Heat Stroke

Photo By John Anderson

Take away the errant pair of fastballs Roger Clemens express-mailed to Albert Pujols and Scott Rolen, and it might well be the hometown Houston Astros up on the big screen here at Rudyard's. Sadly, the baseball fates elected to extend the Bayou City's futility streak yet another year, so Fox beams us the St. Louis Cardinals and suddenly blessed Boston Red Sox in Game 1 of the fall classic. Upstairs at this cozy pub in Montrose, one of the few hipster enclaves in Houston, Amplified Heat unpacks their gear. Or what's left of it.

"We just have a van full of shit," grumbles bassist Gian Ortiz, at 25 the youngest of Austin's three Amplified Heat brothers. "It's just so full of junk. We're hauling around a bunch of broken equipment."

The eldest Ortiz, Jim, cracked the headstock of his Stratocaster in Pittsburgh, but found some superglue and now chuckles that it sounds better than before he broke it. A similar fate has befallen every last one of drummer Chris Ortiz's cymbals.

"I'd say everyone's equipment has taken some form of abuse," the timekeeper allows.

Luckily, Amplified Heat is supporting Dixie Witch on the Texas Trios Takeover Tour, making the final stop of its first leg in Houston this Saturday evening. The Denton transplants (see sidebar) have been more than willing to loan the Ortizes whatever they need to get through another 50-minute stampede of snarling blues-metal. Dixie Witch are also inveterate road dogs, something Amplified Heat can't cop to quite yet – these past three weeks barnstorming the Midwest, Northeast, and South have been their first-ever on tour. Thanks to their tour mates, the experience has been more pleasant than they expected.

"We're definitely blessed with all the people Dixie Witch know," says Gian. "Anywhere we went, we had a place to stay. Some people fed us. They let us shower and shit. It wasn't two or three weeks without showering, not eating for a day and a half."

Amplified Heat may be newcomers to touring, but the Ortizes are already well into their second decade of playing together. Jim, now 32, first picked up a guitar around age 13. Chris followed not long after, and even though the elder two wouldn't let him play with them at first, Gian strapped on a guitar and plugged away in the other room until his brothers came around. Playing garages and parties, to crowds that usually topped out around 30 people, they forged a sound that combined the plodding heaviness of the death metal popular in their native northwest Houston with the blues-based classic-rock licks of Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, and Cream. They bicker and squabble like any other siblings, but musically, the Ortizes have always been on the same page.

"Anytime Chris got into Black Sabbath, I would get into Black Sabbath," confirms Gian. "Sharing that created a tightness. Don't get me wrong, we've been very sloppy, but there's still some kind of nice chemistry about it."

Chris was the first Ortiz to move to Austin, in late 1997. He did some gigs as a sideman, and was kicked out of one band for being "too loud." Jim came to town about a year later, and the duo began hitting various open-mic blues nights, christening themselves Blues Condition after the similarly titled Cream song. (At their first official local show, they were mislabeled Blues Connection.) Gian finally came aboard for good after sitting in with his brothers one night at the 311 Club, narrowly averting a move to College Station. The trio eventually scored a residency at Babe's, where they tightened their chops, but came to realize their name might be giving people the wrong idea. Sixth Streeters would wander in expecting something along the lines of Stevie Ray Vaughan or B.B. King, only to discover something else entirely.

"We were never a traditional band, and I guess the name gave people that impression," says Jim. "When they'd come in, they'd see three longhaired guys onstage with big amps playing loud. It's not what they expected."

"We had a lot of this," nods Chris, putting his hands over his ears.

The trio knocked around as Blues Condition for a few more years, never quite connecting with crowds until they landed on Red River, where long hair and big amps are practically the industry standard. Influenced by the full-tilt bands they shared bills with, their sound grew even heavier and less straight blues than before. In May of last year, they decided to ditch their original name and start fresh as Amplified Heat. Once again, they cribbed the name from a Cream song, this time Wheels of Fire's "Pressed Rat and Warthog."

"It was more like a natural evolution, I guess," figures Jim. "The music started getting heavier and heavier without us thinking about it. You can only play shuffles for so long."

After the name change, the Ortizes' datebook began to fill up almost of its own accord. It's not unusual to see Amplified Heat on the marquee at Room 710 one night, Headhunters the next, and Beerland or Emo's a night or two after that. Their overnight ubiquity got the attention of local label Arclight Records, home to such avatars of heaviness as Speedloader and Hognose, and in short order they were in Austin's Republic Studios working on debut In for Sin. Recorded in a month, Sin could be the soundtrack to a shoestring-budget road movie starring Motörhead (another early inspiration) and Elmore James on a tequila-fueled joyride to God knows where in a '59 Chevy Bel Air like the one Jim plans on restoring when he gets back to Austin.

"Music is the only motivation I know of," says Gian. "Besides chasing girls. It's funny how that goes together. Along with cars, too."

Back at Rudz, as it's affectionately known to Houstonians, Mark Bellhorn's two-run shot lifts the Red Sox to victory and the Fenway crowd to rapture. Amplified Heat, meanwhile, are demonstrating the advantages of three solid weeks of shows, even though they're doing it entirely on Dixie Witch's gear. Chris flails away like Animal from The Muppet Show, knocking over both his snare and hi-hat, which Gian thoughtfully restores to their proper upright position. Jim dedicates the rustic "Drivin'" to his girlfriend, Lisa, and in fact all three Amplified Heat significant others – Chris, 28, is the only one sporting a wedding ring – stand down front opposite their men. Three weeks is a long time, you know. The intensity picks up steadily until it finally, inevitably, boils over, prompting one excited audience member to exclaim, "Keep on rippin', man!"

Provided their equipment holds out, that shouldn't be a problem.