Waterloo Ice House 38, May 19

I was but an interloper at this affair honoring Walter Hyatt, who died in the ValuJet plane crash on May 11. My knowledge of Hyatt's music was but second-hand until a friend pointed out his involvement in a Lyle Lovett song, and it was then I realized I'd heard his work for years and didn't know it. Unfortunately, my participation in this event was also second-hand, since by 7:30pm Waterloo Ice House was already packed, and as many as 30 people -- including myself -- had no choice but to stand on planters, in flower beds (where the ants made meals my of ankles), and on the concrete walls just to get the merest glimpse of the musicians inside. Christine Albert's renditions of two Hyatt songs seemed the most spirited of what I saw. She seemed ready to burst into tears, but kept her composure, channeling the emotion into the music. The real tribute though, was the crowd, and not just for its size. There was a heavy air that surrounded the show and spilled into the surrounding blocks. An observer could feel the aggregate sense of loss and dedicated refusal to let a friend pass from this world without one big, raging goodbye. Tears streamed down many cheeks, but there was as much laughter. I was struck by the few people who obviously didn't want to join the event, choosing to keep their grief private. They simply drove up, ran in the front door, left their monetary donation for the family, hugged a few people, kissed a few cheeks, and ran back out the door before their hearts had a chance to leap from their throats. And as multitudes of indifferent autos passed on 38th Street, not a few times did some driver or passenger yell "Walter!" What finer tribute is there?
-- Joe Mitchell

Continental Club, May 20 & May 26

Nashville's vanguard of rockabilly folk, BR5-49, may have given Lower Broadway a much-needed kick in the ass, but their peculiar brand of souped-up traditionals is a sweet stroke for Austin's country fans. For two nights at the Continental Club last week, it was a veritable homecoming party for the out-of-towners, who were last seen in town for a South by Southwest outdoor stage appearance. Their first show on a Monday night was no slouch, but a week later on Sunday, BR5-49 rode the edge of the rails -- starting with a couple of Bob Wills tunes and a fast-talkin' fiddle. By the time they'd moved through some Johnny Horton, Conway Twitty, and Buck Owens, they had the packed crowd elbowing each other for dancing room -- just in time for "Hillbilly Boogie" and "Bettie Bettie," about a Tennessee girl who left the small time for a spread in Hustler. Frontmen Chuck Mead and Gary Bennett didn't dispense with tradition just because they're away from home base at Robert's Western World, either; the tip jar made its round at the Continental with the usual threats and came back full. Then, just to remind you that they're homeboys, they yanked out that old Tennessee mountain traditional, "Knoxville Girl" before delivering a knock-down version of "Ol' Slewfoot" with Don Herron on dobro/mandolin. And lest you forget they're complete smartasses and that this whole bluegrass thing may just be a comedic vehicle, the forbidden pleasures of bushwacking and dope smoking with "Opie & Me" were there in the end to remind you.
-- Louisa C. Brinsmade

Blue Flamingo, May 22

Blort are a curious band: guitars with firm metal roots leaning toward art-noise, drumming in a tribal vein, and distorted bass of the sort favored by industrial bands. Anything can happen, and at this show, seriously challenged by Guitar Wolf down the street at Emo's, it did. There was some hardcore punk, spooky slide guitar over a stuttering beat, and when they got to the grinding of "Lord of the Flies" ("I will be there when you die/my maggot soldiers will eat your eyes"), they just reveled in the metalness of it all. They threw in some demented Texas rockabilly and brought all the elements together perfectly with "Jihad." New Braunfels' Latex Animal came from a canceled Back Room show to replace Squatthrust, and proved to be a pleasant anomaly with a short set of emotive pop-punk songs. Schmegma seemed to be a very young band, but should have a bright future at the Blue Flamingo. The music had the funk thrash feel of Rage Against the Machine, with phenomenal bass playing. The singer though, came out in a snakeskin vest and fishnets, which soon dropped to revel some serious bondage gear, and then, his Self. Definitely not kids' stuff.
-- Ken Hunt

