

My wife and I ate our sensible dinner and felt very old.

We parked a few blocks away from the amphitheater and joined the rest of the crowd walking through the falling darkness. Ahead of me a was a gentleman wearing black pants pegged at the ankles, a mustard yellow shirt, his hair slicked with gel, his fingers smoothing a black John Oates-esque mustache. The crowd was a bewildering cross-section; gone was the stylistic uniformity of the indie show. Young louts in Slayer t-shirts mingled with mature ladies in nautical jerseys. Alcohol was carried and camouflaged in every possible fashion. One gentleman carried his beer bottle inside a sheaf of papers, raising the entire structure to his mouth when he took a drink.

Our seats were center right, perhaps 50 feet from the stage. Next to us was a group of Australian couples in their mid-40s. The ladies were dressed in a vague yachting style, with sweaters tied around necks, white pants, and boat shoes. They shrieked and waved their arms while the men, all sitting together, drained their beers without undue exertion. Then the crowd roared and the band came onstage.

Daryl Hall wore jeans, a black t-shirt, a leather coat, and sunglasses. John Oates work a snug jersey and a pair of black jeans. Gone was the signature mustache. They took their places on two stools while the rest of the band filed in. The saxophone player wore lavender suit, his long gray hair falling back over his shoulders in a ragged cascade. A percussionist in a short-sleeved turtleneck and dress pants picked up a pair of maracas, the drummer took his place behind the kit, and the band launched into one of their familiar hits. Several things stood out as noteworthy: First, Daryl Hall appears to have been living in a cryogenic chamber someplace, and his abilities with this technology apparently far exceed Michael Jackson's because he really does look, at least at a distance of 50 feet, precisely as he did in the 80s. The long hair still bounces and flows with the same shimmering elasticity as ever. The voice is pitch-perfect, absolutely assured, and so strong as to make you believe he's holding a gear in reserve, some special set of notes in a register only he could reach. He makes it look easy, flowing from one song to the next, hitting all the little soulful flourishes he built into his songs so many years ago and adding some extras here and there. It was somewhat disconcerting to watch him; one felt that somehow they were looking into a time warp, or witnessing the results of some Faustian bargain.

John Oates was not quite as faithful a replica of his 80's persona, but he filled the bill quite well. He's spread out a bit, gone somewhat egg-shaped, so that his arms seemed to rest against the bulge of his abdomen. The mustache is also gone, but the lid of unruly dark curls remains intact. He played the lead on many of the songs and showed his chops on several difficult solos.

They played all the hits, a non-stop onslaught of hits, from Maneater to Family Man to Sara Smile to One on One. The crowd was in raptures. All around the amphitheater one could see the ladies begin to rise, to flow into the aisles, to throw arms above their heads, to grind and shimmy. There was a collective sense of time rolling back, as if Hall and Oates's uncanny ability to hold the years at bay had been transmitted, via their music, to the dancing women. The ladies next to me were in ecstasies, holding beers aloft, whistling, singing the lyrics, making whoop-whoop sounds when the band entered a breakdown or a solo. The gentlemen in attendance were more subdued. Some approached their dates cautiously from the rear and pressed their hips forward in an awkward but unapologetic attempt to cash in on the sexual energy that had been let loose in the crowd. They were not rebuffed. The ladies didn't care; they were captivated by Daryl Hall's radiant presence and, without taking their eyes from the stage, they reached back to squeeze buttocks or ruffle hair, transmuting these awkward accountants and mechanics into the golden god onstage.

But there was nothing unattractive or disappointing or shopworn in any of this. The band was clearly having a wonderful time, every one of them. A cool breeze blew through the venue, forcing Daryl Hall to run his hands through that gorgeous hair. He smiled and blew kisses. The saxophonist strode downstage in his purple suit blew his solos at the stars. The percussionist danced as if he'd never danced before, and even the sober John Oates cracked a few wry smiles as the crowd bathed him in its lusty cheers. The songs held up well after all these years and the band's skill made them work beautifully in a live setting. This was no indie show. There were no important Ideas put forward. No earnest speeches from the stage. No long and challenging instrumental passages. This was all about having a good time, this was about raising the average to the sublime. And for two hours and two encores, Hall and Oates did just that better than anyone.