ROSIE FLORES
Antone’s, November 22
While Flores’ latest LP, Rockabilly Filly, is flat and lifeless, her
live show reveals a performer with substantial stage presence, excellent guitar
skills, and a venerable voice that animates material with personality equal to
or lesser than that of a pet rock. Flores’ performance this night gave me the
feeling that perhaps the record company folks forgot to put the 3D glasses in
my copy of the LP. There was spark and sometimes an outright fire on much of
the material she played from her latest album, and the presence of country
legend Wanda Jackson pouring some gas on a couple tunes didn’t hurt matters
much. The really powerful renditions of some of Jackson’s classics from the
late Fifties and early Sixties were a further boost to the wonderfully volatile
atmosphere, but this show belonged to Flores. Nervously bouncing about the
stage in a girlish vintage dress, awfully shy grin, and askance pony tail, she
was `Little Bop Peep,’ a retro-music shepherdess who possessed a magic that
could turn an Edsel into a Mercedes, a frog into a prince, and an asshole
critic into a goddamn fan. Maybe a live LP is in order. —
Joe
Mitchell
CHRIS ISAAK
Austin Music Hall, November 26
With an effort to keep the gushy, florid prose at a minimum, Chris Isaak and
Silvertone executed one of the most perfect concerts I’ve ever seen. It would
be too easy to dismiss Isaak as a just another pretty face, but it’s clear he’s
the closest thing this generation may see to the brilliance of Roy Orbison in
Ricky Nelson-type matinee idol garb. While his band Silvertone was decked out
in matching black jacquard jackets and vests, Isaak strolled onstage wearing a
Nudie-style black suit with rhinestone sunbursts. Together, they were sublime
and sensual, quickly sending sighs through the distaff portion of the audience
with a combination of old and new material like “Goin’ Nowhere,” “Wicked Game,”
and “Somebody’s Crying.” Just as the songs were well-cut, polished little gems,
the Austin Music Hall was a superb setting for the dreamy-eyed Isaak and
material like “Baby Did a Bad Thing,” “Two Hearts,” and “Blue Spanish Sky.” But
it was his self-deprecating humor and stage clowning with sax man and Texan
Johnny Reno (drummer Kenny Dale Johnson is also from here), that was the
evening’s highlight — especially when a Martin & Lewis-style routine led
to Reno’s offbeat performance of “Pablo Picasso” and then the dancefloor throb
of “Diddley Daddy.” So was this Ladies Night out? Yes, certainly the profusion
of dressed-to-the-nines women dragging somewhat less-than-enthused male
companions indicated so. Does that make him any less good? Absolutely not. Now
where’s my copy of Heart-Shaped World …. — Margaret
Moser
POCKET FISHRMEN, ANTI-MEN,
MATA HARI
Voodoo Lounge, November 30
Austin needs a club like the Voodoo Lounge. Since Kilimanjaro closed over a
year ago, entry-level local bands have had no place to go, except maybe for the
cramped environs of Hole in the Wall and the Blue Flamingo. Every good music
scene should have a club that’s little more than a mid-size converted warehouse
with a big stage, a decent sound system, no liquor license (so BYOB, laddies),
enough room to make a truly slammin’ mosh pit, and a booking policy that
permits any band, even yours, a shot at getting booked. Well, Our Town’s got
one now, but how long it stays open is anybody’s guess. Thursday night, the
cops visited the Lounge not once but twice. Seems those residents in the
Railyard Condominiums don’t cotton too well to all that noisy punk rock
shootin’ through the VL’s roof, and are makin’ a powerful stink about it to the
long arm of the law. Never mind that this begs the question of why the voodoo
makers moved in there in the first place, since the condos are within hollerin’
distance of Sixth Street. But, until the fuzz do show up with their
nightsticks, earplugs, and tear gas, the Voodoo Lounge is a nice spot to go
check out some promising up-and-comers. The music? Well, there were more places
to sit in the club than there were frills in any of the three sets; all three
Austin bands were good, loud and angry, and rightfully so. From what I saw
Thursday, something I had long suspected to be true was proven: The so-called
Live Music Capital of the World hates its children. —
Chris
Gray
JOSHUA REDMAN
Paramount Theatre, December 1
Bring on the young lion. And make him play…
8:10, house half full… “The Parmount presents Warner Bros. recording
artist,
Joshuuuaaa Redddmannn.” The upper-balcony spotlight bears down and Redman
grimaces. Get that thing outta my face, he smiles. Laughter. It fades
slightly and he starts to play. His opening statement is strong, but he hasn’t
found the wind in his alto, so he gives the music over to his trio. Drummer
Brian Blade is in his domain, playing the entire surface of his cymbals,
tapping his stick on the edge of the snare, his arms crossing back and forth.
