Live Shots
Fri., Nov. 20, 1998
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BUICK MACKANE
Babe's, November 7
It was the best of shows, it was the worst of shows. It was a Buick MacKane show. "It's been 370 days since the last time these guys played together," announced KLBJ beacon/Buick booster Johnny Walker from the stage by way of introduction. And for once in the band's long, tumultuous history, '97's South by Southwest showcase notwithstanding, there was actually a roomful of people to applaud -- applaud the fact that the sometimes volatile Austin quartet, which went on semi-permanent hiatus last fall when bassist David Fairchild moved to the Bay Area, was resurrected for a Saturday night show on "historic" Sixth Street. With a sputter and a cough, the band came to life, its cold engine turning over with the usual opener, Alejandro Escovedo's "The End." A tribute to Iggy Pop and Marc Bolan a decade prior to Velvet Goldmine's glamorization of the heretofore musically footnoted movement, Escovedo and drummer Glenn Benavides' hard thrashing black shiny beast has long played Mr. Hyde to the No Depression icon's more stately Dr. Jekyll singer-songwriter side. The smile on Escovedo's face as the band segued into another of his solo staples, "Gravity," then lit into Iggy Pop's "Everybody Loves Me," left little doubt of his affection for the long-running side project. "It feels good to get back on the bike again," he said, grinning. The band continued to push the needle into the red, hammering out lurching riffs with "Big Shoe Head," "Falling Down Again," and the band's unofficial theme song from their low-budget debut The Pawn Shop Years, "John Conquest, You've Got Enough Dandruff on Your Collar to Bread a Veal Cutlet." Twenty minutes in, Buick MacKane was clearly hitting on all cylinders. That, of course, is when it broke down. "How many of you were here to see Artimus Pyle last night?" asked Escovedo. Starting with that wisecrack, and for the next 45 minutes, the charismatic frontman's nonstop stage patter sabotaged any forward momentum his band could muster more surely than a broken axle. Then the Jaegermeister came out, and Escovedo, who has hepatitis C, a deadly blood disorder affecting the liver, made every sip look painful. Just as painful was the band going through the motions on Buick beauts like "She's Got" (a True Believers song), "Paradise," "Say Goodnight," "Castanet," and "Queen Anne." "That was beautiful," said Escovedo grimly, walking off stage. Already emptying at this point, 1:35am, the club nevertheless welcomed the band back for an encore, Mott the Hoople's "All the Young Dudes," which though typically sloppy, was heartfelt. In fact, the song did nothing less than bring the band roaring back to life, provoking another full, hour-long set of slamming cover tunes, among them Oasis' "Supersonic," the Rolling Stones' "Shine a Light," and Rod Stewart's "Hot Legs." When the band tore into another delicious Iggy Pop-Tart, "Loose," second guitarist Joe Eddy Hines and Escovedo bearing down on the song's fierce, swaggering bombast, then finished the evening off by hitting the magic chord in Neil Young's "Hurricane," Buick MacKane proved why some locals had been waiting 370 days for this reunion: They were the best bar band in Austin. Sometimes the worst. -- Raoul Hernandez
TIKTOK
Chillin', KOOP Studios, November 9
In 1983, brothers Roger and Brian Eno, along with Daniel Lanois, were commissioned to create the music for a film of the Apollo missions. The result, Apollo Atmospheres & Soundtracks, is a stellar accompaniment to Al Reinert's brilliant film. The soundtrack's lack of a structured and obvious beat evokes the weightlessness experienced by Apollo's cosmic sailors. On a recent, silvery-gray Monday installment of KOOP's Chillin', one of the community radio station's flagship programs, a laid-back, free-form hour that eases you into that morning coffee buzz, Travis Hartnett created a similar weightless aural aura. Under the moniker Tiktok, Austin's one-man ambient band played guitar, but his high-slung, gloss-black Strat was transported through a series of processors and foot pedals, creating sparse soundscapes that wafted through the air like so much incense smoke. While similar to Lanois and the Eno brothers's work, in a few respects Tiktok's accomplishments were more impressive. Lanois and the Enos were inspired by Reinert's work (a stirring film culled from over 6,000,000 feet of celluloid shot during the space missions). Hartnett's inspiration, his creative muse, his mood at the time, was more abstract. And the local musician didn't have the luxury of studio recording (where he spends the majority of his playing time, as opposed to the live arena); the two unique compositions were simultaneously composed, performed, and sent out across the frequency modulated radio waves. This temporal musical event was made possible by Harnett's masterful manipulating, coaxing, and massaging the controlling parameters of his equipment, tools called "Vortex," "Echoplex," and "Whammy II." If it all sounded kinda trippy over the radio, it was completely fascinating to view in person. As Carter York, the man behind Chillin', said on-air between the spontaneous pieces, "It's mesmerizing to sit here and watch this music performed in the studio -- just a man, his guitar, and a big rack of toys." Given the resultant patina, it's doubtful that even the intensely mild-mannered Hartnett was aware of the many impressive interactions and integrations occurring in the loft radio control room. But damned if he don't know how to create them. -- David Lynch
LAURA SCARBOROUGH
Highlife Cafe, November 11
