Live Shots

Austin Music Hall, October 26 & 27

The second set is always better, and how delicious it was to know this the
minute Bob Dylan stepped onto the Austin Music Hall stage on the second night
of his weekend stand. It was obvious: Gold lam� pants and a white cowboy
hat. Anyone who walks out on stage wearing gold lam� pants and a white
cowboy hat is either Wayne Newton, or someone intent on having some serious
fun. Dylan was a little of both Sunday night. By contrast, his attire the night
before — bluelookingwhiteshirtwaistcoat thang — could only be characterized
as austere, Dickensian. Not that the crowd gave a good goddamn. It was Saturday
night, boy! Best night of the week to get rip roaring drunk. And get drunk they
did — though not just on hooch. Two thousand large got drunk on pure, grain
Dylan: “Down in the Flood, ” “All Along the Watchtower,” “Jokerman,” “I’ll Be
Your Baby Tonight,” “Silvio,” “Mr. Tambourine Man” (acoustic), “Masters of War”
(acoustic), “It Ain’t Me Babe,” “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35,” etc., etc.,
etc. As with his two-night stand last November, arrangements were
longggggg. Groovy, man. Par-tay. ‘Course, you couldn’t hear any
of the words, but Dylan was never about lyrics, right? Always the
guitar-slinger. Or so you’d have thought, as Dylan once again played his Strat
like opener Kenny Wayne Shepherd wished he could — with fire, style, and
sometimes even restraint. Unfortunately, his band wasn’t nearly as good as last
year’s, and though guitarist John Jackson deserves recognition, on the whole,
the evening felt by the numbers. Stiff. Give the people what they want: two
hours, a few anthems, and rock & roll’s premier bard on a Saturday night.
What’s a little inspiration? The difference between the first set and the
second, actually. As with his second show in ’95, this one felt like it was
coming from someone who slept late on a Sunday and woke to Mexican food in
Austin; relaxed, renewed, ready to seize the day. Maybe it was just that the
crowd — hovering around 1,500 — was positively less Sixth Street than the
previous night’s (though nearly as boisterous). Either way, Dylan seemed more
“present” on the Sabbath. “I Want You,” “Queen Jane Approximately,” and
beautiful acoustic versions of “Tangled Up in Blue” (completely reworked) and
“Younger than Yesterday” shimmered like the 100th time you heard them, rather
than the 500th. “Forever Young,” in the number two encore slot, was a nice
surprise, too. Sunday even featured Ray Benson, augmenting Charlie Sexton, who
played nearly 90 minutes over two nights. Yes, the second set was better —
that is, unless you’re counting Dylan ’96 as his second visit to the Music
Hall. If that’s the case, you only missed a pair of gold lam� pants and
a white cowboy hat. And if you missed all four shows, you’ve got a lotta
nerve… — Raoul Hernandez

Cactus Cafe, October 29/October 30

In yonder days of rhetorical fervor, I was quite enamored of a certain Abbie
Hoffman book, Revolution for the Hell of It, part of which reproduced a
pamphlet credited to one “George Metesky,” on how to score free
what-have-you-not in New York City, from food to education to medicine:
“America is the land of the free, and free means you don’t pay.” Therefore,
free show number one at the Cactus Cafe: The Jubilettes, five women of diverse
shapes, sizes, and manner, strumming from none to three acoustics at any given
moment, and two men of forgotten description contributing some easy bass and
drums. The songs are “gospel” (so-called), not mine mind you, but someone’s,
once, and here they are again: swooping, crooning, belting, and cooing in
x-part harmony, an impressive display of individual vocal skills and ensemble
blending. Not a bad trick for a clump of white chicks, who acquitted themselves
equally well on the more country material too. An entertaining show, then, but
as an armchair revolutionary, I have no use for the shuck-and-jive of received
religiosity and despite the fact that the show began with one of the more
mercurial Jubilettes declaiming “Goddamnit, I was trying to tune!,” I would
much rather hear these Jubilettes talents put in service of some higher power:
say the Beach Boys, or Prince. Next night, free show number two: A veritable
five-ring circus, Aunt Beanie’s First Prize Beets are an apparently insoluble
non-force in Austin’s music morass, despite the fact that this trio has more
creative wallop to offer than most of their erstwhile peers. Their music is a
motley amalgam of black and white country blues and all manner of hillbilly
music mixed with early rock & roll and the better varieties of contemporary
folk. Beanie have at least 20 superlative original songs in a variety of
styles, and play an eccentric range of covers ranging from Willie Johnson to
Chuck Berry, Woody Guthrie to Lyle Lovett, and Dock Boggs to Tammy Wynette. If
they had more than one record to offer, I’d say buy, buy, buy so they can make
another, but then that would require cash on the barrelhead. — Brian
Berger

