The Cowsill family, who appeared at Pershing Auditorium Sunday afternoon, fill that musical void between mother’s lullabys and Blood, Sweat and Tears.
Their “bubblegum” rock is a happy experience for the teen and pre-teen clan and can be quite a visual experience for the older set.
Parents could have shared in the fun if they had taken the time to accompany their children, as a few did. Perhaps this is part of the answer to closing that much-publicized generation gap.
One could reminisce over childhood idols when the little girls shrieked at the sight of the four handsome male Cowsills and deluged the stage door at concert’s end for that cherished autograph or glimpse. It was rather a comedy to see hundreds of delighted youngsters surge forth, leaving a rather sparse smattering of audience to give the ovation.
Although some of the “hard” rock numbers seemed a bit off balance in the sound category, the sound was basically that found on the Cowsill records.
Their big sellers – “Indian Lake,” “We Can Fly,” “The Rain, the Park and Other Things,” “Hair” and their latest release of “Silver Threads and Golden Needles” – drew the mightiest cheers and round of applause.
This group of five kids and their mom sang songs that would appeal to most any age group and even threw in a Christmas Tune.
They are a clean-cut family singing all types of “unintellectual” tunes that would bore most of the college set who praise progressive, acid rock, etc. Their slower material comes out with a country-western twang, while renditions of the hard rock are surprisingly good.
Ten-year-old Susan was really the hit of the show. She’s no Aretha Franklin, but then she’s only been around a decade.
Nearly all of the family took their turns on the vocal solos, including Mom Cowsill, who dedicated a song to her son in Vietnam (the family is made up of seven children).
None of the family really has a good voice and their music varies little in beat, but there is a certain nostalgia for this age. The Cowsills have a place in this world for those who hate to be called “teenyboppers.”