The leisurely pace with which Laura Scarborough brought her piano to tune and her music to life made it seem as if the low-key Highlife Cafe, adequately populated with people involved in books and conversation as it is on most nights, was in for an evening of pleasant background music. But this mellow introduction was merely a warm-up, and after Scarborough set up her mike and amp, the room took on a different demeanor. Not to say that all activity ceased -- of course not -- but for those who sat and listened, or even looked up periodically from what they were doing, from the time she started in on "My Funny Valentine," Scarborough's performance was more than simple ambience. Her selections wandered through some jazz standards like "Summertime" and "Solitude" as well as a number of original compositions, all of them carrying well the delicate and classical bent of this local musician's piano playing. Straight chords played full and true with a few tasteful variations and improvisations, going a half-step off for impact and mood, coming back in a smooth slide. Her singing is reminiscent of Billie Holiday; packed into the high and wispy strains of her vocal lines are the simultaneous vulnerability and power that Lady Day made her own. Of course, this was a quiet show, so the depth or magnitude of her voice was never an issue, and thus never determined. A certain stoic resolve permeated the direct lyrics of her own songs, like the confrontational "Face Up" and "Deception," as well as her instrumentals -- waltzes and blues alike. As the room filled and the volume of the general murmur rose, Scarborough didn't try to compete, preferring instead to sit, play, sing as though she knew they were still listening. And if they weren't, it didn't really matter. Whether she was interpreting Claude Debussy or Jeff Buckley, or offering up her own recent writings, the total focus and inhibited swagger with which she approached every tune suggest that Scarborough's voice won't remain in the background. -- Christopher Hess
THE BROKEN SPOKE'S 34TH BIRTHDAY
Broken Spoke, November 12
"We're the last of the true Texas dance halls and damn sure proud of it!" So came the familiar boast from Spoke owner James White, and if he delivered it with a little extra kick tonight, it was understandable. This here was the Spoke's gen-u-ine 34th Birthday Party (with cake and everything); in celebration of all those years of "keepin' it country," White threw a free dance at the only joint in town that could reasonably staple up chickenwire without blowing the atmosphere. And so the high fiddle flew over the heightened chuck and chatter of the Spoke, layin' down time for all that close-dancing. It was the regular Spoke blend, cowpokes mixed with city slickers, good ol' gals and alterna-chicks side by side, all of it accented by 10-gallon hats, Pearl on tap, and the what boom? mentality of James White. Among the notables onstage, both Don Walser and the Derailers turned in fine sets, although the cattle-call proceedings of the 10-band bill left little room for anything new from those Spoke stalwarts. Among the lesser-knowns, give an extra-crispy chicken-fried steak to ugly sumbitch Chuck Barnes for his low-lunged, marble-mouthed, featherdustin' delivery, and a ladleful of cream gravy to James Hand for his warble-tenored heartache ballads. Hell, throw in a can of Pearl for openers Stop the Truck, on the strength of "Ramona" alone. Less exciting were the more-willing-than-thrilling combo Big Iron, the saltine-boring Chris Wall, and the semi-legendary Alvin Crow, who did a fine job as master of ceremonies but whose vocal chops don't quite match his fiddlin' finesse. And kudos to White for a game rendition of "Back in the Saddle Again" (whoopie-ti-yi-yo indeed). "We rolled through the Sixties, the Seventies, the Eighties, and the Nineties," said White during his trademark "yaller mustard" monologue. "With y'all's help we'll roll to the year 2000!" If the satisfied schwiff-schwuff of bootsoles across the Spoke's concrete dance floor was any indication, that shouldn't be any problem. -- Jay Hardwig
CON RUMBA SON
Miguel's La Bodega, November 14
Is it any wonder Afro-Caribbean music enjoys increasing devotion from both song and dance fans? For those familiar with the music, this attention is more than justified: Afro-Caribbean's upbeat vocal harmonies and complex yet danceable merengue, conga, and salsa rhythms easily earn the genre's respected reputation. Perhaps most importantly, this dancing-fuel music is deeply fun stuff. In a recent engagement in one of their frequented local venues, Miguel's La Bodega, one of Austin's Afro-Caribbean bands, Con Rumba Son, held court. If one were to judge the success or failure of the group's gig by the effect that their folkloric torch songs and dancing music had on the audience, the nine-piece (horns, piano, bass, and mucho percussion) was a dead-on hit. Yet it was really no mistake that the dance floor was packed; the darkly and smartly dressed group came to swing, and we ain't talking about moves like "the Wimby" or "the white man's overbite" here, but seriously tight, twisting, and twirling -- saucy dances like the "Pepper Escalante." Led by Maestro de Orquesta and lead singer Ramon Calderon, and driven by popping congas and syncopated piano runs, the band packed the dance floor so full that spinning couples literally overflowed into the establishment's dining area. Given the group's name, it's no surprise that selections from the three sets included examples in son and rumba tradition, but bolero, cha-cha-cha, and mambo tunes also came forth from the stage. And in spite of the fact that they hadn't played at Miguel's warehouse restaurant-bar in about a month, the tight group appeared relaxed on stage from the get-go, hitting stride during the second song of the second set, a Latinized extended jam version of the Miles Davis standard "So What." For those few hours, Miguel's was a community clave: Half of the band furnished melody, the other half a densely danceable rhythm. The audience provided the inspiration, willing ears, and hips. Infectious and irresistible. If Habana is anything like this, I'm packing my bags. -- David Lynch
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