Mexic-Arte, May 23

As with any wedding, first came the toasts; by mayor pro-tem Gus Garcia, then by Sylvia Orozco, executive director of Mexic-Arte, and lastly by Cameron Randle, father of the Arista-Texas family, who proclaimed Flaco Jimenez's music the "crossroads of two cultures." With that, the fiesta began, and the 200-plus, SRO crowd gathered in the exhibit space of this Fifth and Congress cultural-arts museum didn't waste any time leaping from their seats onto the dance space in front of the small stage where Jimenez and his backing trio were churning out selections from the conjunto king's new disc, Buena Suerte, Senorita. The music also signaled a small-scale riot from the children in the crowd, a stampede to the bar by happy-faced party-goers, and general back-slapping and mingling from the familiar-looking throng. Jimenez, meanwhile, his hooded eyes and gold-tooth smile looking lizard-like against a backdrop exhibit of "Mascaras Mexicanas" (a collection of gargoyled Mexican masks), wasn't having such a good time and broke after 30 minutes saying, "get a beer and get drunk." And while he returned to the stage
15 minutes later sans a Tecate can, the effects of fiesta fuel could clearly be felt in Jimenez's relentless, 45-minute second set, which featured singer/bajo sexto player Oscar Tellez and bassist Max Baca keeping pace with the furiously cranking accordion sounds of their determined employer and veteran merry-maker. Only Doug Sahm, who walked in towards the end of the early evening soiree and stood briefly in front of the stage -- wanting perhaps to sing with his fellow Tornado -- came away without kissing the bride. Sad. The fiesta could have used him. But then this wasn't really a wedding -- rather, it was a benefit for Mexic-Arte. Still, it was the best damn union of two cultures I've been to in a long time.
-- Raoul Hernandez

Electric Lounge, May 24

Acetone stuck mainly with the oozing tempos and ethereal progressions that mark its second and most recent recording, If Only You Knew, foregoing most of the upbeat fuzz of its debut CD, Cindy. Although those familiar only with the Los Angeles trio's first effort may have been perplexed at the band's change in the low-fi direction, nobody seemed disappointed in guitarist Mark Lightcap's sublimely understated playing, which merged beautifully with bassist Richie Lee's murky undercurrent, and drummer Steve Hadley's rolling drum riffs and splashy cymbal waves. The total effect was that of a jello-sea sound that the musicians have presently settled into after nine years together. Most impressive about Lightcap, who switched from a Gibson semi-hollowbody to a souped-up Yamaha halfway through the show, was his ability to refrain from the flashy, pointless rock solo that holds nothing save for the performer and a few other guitarists in the crowd. Focusing rather on gentle, suspended chords and enough whammy bar to evoke images of Emilio Estevez chasing a radioactive car down the streets of L.A., Lightcap subtly entranced his listeners, allowing Lee's thin vocals to add to the overall sound instead of detracting from it. Several times the band brushed off requests for songs from its first recording, claiming on one such occasion near the end of the show that their "play list had the best selections." Although some audience members may not have appreciated the response, it's hard not to respect Acetone's confidence, considering that few bands have the guts and talent to pull off such a drastic change in sound from their first album to their second.
-- Patrick Earvolino

Catfish Station, May 26

Rudy Ray Moore wants you to believe he's the Godfather of Rap, but that moniker rests firmly, and jointly, on the shoulders of James Brown and Gil Scott-Heron. Moore, in his 60s and bawdy as ever, is much closer to being the Eddie Murray of standup comedy. Like the aging Indians slugger, Moore is a seasoned, cagey veteran who may have lost a step or two over the years, but still swings the microphone as sweetly as ever. The game may have changed quite a bit since Moore was a rookie, but he hasn't changed a lick: his 45-minute routine was loaded with audience-member insults, old warhorses including "The Signifying Monkey," and more pussy jokes than a National Press Club dinner. True, a ribald trip through the ABCs (A for ass, B for bitch, C for cunt, and so forth) may not be exactly the cutting edge of the medium, but think where comedians from Martin Lawrence to Diceman would be without him. (That's right, nowhere.) Eddie Murray got his 3,000th hit last year while helping the Tribe take its first American League flag since 1954; Moore probably said the word "motherfucker" 3,000 times last week and says, "I may be too old to cut the mustard, but I can goddamn sure still lick out the jar." Yeah, jokes like referring to AIDS as "Ass-fuckin' is Dangerous Shit" border on the downright offensive, but when he whips out "Rotatus and the Great Titanic" or the still-side-splitting "Latasha Tae," it's the comedic equivalent of stepping up to the plate in the late innings with the bases loaded and the game on the line. And who else would you want swinging the bat -- or his dick -- than ol' Dolemite himself? -- Christopher Gray