New York City madmen/legends
Simon And The Bar Sinisters completely blindsided the unsuspecting punk element
at Monty’s Krown with an intense set of rockabilly, punk, and frank, Bowery boy
self-deprecation. With just drop-tuned guitar and drums, Simon dared the
audience to stump the band and boogie.

            Also in the “we don’t need no stinkin’ bass players”
department, The Immortal Lee County Killers hammered the Bug Jar in
quasi-revival style with greasy, stompin’, delta punk that they describe as
“the essential fucked-up blues.” They’re my new favorite band.

            Both bands displayed the energy and abandon that keeps
rock ‘n’ roll in the bloodstream and out of the chlorinated mainstream.

            Played a memorial show with The Rockats and countless
others in NYC for the late, great Manny Berlingo of Slick Pelt. He lived fast
and died young. Sometimes, when you’re the friends left behind, that kind of
cool stings.

            Although his fingers plucked fleet and nimble, Plimsoul
Peter Case had people at the Montage hanging on every word of his stories about
abandoned houseboats, barely audible singers, and jail.

            Sue Foley sure can warble sweet and true, but her guitar
wasn’t nearly loud enough when she played the Montage. I wanted it loud enough
to taste. Foley and her slick band mixed classic blues in two-tone shoes,
throwing in originals in a comfortable, laid-back fashion. I don’t think she
broke a sweat.

            Steve Grills and the Roadmasters did. They opened the
show with the smoldering bite of Grills’ guitar and the band’s steady
locomotion, outshining the headliner in the energy and licks departments.

            It was local nepotism at its finest when I went to The
Storms’ (Dick Storms, of The Record Archive) Halloween party. I went as the
devil (a stretch, don’t you think?), my date went as a kitty, coffee mogul Java
Joe went as Dick Storms, and Dick went as me. I’ve always wanted to have my own
action figure; this is probably about as close as I’m ever gonna get. Spent the
evening in horns carousing with Krypton 88, who sounded great in their
stripped-down trio loudness, Defenbombed, who sounded rough and ragged (like
Motörhead with a flat tire), and all the hipster denizens at Lux Lounge. Shot
my first stag film, peeled off my horns, then headed to church.

            Whoever your savior may be, a visit to The House of God
Church in Rush will sanctify and rejuvenate your sorry soul with the sacred
steel guitars of The Campbell Brothers. I cannot recommend this enough. I would
have stayed for the parish meal (feast) afterwards, but Uncle Ralph was calling
my name. Jesus is lord, but he can’t grill a T-bone like Ralph’s.

            You gotta hand it to RPO conductor Jeff Tyzik for
slipping suburban honkys the funky and cool they all needed before Ray Charles
took the stage. Tyzik even broke out his horn and wailed. Ray Charles is
super-bad, he’s the big deep freeze. What an engaging performer, what a class
act. It was truly an honor to be in the audience as Brother Ray turned the
Eastman Theatre into a giant Fridgidaire.

This article appears in Oct 30 – Nov 5, 2002.