The Austin Chronicle


By Christopher Gray, November 12, 2004, Music

Resurrection (No Doubt)

With I Don't Wanna Be Crazy out Tuesday on Austin's Chicken Ranch Records, Jesus Christ Superfly officially returns to the area's active roster. Although the trio's last album was 1996's Texas Toast, don't call it a comeback. "We never consciously wanted to stop," says singer/guitarist Rick Carney. "It was just a matter of keeping a drummer long enough to make a record and tour." Amused that Maximum Rocknroll referred to Superfly as "aged" in its recent review of Licorice Tree's Shakin' in My Boots compilation, Carney harbors no illusions why he and bassist Ron Williams can't seem to keep a timekeeper. "We don't make any money," he admits. Evidently low paydays aren't a problem for latest skinsman Paul Ortiz, but since his weekend job as a postman precludes him from going on the road, the stool is still open for Superfly's first tour since 1998 next spring. For the new Crazy, Carney says they've abandoned earlier hard rock/metal leanings in favor of "in-your-face, straightforward punk rock & roll," and that producer Spot "willed away the fat." The disc includes covers of the Ramones' "She's the One" and Roy Head's Texas soul staple "Treat Her Right," plus a modified version of the Saints' "Erotic Neurotic." ("Their solos are twice as long," notes Carney.) Beginning with next Thursday's show at Beerland's Creepout, Carney expects Superfly to be around for a while. "We just turned 40," he says. "It's not like we're gonna play golf."

Jolly Good Show

Perhaps the more clairvoyant attendees of last weekend's Austin Celtic Festival at Fiesta Gardens might have foreseen trouble with the addition of boisterous local pirate rockers the Jolly Garogers to the otherwise bucolic bill. That's exactly what happened when festival officials pulled the plug – literally yanking microphone cords from their sockets – on the Garogers three songs into their Sunday set on the floating children's stage. Naturally, the perturbed pirates immediately called for a "mutiny," prompting one panicked staffer to call security, even though the audience wasn't exactly menacing. "It was mostly 5-year-olds dancing like Eeyore's birthday," frontman Captain Phleabag says. Festival staffers maintained the pirates' marauding metal was drowning out an acoustic duo on a nearby stage, while others chalk it up to philosophical differences over how much rock to allow alongside the tin whistles and Celtic harps. "What do you expect? They're pirates!" exclaimed fellow festival performer Spot. Phleabag, meanwhile, remained a little perplexed Monday morning. "I just don't understand the logic in shutting down a situation where there's 150 happy people," he puzzles, "and they weren't even drunk!" The band hopes to book a free make-up date Nov. 21 at either the Dog & Duck Pub or Mother Egan's. Both sides agree there are no hard feelings; Phleabag calls the situation "one of those great Keep Austin Weird stories." At any rate, the Garogers' brouhaha easily trumped the festival's earlier controversy, when several sheep set for the sheepherding demonstration escaped from their pen.

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