Tom Petty / My Morning Jacket

“This one is by request. Some of the ladies backstage requested we play this one. So this one’s for all the ladies in the house tonight”
-Tom Petty, 8/24/10, prior to playing “Free Fallin’”

Yeah. Like Tom Petty wasn’t going to play “Free Fallin’” had it not been requested by the ladies backstage.

First things first, it’s one of the very few things that nearly anyone who enjoys the process of listening to music can agree on: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers rule. Their music appeals to people of all ages and musical backgrounds, and Petty’s a working man’s hero of sorts with an awe-inspiring library of mainstream rock singles stretching back to the mid-‘70s. Although it’s arguable as to whether he’s made a truly great album since 1994’s Wildflowers, he’s always been part of the musical landscape in some form. But his humble persona and “aw, shucks” demeanor have always kept him seeming more minor than he actually is, despite selling millions of records from a back catalogue that rivals the Stones for AOR hit-singledom. I’ve worshipped the man ever since Full Moon Fever (1989) somehow became the de facto soundtrack to every one of my family’s ski trips in the early ’90s, but until two nights ago I had never seen the man onstage. More than simply a concert, this felt like unfinished childhood business.

Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers had already played Madison Square Garden a little over a month ago, which may have explained why East Rutherford New Jersey’s Izod Center (f/k/a Continental Airlines Arena f/k/a Brendan Byrne Arena) never seemed more than three-quarters full. The MSG show would have been a considerably easier commute for yours truly, as well. So why dirty Jersey? Simple: tickets are always thirty dollars less expensive outside of the Garden, and my other favorite band I’ve never seen live, My Morning Jacket, was opening.

Despite having nearly sold out The Garden on New Year’s Eve last year, My Morning Jacket took the stage to a nearly empty arena. I guess this was understandable given their 7:30 start time, and the fact that they probably aren’t a familiar name to most of the fifty-something dads in the audience, unless they listen to NPR (and said dads were probably pissed Crosby Stills & Nash weren’t opening, as they had already done so on several dates). But it didn’t take long for the Jacket to reward those who appeared early, as they began with an extremely loud version of “The Way That He Sings” that I almost failed to recognize on account of the lack of acoustic guitars that went into playing it. This was followed by a strobe-light intensive version of “Gideon” and then Z (2005) single “Off the Record”—also known as the “cheesy reggae song” that this writer’s wife loves to hate.

Hired help or not, My Morning Jacket played with an intensity (and volume level) that the evening’s headliners would be unlikely to (and didn’t) match. Jim James’ locks are considerably shorter than they were in 2003, but he still bangs his head like he’s auditioning for Slayer, while joining bassist Two-Tone Tommy in bum rushing Patrick Hallahan’s drum kit during every climax. Their early set version of “Magheetah” was considerably epic with no fewer than four false endings, and the atmospheric rush of “Wordless Chorus” single-handedly justified their purchase of a fog machine and elaborate lighting rig. The two new songs were instantly memorable, and a hair flying version of “One Big Holiday” brought the hour long set to a close with plenty of strobe light and volume, as it usually does. Though there were very few in the arena who actually witnessed said spectacle, those that did left instantly converted. The band is that good.

A Tom Petty show is a sterling example of the unwritten contract between legacy rockers and their audience: “you cram as many hits into a two hour space as humanly possible, and we’ll pretend not to mind when you indulge with songs off your ‘new album.’” This is what everyone wants and expects, and Petty, people’s champ that he is, did exactly that. It’s hard to complain too much when the second, third, and fourth song at any rock concert are “You Don’t Know How it Feels,” “I Won’t Back Down,” and “Free Fallin’,” and credit is due for Petty’s willingness to please. So why did his set feel a touch unfulfilling?

For one, a crappy sound mix for which both the venue and soundboard guy may have been equally responsible. While the dulcet tones of head-Heartbreaker Mike Campbell’s Rickenbacker six-string were easy to hear, Petty’s vocals often weren’t, obscured by a bass-heavy mix that seemed a little inexcusable given the experience/professionalism of the parties involved. Then there was the pacing of the show itself, which ground to a halt with a four song mini-set in the middle consisting entirely of songs off of Petty’s latest disc Mojo; a grower to be sure, but still one of those “back to basics,” live in studio blooze-rock records that aging rockers put out when the idea well runs dry (David Fricke gave it four stars, which should tell you something). Petty was kind enough to prep the crowd in advance that such thing would occur, resulting in a mass exodus on a scale unheard of since the Israelites fled the Land of Egypt. Ironically, likely on account of their freshness, the Heartbreakers lent more enthusiasm to the Mojo songs than anything else they played that evening. Campbell really let it rip on the “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)”-inspired slow blues of “Good Enough,” while lead single and album highlight “I Should Have Known Better” snarled like a classic Yardbirds track.

But most of the show smacked of a band going through the motions, which I suppose is the paradoxical by-product of simply having too many hit songs that everyone needs to hear. The only surprises were a breezy reading of 1991 album cut “Kings Highway” and an impressively gritty take on Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac song “Oh Well.” They closed with “Refugee,” encored with “American Girl,” and dragged out “Breakdown” and “Don’t Come Around Here No More” to the interminable lengths that were expected, despite the set being only an hour and forty minutes long.

Still, I feel sheepish for complaining. I went in expecting to hear all of the standards, the Heartbreakers rolled them out with just enough enthusiasm, and the 10:40 end time assured that the crowd wouldn’t be tired at work the next day (but would it have killed him to play “The Waiting”?). Such is often the special kind of hell reserved for classic rockers of the Tom Petty ilk; the wants of his audience dictates that he couldn’t dip into the deep cuts onstage even if he wanted to, and it’s that kind of predictability that renders his live show fun, if overly safe. This doesn’t make him any less of a national treasure, but I’d be surprised if I go more than once, something which most certainly will not apply to the opening act.