A guy on
the telephone would like me to hang out with Daryl and John. His name is
Randy Hoffman, he works with manager Tommy Mottola, and he's very
persuasive: "We're not fuckin' Aerosmith, but we can really rock & roll."
What about the new album? I ask.
A few hours
later, we're driving down to Allentown, Pennsylvania to watch Daryl Hall and
John Oates rock & roll. Randy, a feisty little guy who knows his stuff,
tells me, "I can talk sports with John. Sports and cars. John just got
himself a Turbo Carerra." And Daryl? "Oh, Daryl taught me about the occult."
Oh, the occult.
concert is superb, a study in contrast and control. Wan, lanky Hall works
the crowd with haughty informality; Oates, swarthy and serious, leads the
band with measured thrusts of his Stratocaster. These guys are polar
heartthrobs with all bases covered. Old standbys like "She's Gone" and new
standbys like "Back Together Again" sound urban and assured—
supersophisticated for a mid-humid racetrack gig.