Live Shots

Liberty Lunch, June 28

From Peter Case’s “It’s great to be here” after almost every song and Clem
Burke’s fondness for climbing on his drums to the extended live version of The
Hit (“A Million Miles Away”), the Plimsouls sure were well-versed in Seventies
and early Eighties arena rock concert clich�s. And this from a group
that was almost exclusively a bar band. But that’s okay because in the
post-Nirvana music world, radio isn’t the only thing that has undergone a
radical revision. Concerts have also changed. Most obviously, people didn’t
mosh at Whitesnake shows; but up on stage, big-haired, leather-clad icons
spewing sexuality have given way to unshowered malcontents preoccupied with
hipster posturing and ironic self-mockery. Keeping that in mind, the Plimsouls
weren’t indulging in dated gestures, they were doing symbolic dirty work. In
order for clich�s to remain banal they have to be used, and used often
lest they become inventive or profound. Precisely because they are being
shunned by youngsters, those big, dumb staples of rock’s recent past — guitar
solos of Wagnerian length, superfluous Marshall stacks, gratuitous use of
umlauts and intentional misspelling of monosyllabic words (e.g. Def), etc —
are rapidly approaching significance. By judiciously using a couple of minor
clich�s, the Plimsouls are not only resuscitating near-dead rock
traditions, they’re also keeping the stupid, well, stupid. As for the music,
the band was trying more than it was succeeding. Let’s-go-get-’em chutzpah will
get you a few points, but even effort has diminishing marginal appeal. No, the
Plimsouls show wasn’t significant for any musical reason. This was a band with
a far deeper mission. — Michael Bertin

Frank Erwin Center, July 2

He looked like it, he sang like it, and he dressed like it, but Barry
White just wasn’t Barry White this time. The voice that launched thousands of
pregnancies went up against the tame, sterile trappings of what must be one of
America’s most bizarre concert arenas and, not surprisingly, came up short. Not
that it was his fault. Frank Erwin’s namesake has always been more suited to
basketball games, circuses, and figure skating exhibitions — you know,
family-type events — than concerts by musicians who probably helped
start a whole lot of those families in the first place. AC/DC went over okay,
but only because the Drum is more suited to their high-decibel bombastics (look
out for that Pumpkins show, too) than White’s golden-throated, funk-laced
bedroom talk. Distance is not what you want at a Barry White show — it’s the
last thing you want at a Barry White show — and yet the Erwin Center
felt as hollow and cavernous as those tunnels underneath UT. White’s standards,
including “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” and “Never, Ever Gonna Give You
Up,” were there, but the sexual energy those songs can generate after a couple
of cocktails and some sweet-talk weren’t. The Erwin Center should have been
locked into a seething, boiling sexual frenzy as fierce as a particularly
steamy romp between the sheets, but the only thing wet in the entire arena was
the water in the sprinkler system that never came on. It just wasn’t hot
enough. — Christopher Gray

Emo’s, July 3

Glorium’s bass was provided by a keyboard, and the singer’s passion had a
distinct New Romantic flair. Even so, the visions of my new-wave past were
unjustified. Glorium know their way around a great noisy pop song, whether it
lies in the magnetic chorus of “Ghostwriter,” the wall of noise in “Vaccine,”
or “Black Market Hearts,” a blend of technopop, 6/8-time clamor, deep groove,
and trumpet. A song like “The Double” reminds one just how magnificent the
Pixies were. The night belonged to Andromeda Strain, though, as it was their
final show — drummer Steve Hall has joined Sixteen Deluxe. As expected, they
gave it their banging-into-the-amps best. They showed an above-average love of
harmonics, particularly the storming overtones of “Screwdriver,” and a flair
for bass-end thunder with “Circumnabbed.” Swangkee Lowtel, reunited with their
original bassist after his year’s study abroad, seemed glad to be back to full
capacity. Singer Jack Conover — raging his words more than usual — expressed
reservations at one point about the band’s familiarity with the material, but
newer stuff like “The Dick,” “Adult Epic III,” and “I (Heart) My Bad Ass
Attitude” sounded just fine. —Ken Hunt

