Live Shots

EVAN JOHNS

Hole in the Wall, September 3

It was like something out of a Krzystof Kieslowski film: Evan Johns doing a
warm-up show for his Danny Gatton tribute. Gatton was a guitarist out of D.C.
who achieved near-legendary status in small circles of guitar players and
industry hipsters. He was also Johns’ mentor. Not long ago, Gatton committed
suicide, never having broken out of relative obscurity. Johns, a fixture around
Austin for many years, hasn’t really done much of late, helping him slide from
local notoriety to semi-anonymity as well. With Johns’ lack of recent
productivity, generating excitement is problem enough, and when three of the
four people who took the stage for his gig at the Hole in the Wall looked like
they’d already put middle age behind them, it was tough not to think, “Oh, no.
Has-beens recycling the same mediocre 12-bar crap.” No way, no day. Johns tore
shit up. Seated in a chair, he did it without gimmicks, just his hands. Johns
may have been warming up for his Gatton tribute, but his part-dirt, part-twang
playing was like a homage to a whole mess of other often overlooked greats —
Roy Buchanan, Albert Lee, Link Wray — complemented by rhythm parts that ranged
from straight Chuck Berry to revved-up Carl Perkins. It was loose with a
thrown-together enthusiasm; and it was from the gut with a recklessness that
just pushed the edge of sloppy. It was small-scale brilliance. Youngsters on
the rockin’ side of the country core thang should be this well-versed in their
history, and this good with their chops. And to think, the whole thing was
witnessed by no more than about a dozen people. “Alex, I’ll take Parallel Lives
for $1000 please.”
— Michael Bertin

White Rabbit, September 4

It’s tough not being English. Especially when you’re from South Carolina and
hurricane Hobbes (or whatever) is about to “destroy our hometown” as you take
the stage in some empty club in the heart of Texas. Of course, The Drag’s
anglophile lead singer, Chance, didn’t bemoan his American birth even as CNN
was showing footage of Carolina storefronts being boarded up. No, it was the
Quarrymen haircuts three-fifths of the young band sported that gave away their
probable futbol dreams of grandeur — the haircuts, a Mitch
Easter-produced debut, Satellites Beaming Back at You, and 50 minutes on
stage at the White Rabbit. “This is our first single,” announced Chance, as the
band launched into “Our Race Cars,” but if radio and MTV don’t care, why should
30 people fresh into a new semester at UT? Not that this stopped the skinny `n’
scruffy, second hand store-bought, fashion-challenged band from shaking,
shimmying and otherwise jangling their way through most of their debut. Chance,
in particular, shook his mop top, tambourine, and bootie, as if he were
following Pulp at some imaginary Wembley Stadium extravaganza, catching some
glam on “Die a Little” and a lot of Oasis on “Super 8.” Yet, at this point, the
crowd couldn’t even be bothered to put down their beers and put their hands
together. The band were good sports about it all, leaving no doubts of their
sincerity, but one question unanswered: Why were a bunch of pop-happy
Anglophiles opening for Southern jam brain-wash guru Col. Bruce Hampton?
Probably the same reason why another Island Records act, Gavin Friday, played
to a similarly non-existent White Rabbit crowd a few months back. No-brain
booking agents. — Raoul Hernandez

Continental Club, September 5

This… is… Jeopardy! Today the categories are: Country, Blues,
Rockabilly, Southerners, Big Guys in Black Cowboy Hats, Human Jukeboxes, and
Potpourri. Please phrase your answer in the form of a question, and that
question is Who Is Sleepy Labeef? Answer: A 60-year-old Arkansan, playing with
guys young enough to court his 15-year-old daughter, and one who hasn’t lost a
step in kicking out the full-tilt Southern boogie he started back when Elvis
fixed air conditioners and Chuck Berry was as old as his dates continue to be.
Drawing on a repertoire that can skip from Buck Owens to Big Joe Turner to
Ernest Tubb to Tony Joe White in a heartbeat, LaBeef doesn’t repeat himself,
ever, but his backbeats are always full of big rhythm and phat blues. He can
still play all night long, too, just like he did at this Continental gig,
twanging that six-string like an Indian brave’s bowstring for hours on end.
Easily one of the hardest-rocking, death-defying, gut-bucketing shows I’ve seen
all year, and yet there was only a handful of people there to see it. Think
I’ll take “Crimes of the Century” for $100, Alex.
— Christopher Gray

