A
couple of Thursdays back The Badenovs paced
and raged on The Bug Jar stage with lots of textbook crazy and new-wave cool.
Badenov carrot-top newbie and ex-Profile Greg Hassett dwarfed his Telecaster
while still making it roar. It’s good to see the big man back, slingin’ on the
bandstand.
Frontman
Stan “The Man” led the charge and won the argument with an element of
exasperated fun; master of the low-bottom and City Newspaper food guru Adam Wilcox hovered between Michael
Anthony monotone thunder and Jaco Pastorius burp-gun noodling.
They
warmed up for The Earl Cram Revue,
who hit the stage already in a full gallop singing — and erotically purring
— about, among other things, the anonymous thrill of glory holes. Ah, don’t
you just wanna Tijuana?
Roots-rock’s
legendary darling Rosie Flores celebrated
her birthday at The Dinosaur BBQ last Friday. She picked so mean but sang so
sweet, covering the Beatles’ “Birthday” every time an audience member bought
her a shot of tequila. I heard the tune at least seven times so you know Rosie
was good ‘n’ warmed up, leading her new quartet through her many hits and
loves.
Rosie
invited me and baritone extraordinaire Croonin’
Curt on stage so she could cut a little slice of rug herself. I explained
that I now play like a caveman. Not batting an eye, Flores told me, “Hey, even
a caveman’s got soul.”
And
speaking of primitive, G. Love and
Special Sauce served up a load of primal grooves and hip-hop boogie —
guitar, bass, and drums style — to a sold-out Water Street Music Hall last
Saturday night. Loads of pretty young things filled the joint. Even ol’ Mary
Jane wafted in here and there. Gee, I haven’t smelled her since the last time I
saw The Black Crowes.
G.
busted out some real authentic Mississippi Delta gutbucket and sang in a kinda
drunken, haphazard rap-drawl. The drummer was incredible and got me thinkin’:
hip-hop ain’t nothin’ but fractured funk. Lots of young kids piled up against
the stage (a good vibe = no barricade) to dig the handsome young trio as they
served up stuff that, if done by old, crotchety, black bluesmen, they wouldn’t
have paid no nevermind. And that’s the truth.
I
hit The Little Theatre Cafรฉ two times this week and caught — on separate
occasions — Trio East and Diane Armesto. Trio East leaned into it
grande with the trumpet player blowing his entire solo during “Caravan” into a
coffee mug as opposed to the standard toilet plunger.
You
know, the next time I get coffee, I’m gonna put cream, sugar, and Caravan in it and sip away in
Ellington elegance with a slurp and a smile. And speaking of elegance,
Armesto’s tone and phrasing are warm and laid way back, but she fills the room
with a big sound and cool pleasure.
Tom Hannney’s harmonica tip number 2: don’t share harmonicas. You wouldn’t share toothbrushes,
would you?
Looking
like The Young 97’s, The Old 97’s are some of the best songwriters I know. Every song seems to speak to each
listener in one way or another. You just shoulda seen all the people at the
Dallas quartet’s Tuesday night show at The Tralf (Buffalo) singing along to
some of the older tunes like “Roller Skate Skinny,” a cover of Merle Haggard’s
“Mama Tried,” and new ones like “Bloomington.”
Show
opener Chuck Prophet (ex-Green On
Red) played some great singer-songwriter rock that relied heavy on guitar hooks
and his compelling voice. Prophet and his band looked kinda scruffy, but it
looked like they had planned it that way. The 97’s, on the other hand, looked
like they had slept in their clothes.
No
matter — they sounded slick and rocked a joint that slowly filled up. It
seems the audience was getting drunk at the Friday’s across the street. The
Tralf’s new management hasn’t secured a liquor license yet, and diggin’ country
— even if it’s alt-country — on gun soda and bottled water just don’t cut
it.
Angry Johnny & The Killbillies honked and tonked this past Saturday at The Bug Jar with the
debut of The Scarlets, The Husbands, and The Bloody Hollies. Murder and the lust that leads up to murder
were everywhere, with Johnny’s art on the walls and his band on the stage. The
man paints and plays in blood.
Both
his music and art pay tribute to the serial killer and varying degrees of
macabre madness with a sort of self-reflection and ironic accusation. And for
those alarmed by Angry Johnny’s paintbrush or battered guitar: he’s speaking to
you, and about you, more than you
think.
The
Bloody Hollies followed. They just get better and better, incorporating some
slippery slide into the sleaze — and I like that.
Gabba
gabba hey — Johnny Ramone rest in
peace.
This article appears in Sep 22-28, 2004.