Liberty Lunch, October 31

Why Stereolab was so straight-faced was a mystery. Were the six
electro-geniuses scared by the promise of a spaced-out Halloween show? More
likely, the grim looks on Stereolab’s faces during setup indicated just how
seriously this collective approaches their work, despite being faced with an
extremely quirky audience. The various consumers of the Lab’s product — layers
and layers of aural texture so ethereal you can feel it in the air around you
— packed the club like a classroom of costumed children. Some were
connoisseurs who’d come to seriously inhale the vibes created by the
all-electric machinery: pianos, farfisa organs, analogue synthesizers, vox
organs, bass, guitars, and something the band calls “supercussion.” Other, less
lucid, Austinites were there to party down, accompanied by the soundtrack laid
down by the magicians on stage. Those people could have stayed home with
Stereolab’s last two albums, Mars Audiac Quintet and Emperor Tomato
Ketchup, since much of the band’s set sounded exactly like the majority of
those two discs. But if they’d stayed home, nobody else could have enjoyed the
crazy costumes donned by that quarter of the audience. Unfortunately, many
people were also wearing tight lips, which seemed to have been a reaction to
the disturbingly noisy opening act, Ui, and the none-too-smooth deejaying by
local DJ Spooky. Attempting to groove to his maniacal starts & stops on the
turntables was like damnation to the hell of repeated coitus interruptus. And
some who’d come to the show were just window-shoppers hoping to see who’s
behind the trippy, happy recorded sound — incongruous with the actual band on
stage: the sober faces, straight backs and nearly immobile feet of the three
women and three men. Though clearly not a shoe-gazer, long-time bandmember Mary
Hansen struck a chord with anyone shy and sensitive when, at the end of the
set, she was presented with a birthday cake on stage. With a slight smile she
quietly said, “Thank you,” before picking up her guitar and proceeding to play
the next tight, spiralling, driving rock song. The skill of the demure Hansen
and her bandmates made people smile, but unfortunately the tight lips set in
again after the members of Ui got on stage for a hippie-style jam that sent
people out the doors and into the street. Still, the party continued outside
for a good half-hour, which is exactly what a band should hope to accomplish,
and there’s nothing spooky about that. — Melissa
Rawlins

La Zona Rosa, November 1

Part of the charm and appeal of bands who have established themselves as
peripheral icons of a musical style is that they’re allowed a certain degree of
cheese. They’ve earned it. When Jason & the Scorchers turned it up at La
Zona Rosa last Friday, there was enough finger throwin’ and
guitar-around-the-neck slingin’ to ensure they’d provide the required dosage of
redneck country-rock (now dubbed alt-country). The Scorchers began with
“Self-Sabotage” and “Cappuccino Rosie,” the first two tunes off their latest
release, Clear Impetuous Morning, which were met with the enthusiasm of
an adoring crowd that would have clapped and hooted no matter what they played.
Other new songs, including “Walking a Vanishing Line” and “To Know No Love,”
were played with the same rehearsed abandon. This band does rock (the sheer
volume made sure of that), it’s just that they’re not taking many chances. When
Jason introduced “Going Nowhere” as a song that “will be a standard in
Scorchers’ shows of the future — I feel that strongly about this song” he
wasn’t lying; It sounded enough like everything else to guarantee its inclusion
for the many years to come. And the risk he took by playing “Jeremy’s Legend,”
a standard, guitar-only ballad, illustrated the solid but limited lengths to
which the Scorchers will go. The encores proved the most rousing part of the
night, as they tore through “Drug Store Truck Drivin’ Man” and “Take Me Home
Country Road” at maximum velocity and volume to the sheer delight of the
thinning ranks of screaming fans. Openers Slobberbone proved that the torch lit
by bands like Jason and the Scorchers has been passed into good hands, as their
songs put the required booze-filled heart back into the mix — showing that
there’s room for both change and soul in the resurgence of country-rock. — Christopher Hess

Steamboat, November 2

From the drub of the first song’s opening chord, it was clear that Pushmonkey
was set to deliver some heavy tunes. Then again, you can’t play “Detroit Rock
City” on the PA before you go on and not play some humbucker chunky songs. And
sure enough, they offered the audience their version of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers meet Metallica funk-core, but while the band played cohesively and
amply enough, they didn’t traverse any novel musical territory. Singing from
bawl to banshee, Pushmonkey’s frontman proved a talented and a charismatic
spark for the crowd, but his hair attitude has to go. The Headhunters, on the
other hand, didn’t take themselves nearly as seriously, which is probably why
their feral rockabilly works so well. Their frontman, in addition to some
grindy harp solos, also proved a good onstage focal point, though changes were
also called out by the remarkable round mound of sound on the skins. Add on
super-solid bass playing, and it’d take a month of Sundays to find a rhythm
section as good; they were a perfect foundation for the improvisational guitar
and harp explorations. When it clicked, which it did for most of their set,
they hummed along like a hyper-tuned V-8. Given the difference in the two
bands’ musical styles, you wouldn’t generally expect them to play on the same
bill yet this eccentric pairing was intentional. Steamboat likes the stark
juxtaposition of music flavors and while these odd groupings don’t always work,
the general idea behind them is certainly a welcome change from the typical
musical menu on Sixth Street. — David Lynch

This article appears in November 8 • 1996 and November 8 • 1996 (Cover).