Southpark Meadows, September 7

“Hootie & the Blowfish Kicks Ass.” That’s the lighted message that
scrolled across the underside of an airplane which started flying over the
crowd at the Meadows just prior to the show. “Kicks Ass?” Uh, maybe not. Except
for guitarist Mark Bryan’s forced attempts to appear like he was “rocking out”
late in the set, the band was notably unanimated on stage — the innocuous-pop
equivalent of shoe-gazers. But give the guys in the band credit for mastering
the obvious. They realized that by doing A, B, and C on record, they’ve sold a
bazillion CDs, so, by extension, it only makes sense to give them A, B, and C
in concert. That’s what they did: letter-perfect, note-for-note reproductions
of the hits. Yet this common-sensical approach has unintended consequences.
Hootie has gotten locked into this kind of hell where it’s now held hostage by
the expectations of its fans. In order to maintain any connection with the
audience, the band could play only Hootie material and play it only as it
appears on record; any deviation was unacceptable. For the Hootie hits, the
crowd was up and singing, dancing, etc., but midway through the set, Hootie
breaks into a decent cover of “(What’s So Funny `Bout) Peace Love and
Understanding.” For the first time all night, people sat and got quiet because
they didn’t know the song. It happened twice. The band came out for its encore
and covered The Reivers. The crowd became confused as they impatiently waited
for the inevitable playing of “Hold My Hand.” That probably says more about the
crowd, though, than the band. Bob Dylan once suggested replacing concert
reviews with informal exit polls, and, instead of printing their opinions,
reviewers should just report the prevailing opinions of the concert-goers.
Fine, using that method of assessment, maybe the band did kick ass. But that
also probably says more about the crowd than the band. —
Michael Bertin

Southpark Meadows, September 7

A couple years back, when hell froze over and the Eagles reunited, Glen Frey
had some pointed remarks for the media, who were raising a stink over the
band’s charging upwards of $200 for concert tickets. They’re the only ones
complaining, he said, and they got their tickets for free! Well, I
didn’t pay $45 for my Sting tickets, but I’m gonna complain anyway. I’m gonna
complain because it’s shows like this one where people shell out upwards of $65
(food, beer, T-shirts, programs, etc.) that leaves ’em with zilcho the rest of
the week to pay a $5 cover at the Hole in the Wall. And for what? Nothing they
couldn’t get from slapping the new Sting CD, Mercury Falling, on their
home stereo. Certainly, there was nothing else remarkable going on here. First
off, Gordon, get a real opener; not even God could help Christian
rockers Jars of Clay turn their watered-down rock into wine. Second, what’s
this 80-minute main set? One hour from alterna-rocker-of-the-moment at Liberty
Lunch is plenty, but with your back catalog, Sting? I don’t think so. Consult
the Rolling Stones about arena spectacles. You say you disbanded the Police for
just such a reason? Why, then, did the “Aaaeee-oohs” and big rawk light show
during “Synchronicity II” elicit the biggest cheers of the night? “Roxanne”
sounded better from Eddie Murphy in 48 Hours, and it was nasty pasting
the intro to “Bring On the Night” onto “When the World Is Running Down You Make
the Best of What’s Still Around.” (The former is such a gem and the latter is
befitting of the long, limp jam it received.) “Fields of Gold” and “Englishman
in New York,” were welcome delicacies, but “Set Them Free” and “Every Little
Thing She Does Is Magic” sounded like red-headed step-children. In fact, little
but the new material sounded anything but perfunctory, and even those tunes
sounded just like the record. This works okay with Rush, but with Mr. Sumner
you might as well be watching VH-1. Only when he brought a random audience
member on-stage — Reza from Houston (greeted by a chorus of boos from the
upwards of 8,000 Austinites in attendance) — to sing “I’m So Happy I Can’t
Stop Crying,” was their a spark of spontaneity or fun. Otherwise, it was murder
by numbers… one… two… three…. — Raoul Hernandez

Broken Spoke, September 8

Coming from a family as steeped in the 12 steps as mine, it’s only natural
that every once in a while I experience a moment of clarity. Sitting in the
Broken Spoke, listening to Ray Benson and company segue from “San Antonio Rose”
into “Deep Water” and then “Ida Red,” it happened: This is as good as it gets.
This was Clifton Chenier at Slim’s Y-Ki-Ki, the Dead at the Fillmore, Patti
Smith at CBGB’s. There was a little extra spring in the promenade of dancers’
steps, the neon — especially the Bud Light George Strait and the Miller Lite
Texas Tornado signs — seemed to have an extra glow, and the
fiddle/steel/saxophone Big Western Swing Band sound was extra sweet. Two sets
worth, too, of standards (“Long Black Veil,” “Waltz Across Texas,” “Smoke,
Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette”), genre-benders (“Route 66,” “God Bless the
Child”) and anthems, including my personal favorite, “Old Enough to Know
Better, Still Too Young to Care.” It was enough to restore my faith in music,
Texas, Texas music, and the Lord God Almighty. I went to bed Sunday night
praying my own version of the serenity prayer: God grant me the serenity to
accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and
the wisdom not to miss shows like this. Amen. — Christopher Gray

This article appears in September 13 • 1996 and September 13 • 1996 (Cover).