If you’re the type of person who visits theme parks for the sudden, intense rush of motion simulators, the Sphere will act like cotton candy on your brain. For those of us who prefer slow, old-fashioned rides and choose to remain in control of our adventures in outer space, I strongly suggest you stay away. Sure, most of the $2 billion dome’s other-worldly graphics don’t induce vertigo or trigger anxiety. But at any moment you may feel like your head is where your feet should be and your toes have touched the top of the wrap-around screen. Strangely enough, when I drag myself out to a concert, I want to focus on the music. I welcome energetic showmanship, dynamic staging, and video supplementation that’s engaging. But I don’t need distractions, pseudo-psychedelic trips, or wondering why I didn’t bring Dramamine.
Night number thirty-five of the Eagles’ “farewell” jaunt to Las Vegas came with many positives. The set design that greeted fans when they found their seats was the best I’ve ever seen. Behind a small stage, the IMAX-type system projected an homage to LA. I don’t know how the Eagles secured the rights to display copyrighted imagery from SoCal institutions, but I assume credit is due to their overlord, Irving Azoff. As insiders know, Azoff took on all comers fifty years ago and chomped them into little pieces, like they were caps on his trademark cigars. In addition to becoming the top power broker in a town full of them, he and his wife, Shelli, have remained loyal to Angeltown. One of the establishments he bought off the chopping block, the Apple Pan, was represented by its red-and-white sign, although I didn’t spot the name of the other eatery he saved, Nate ’n Al’s. It may have gotten lost among the depictions of other colorful icons from the city: Tower Records, Canter’s, Barney’s Beanery, El Coyote, the Beverly Hills Hotel, Guitar Center, Musso & Frank, Dan Tana’s, Pink’s, Capitol Records, the Troubadour, the Cinerama Dome, Whiskey a Go Go, the Hollywood Bowl, Griffith Observatory, and the Hollywood sign. Way off to the side, waves lapped on a white sand beach. Overall, a brilliant artistic tapestry.
I won’t pretend not to harbor any bias. I saw my first Eagles show at the Forum in 1980 and didn’t expect them to repeat that frenetic coke-and-lude-fueled night of fury. That concert reached dazzling heights, but I can’t say for sure; I was just as baked as the band. In later days, I came to crave more than the exact track blueprints the group replicated in its performances. Note for note never fit my idea of a special evening, even if the group nailed each phrase with consummate perfection. Also, the Eagles have always lacked personality, so decades ago they pushed wild Joe Walsh to the front to pump up the crowd’s energy. Their forte is the master craft of record making. Despite that excellence, I’ve never thought of the Eagles as a must-see act.
The Sphere has ample parking, an ultramodern interior concourse, and padded captain seats. Best feature, by far: the sound. It’s the purest I’ve heard in a venue of that size. Unlike basketball arenas or stadiums, I didn’t notice empty space between transmission and reception. Instead of sound waves dissipating into the ethers of a cavernous space, the melodies filled my ears with unprecedented warmth and immediacy.
Shortly after the 8:30 p.m. start time, ethereal sounds accompanied celestial images and the lush acoustic strings of “Hotel California” kindled heartstrings. The all-encompassing illustrations evoked a Disneyland Haunted Mansion vibe, but the band didn’t alter the song’s instantly recognizable patterns. On a sparse platform, the players found their marks. Everything starts and ends with the last original Eagle standing, drummer and occasional guitarist Don Henley. His taut groove paved the way for the other members: guitar hero Joe Walsh, bassist Timothy B. Schmidt, sweet-voiced Vince Gill, Deacon Frey—Glenn’s son—and newcomer Chris Holt, the replacement for ailing veteran Steuart Smith.
After the acrimonious departure of lead guitarist Don Felder in 2001, the Eagles were still a formidable force, in large part due to Felder’s replacement, Steuart Smith, who’d moved over from Henley’s solo band and who matched Felder’s technical wizardry, no small feat. In failing health, Smith departed earlier this year and now the group doesn’t administer the same sharp bite. They were also joined by longtime drummer Scott Crago, Will Hollis on synths and keys, and Michael Thompson on piano. It was hard to tell with certainty, but they all appeared to sing.
Time for a short, honest tribute to the supremely talented Don Henley. For all his intellect, artistic prowess, and dedication to philanthropy, his persona doesn’t play well on stage. He’s overly serious and stiff, and when flashing his considerable wit he comes off as cocky. But it hardly matters. With his generation-defining timbre, earnest delivery, and blue-collar work ethic, he can say and do anything he wants and I’ll pay.
“One of These Nights” followed the first song, brought to life by glamorous Hollywood party and street scenes, with the capable Chris Holt copying the iconic Don Felder solo, although Holt lacked Felder’s (and Smith’s) gusto and dexterity. Let’s face it, at this stage of their historic career, soon to approach sixty years, why take chances? In two hours you get twenty hits—so what if they’re all tunes you’ve heard a thousand times? They did add a flourish or two. For example, “Witchy Woman” started with a drum beat that made me think they were about to launch into Henley’s solo hit “Dirty Laundry.” But the only Henley solo song they broke out was a bland “Boys of Summer.” Predictably, Joe Walsh revived his James Gang smash “Funk #49” and jammed on his own “Rocky Mountain Way.” But did we really need another stale version of “Life’s Been Good”? Of course, it would’ve been better—for me—if Henley had gifted us with one of his own monster singles, “The Heart of the Matter” or “The End of the Innocence.” That would’ve given the patrons a bigger thrill than Walsh’s hackneyed three.
While I’m at it, I would’ve loved to have heard Vince Gill and his rich tenor croon through the Glenn Frey parts handled by Glenn’s son Deacon, although Deacon’s presence and professionalism lent an authentic sense of sentimentality. Also, I would’ve enjoyed one of Gill’s country-rock classics. The powers that be—which I’m guessing is one person named Henley, guided by guru Azoff—probably thought Eagles fans wouldn’t tolerate a Gill song, even one influenced by the Eagles themselves, such as “Don’t Let Our Love Start Slippin’ Away.”
In their penultimate tune, I forgot about the astronomical ticket prices, trippy presentation, and bizarre distractions of the weird Sphere. The noble Don Henley, clad like a count in solid black, white hair gleaming, stood alone on the stage. Fully locked into the present moment, he offered a tender reading of a mournful “Desperado.” We soared on his velvet voice into the snowless sky and felt the sun that wouldn’t shine. We remembered our pain and hunger, while we knew we, too, weren’t getting any younger. He didn’t rely on camouflage, gimmicks, or illusions to defy gravity, space, or time. Henley’s seminal rasp reminded us all that, while we may no longer be fledglings, our weather-beaten wings still yearn to fly.