His third-song solo is a symphony of rhythm — he hits everything, explores
every sound, and never loses the pulse. An Ellington jungle-beat is introduced
and assorted “yeahs” and “go’s” are tossed on-stage. The bassist, chin almost
touching his Forties sweater, smiles a sad, serene smile as his fingers walk
the strings attached to my septum. Redman watches from the shadowy wings. A
half-hour later, he’s at the microphone saying good evening, his charismatic
smile gleaming in the light; “Nice to see you all out here.” By now, the house
is a healthy two-thirds full. A small segment of Austin’s black middle class is
in the house. Nice to see some integration here. Redman is pleased. He
introduces his own composition, “Sweet Sorrow,” and uncorks his lively
mid-range alto muscle. Three or four minutes into the ballad, the band stops
and his popping beeps and boops bounce around the absolutely silent hall. Not a
cough or a sneeze within miles. He takes over right then, and commands the show
until the end of the set break — unlike his appearance at the Bates Recital
Hall last year where he let his band do most of the playing. The second,
hour-long set is that much better featuring Sonny Rollins’ “St. Thomas,” that
hints at Redman’s having seen the master doing it; I saw Rollins do it at Jazz
Fest early this year, and he had the whole tent in an uproar. Redman’s version
isn’t quite as volcanic, but his interplay with Blade makes it rousing
nonetheless. “My Foolish Heart” follows, tickling the romantic, while Redman’s
clarinet ferrets in and out of his ballad “Second Snow.” “Santa Claus Is Coming
to Town,” and “Hit the Road Jack” finish the set, and Ornette Coleman’s “Peace”
sends the audience home. Good stream-of-consciousness music played for the
masses, and played by someone who carries the genre into that bright spotlight
of center stage. Nice. — Raoul Hernandez
KINKY FRIEDMAN
La Zona Rosa, December 2
As versatile as he is, Kinky Friedman may not be able to have it both ways.
Friedman wisely hinted that this show may have been his last as a musician,
since brisk sales of his new novel make “author” a more enticing calling card
than “Jew, Texan, and country artist” (in that order). Even so, in fairness to
both his readers and record buyers, whatever the concert stop that came before
Austin should have been his last. The La Zona Rosa gig would’ve made a better
first stop on this leg of a book-signing tour. So on this low-budget, solo
acoustic stop, Friedman stayed on stage only slightly more than hour, read from
God Bless John Wayne for a portion of that time, and occasionally sang
— a bargain at Book People, a disappointment as a concert. And although
Friedman was completely likable in his delivery of the anti-hits, notably
“Asshole From El Paso” and “They Ain’t Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore,” it’s
Friedman’s legendary song set-ups — usually stacked politically incorrect —
and one-liners that are longer than the songs themselves, that make for the
most endearing Friedman moments. Yet, when he noticed a group of a dozen or so
children in the crowd and announced he’s a good family entertainment value
because he never says “`fuck` in front of a c-h-i-l-d,” it was hard to imagine
that Kinky hadn’t been just as funny for free at the hotel bar before the show.
And so, ironically, for a guy who’s made a career nicely balancing two hats,
the yarmulke and ten-gallon variety, this show only proved the musician,
author, and comedian hats may have finally become two too many for any one
show.
— Andy Langer
This article appears in December 8 • 1995 and December 8 • 1995 (Cover).