Luckenbach, July 4th

Ray Price was great, but you knew that already. Robert Earl Keen
continued to add to his ever-growing legion of fans, most of whom, before
“Gringo Honeymoon” and “The Road Goes on Forever” came along, only knew how to
sing “Hullabaloo, Ca-nuck, Ca-nuck” and call reveille. Even 81/2
Souvenirs had a few red necks bobbing. Yet the moment Willie Nelson’s
Luckenbach picnic crystallized, when it all made sense, was when the Red-Headed
Stranger took over from the Supersuckers’ Eddie Spaghetti on “Whiskey River.”
Even those who just didn’t get the punk-rock take had to stand at attention
during what should be Texas’ national anthem. It wasn’t exactly a changing of
the guard, because plenty of the old guard — about 11,500 worth — was there,
and they didn’t give a damn about the Supersuckers. But when Nelson’s onstage,
at his picnic, it doesn’t matter if he’s up there with Sonic Youth or the
Chicago Symphony Orchestra — you listen. What Nelson did onstage with
the Supersuckers, who do so want to be Texans, was show where your music can
lead if you keep an open mind … anywhere. It was the same idea Nelson had
when, during his picnic-closing finale, he covered Jimmy Cliff’s “Sitting in
Limbo” from his upcoming reggae album. To Nelson, music is just music. It
didn’t matter if he was onstage pickin’ rhythm with Titty Bingo, fronting the
Antone’s Blues Band, or harmonizing with Kimmie Rhodes — the man just likes to
play. Others, too. During the 12-hour marathon of music, dust, allergies,
Texas-flag bikinis (!), and rave hats (!!), Nelson was far from the only
highlight. Tenderloin tore apart the stage like a piece of brisket dangled just
out of singer Ernie Locke’s reach, Leon Russell’s piano-pounding resonated for
miles, and the blistering one-two Justice Records punch of Billy Joe Shaver and
Jesse Dayton inched the label that much closer to being the best Texas
wax-slicer since Peacock. Funny, because the only real disappointment, Waylon
Jennings, also records for Justice now. Yes, it was Waylon’s first time in
Luckenbach, but for God’s sakes, the man sang the “Dukes of Hazzard” theme. He
did “Luckenbach, Texas,” too, but Nelson had to coax him into even doing that.
Could have been the build-up — “Waylon and Willie and the Boys! Oh My!” — was
just too much. Maybe the next time Jennings plays the picnic, he’ll take a cue
from his fellow Highwayman: When you’re onstage in Luckenbach, you don’t have
to do a single, solitary, cotton-pickin’ thing. You just play, dammit. — Christopher Gray

Sunken Gardens Amphitheatre,
San Antonio, July 5

What is the sound of one hand clapping? Ask Sincola, whose opening slot on
this bill was met with resounding apathy. The red, sweaty faces of the band
blazing away under the baking sun deserved at least perfunctory notice but no,
a nearby voice shouted “You suck” as another yelled “Go away.” In a different
part of the amphitheatre, The Reverend Horton Heat didn’t fare much better.
Heat & Co. used to play like they were barefoot psychobilly cats on hot tin
roofs, but tonight they didn’t even play their drawing card, “Wiggle Stick.”
“Fuck you,” a guy next to us brayed as Heat doused his flame. “This is really
the Toadies’ crowd,” said my friend. I looked at the audience, who indeed
probably would’ve been more thrilled if the MTV cameras had arrived at that
moment and announced they were filming a Grind segment. It was a
good night for the Toadies, though, flinging their well-muscled rock like a
cast-iron frisbee at the audience, who moshed frantically on cue to “I Come
From the Water” and roared so enthusiastically I wondered who would be left for
the Buttholes. Still, the 3,000 or so cheered for new Surfers’ material like
“Thermador” and “Cough Syrup” though it was a lifeless response — as
spontaneous as planned encores. “Okay, you can go home now” said Gibby Haynes,
after “Pepper” faded out three songs in and some people did just that. But
those that were left saw the Buttholes shift into fifth gear with an
eye-popping light show and Haynes working the effects box furiously, like a
manic wizard of odds. Indeed, it was tough to ignore the man behind the
curtain; this show was light years better than the recent Austin Music Hall
one, yet this audience seemed unimpressed, even after the band emphasized their
S.A. roots. You see, there’s a reason that the Butthole Surfers thrive in the
Emerald City of Austin and not S.A.’s Kansas mentality. The Butthole Surfers
operate as this great and terrible entity; a cockeyed twister that whips and
whirls and flattens everything in its path. Here in San Antonio it unleashed
itself on an audience that desperately needed a brain. I clicked my dusty Nikes
together and murmured, “There’s no place like Austin.”
— Margaret Moser

Alamodome, San Antonio, July 7

Kindergarten may be a place where some people learn everything they ever
needed to know about life, but in 1976 it was a damn good place to learn about
KISS. The monstrous, real-life rock & roll comic book that sang about baby
drivers, plaster casts, and staying out all night partying was an unyielding
force on our young, impressionable minds. We made secret trips behind the coat
rack at school to color their idolized faces on our notebooks and search out
the silver crayon because Space Ace deserved better than gray. We bought all
their records. We loved them. At 7, I missed the Dynasty tour because my
mother didn’t think sexual innuendo and second-hand marijuana smoke were on my
social agenda. At 10, it was Unmasked and over. Pushing 25, I’m
disturbed at my own pathetic need to drive to San Antonio on my vacation time
and watch: Paul Stanley play the glamorous, hair-flipping, strut-happy frontman
with a cracking voice drowned in reverb; Gene Simmons wag his tongue, drool
blood, grunt, spit fire, miss choreographed cues, and fly around the stage like
an air-lifted whale; Ace Frehley blast the rafters, riff his guitar to blazes,
trip over his moon boots, and remind everyone he lost his edge 15 years ago;
and Peter Criss just look happy to be loved again. Doubtlessly invincible in
the Seventies, KISS was an American cultural spectacle that will never be
duplicated in my heart, and Sunday’s show was a fun ride through the mania they
created, but I can’t get off the fact that if Bruce Kulick was still around to
“Lick It Up” and we could see their middle-age faces instead of our childhood
memories, the Army and I would have stayed home instead of trying to rekindle
our flaming youth. — Taylor Holland

This article appears in July 12 • 1996 and July 12 • 1996 (Cover).