The
devil just ain’t evil anymore. In fact, evil ain’t what it used to be. Satan
has been co-opted by Disney and being bad has just been plain played out. As
soon as artists figured bad was a good career move, good music by bad people
became a thing of the past… until now.
Texan
Scott Biram and Tennessean Joe Buck are on the road together —
the road to perdition. Sure, it’s a thrill for the average Joe to get down and
wallow in a little rural colloquialism full of depravity, excess, and fun. But
it takes a real hardcore fan to realize there ain’t no free — there is a
price to pay.
The
devil is on his way, as Buck reminded us repeatedly last Thursday at the Bug
Jar. Illuminated only by a red light bulb at his feet, stomping a kick drum,
and playing a battered Gibson, Buck was visceral in the extreme. The guts in
his angry hillbilly music were as glaringly apparent as the throbbing veins in
his head.
Buck
always struck me as country, a true son of the South. But what some folks
consider merely a persona, I’ve discovered is actually the man’s true nature.
He is what he is. Sure he’s a helluva guitar player, but Buck is a bad man who
isn’t just window dressing. He truly knows the meaning of hell bound.
Show-opener
Biram was equally troubled but offered a slightly more humorous solution in his
one-man-band refrain with lots of grunts, snorts, and moans. He’s everything
Hasil Adkins used to be.
See
these two next time through and get reacquainted with your evil side — not
your Hot Topic bad self either, but the type of contrarian badness that helps
balance out all the namby-pamby wholesomeness in pop culture… like, for
instance, Norah Jones.
Miss
Jones has a beautiful, beautiful voice. Her music is velvety and narcotic and
intoxicatingly romantic. She is a sexy lullaby personified. But what happens
when you hear a lullaby? You get sleepy.
What
was exciting to me at her FLPAC show last Tuesday was Jones’ obvious penchant
for country music. Yeah, I know she covered Hank’s “Cold, Cold Heart” on her
first album, but hearing Jones and her band (really good, by the way) bust out
more than a few cool and lonesome mid-tempo country-tinged tunes was a treat
for the nearly 7,000 people with sweaters draped over their shoulders.
I
saw The Charms at Little Steven’s
Garage Festival three weeks ago in NYC and definitely wanted to see more when
they played the Bug Jar last week. I got there late (man, that Law & Order is addictive) — in
time to hear their last tune. And judging by that fragment, they rocked before
making way for The Veins.
The
Veins recorded this particular show for an upcoming live release. With
guitarist Jet’s new military-issue ‘do and other guitarist Dan Pickett’s
baldpate, here’s a band who plays heavy longhaired rock better than the
longhairs. The band seems unlikely and unassuming but the music draws blood.
As
part of our ongoing harmonica tips series, here’s The White Hots’ Tom Hanney’s Harmonica Tip number one:
“you can’t play with a nice touch when the veins are popping out of your neck,
even if it looks cool in photos. You can play a lot better if you blow and draw
nice and easy.”
This
year’s Bug Jar Fest at Highland Bowl
prevailed despite a steady rain that seemed only to let up between acts. I
rolled up in time to see The UV Rays in
a full-blown pizza fight with the audience. They sounded great despite hovering
towards the rear of the stage in an effort to keep dry and keep sauce off their
nice clothes.
Sounding
like a perfect marriage between The Grinders and Dead Blue Hand, The Blastoffs played loud, fast, and
drunk.
The Bloody Hollies sounded tight as ever with pop punk hooks and a bass player that spent most of
the time in the air.
Detroit’s
25 Suaves followed with a really,
really, really loud set of edgy, metallic music. The drummer was playing her
head off by the looks of it but was completely steamrolled by the guitar’s
sheer volume. In an effort to thank The Bug Jar staff for the invite and those
who braved the weather — and admonish those who didn’t — the band’s
frontman used the beloved f-word so much it lost all meaning or importance.
We Ragazzi was
quirky and poppy and unique since all their songs sounded like bridges of
songs. No verses, no choruses, but more of a melodic feeling around in the
dark.
Before
their headline set, Toronto’s country-noir sensations The Sadies strolled around the park like specters straight out of a
Jim Thompson novel. They delivered a remarkable, mostly instrumental set full
of twang and redemption. They are simply amazing in their playing and their
writing. And I’m pretty sure the devil likes ’em too.
This article appears in Sep 1-7, 2004.
