Live Shots

DWIGHT YOAKAM, DAVID BALL

Erwin Center, August 15

Woo boy. Soul Train this wasn’t. This show was like Weight Watchers
frozen yogurt: it never, ever went to your hips. Headliner Dwight Yoakam
wiggled plenty — to the delight of every female in the crowd — but probably
only because his beyond skin-tight leather pants were riding up the crotch
(don’t you hate that?). And the best opener David Ball managed was turning
around once and doing one of those hip-cock things from the Born in the
U.S.A. album cover. And the crowd? Forget it. It wouldn’t really be an
issue, this dancing, if the entire evening wasn’t so dance-worthy. Even though
he ain’t the purtiest guitar-puncher on CMT, Ball more than made up for it with
the good-natured uptempo swingers “Look What Followed Me Home,” “Bad Day for
the Blues,” and his hit “Thinkin’ Problem,” which he started once, said good
night (massive gasp from the crowd) and then played (sigh of relief). His
loping, thoughtful ballads were possibly more impressive than his fast stuff,
especially when he called former Uncle Walt’s Band-mate Champ Hood onstage to
do “When the Thought of You” in memory of Walter Hyatt. He also did a Buck
Owens song, as did headliner Yoakam, but these days, Buck Owens songs are as
common as moving vans in West Campus. Like Owens before him, though, Yoakam
puts on one hell of a show. He left no doubt he’s the master of arena country,
bringing out a six-piece band, films, lights, and lots of effects (including
the leather pants). Lesser artists would shrink in such a large context, but
Yoakam has enough rock & roller in him that he has it down pat. He knows
when to cut loose — “Little Sister,” “Gone (That’ll Be Me),” “Long White
Cadillac,” aided by screamingly precise guitar work from right-hand-man Pete
Anderson — when to play a hit like “1,000 Miles From Nowhere,” and when to
slow it down with “Ain’t That Lonely Yet,” and “Nothing.” He’s one of country
music’s consummate showmen. Now all he needs to do is learn to dance. Or at
least somebody does. — Christopher Gray

Electric Lounge, August 17

“What doesn’t kill me, only makes me stronger.” Whether that ancient German
rock critic Fred Nietzsche realized it or not, this little bon mot perfectly describes what roadwork does for a band: It’ll either make you
shit-hot, or tear you apart. Apparently, six weeks of being crammed into a van
— learning everyone’s distinctive scents and peculiarities — was the perfect
inoculation for Sincola. Already a fine band, they were never like this. They
took the Electric Lounge stage literally three hours after getting back in
town, and you could see the fire lighting their pupils from three rows back.
They smelled blood the minute they jacked in and proceeded to rip their songs
(old and new) apart in hot pursuit. And they found it, especially once they
began stalking “One-Hit Wonder” at set’s end. The only excuse for not being
driven to spasmodic twitching and whiplash by the brute slam Sincola injected
into this rendition was… well, being dead, really! There just was no other
logical reason. Then again, sometimes all a band needs for similar miracles is
a two-month vacation. A two-month vacation, and getting your tail badly bruised
by an opening act. It was probably more a case of the latter than the former
for the headlining Wannabes, considering candid remarks Kevin Carney later made
about two previous gigs. If this was the case, then the Wannabes need to follow
carnivorous road monsters more often. The physicality and raw power inherent in
their melodic, adrenaline-soaked rock & roll received a turbo boost from
Sincola’s opening set. The four Wannabes put their heads down and rammed
straight into it, hard enough to inspire periodic fits of something akin to
moshing, but more like a buncha beer-soaked gents shoving each other around. By
set’s end, there wasn’t a dry surface to be found in the house, whether of
flesh or not. And somewhere, old Nietzsche was looking down and saying,
“Fuuuuuccckk!”
— Tim Stegall

Saxon Pub, August 19

Quick story. In 1994, ESPN did its best to convince the sports world that
Florida State had the best football team on the planet. FSU had it all: an
athletic quarterback, speed at the skill positions, and hard-hitting defenders
whose quickness defied their size. Toward season’s end, FSU wasn’t just
undefeated, no team had been within four touchdowns of them. In late November,
FSU played Notre Dame. The Irish, big underdogs, had two things going for them:
home field advantage and big guys up front whose last names ended in “-ski.”
So, ND pulled the upset. How? Easy. They used their big linemen and just ran
over FSU. The Seminoles, with all of their nifty offensive weapons, were
outsized and helpless for most of the game. The point? Sure, it’s nice
sometimes to think that you have the tools to do a variety of things well, but
you’re always better off if you just play to your strengths. That brings us,
finally, to the Beth Black Band. They tried some of everything: straight
R&B, generic rock, something kind of funky, bad jazz, and that Little
Sister-ish groove (sans the extended jam, thank goodness) that the kids
love. They even played a lounge version of “White Room” — not Esquivel’s space
lounge or the Recliners’ swank lounge, but Murph and the Magic Tones’ lounge
lounge. Throw in some scat vocals and you’ve got, well, a lounge cover of
“White Room” with some scat singing. To the local band’s credit, they did the
back half of the song as straight Cream, including a good knock off of one of
Clapton’s better solos on record. But for a band dabbling in a bunch of
different genres, they sure sounded monochromatic. Which brings us back to the
moral of the story. When the band slowed things down, Black was able to use her
voice and really work some of its inflection. There you go. Play to your
strengths. Do that Nina Simone thing. Work up a good Billie Holiday. Back off
the Bob Seger, because for gosh sakes, you’re not playing a Holiday Inn. — Michael Bertin

Erwin Center, August 22

The more the Cure changes, the more they stay the same. Five years ago, I
managed to catch them on the Disintegration Tour, also at the Erwin Center.
Back then, you could buy a beer on the premises — or maybe the guy in the seat
directly behind me had snuck his in. Either way, sobriety was rare amongst
audience and band members alike. This show was different. Not only was the
crowd amazingly sedate throughout most of the two-hour-plus show, but,
distressingly, so was Fatbob and the band. Perhaps as a concession to the ghost
of Pete Townsend’s eardrums, Cure `96 seemed a bit tame — quiet, reserved, and
not at all the melancholy darkchasers that released Carnage Visors so
long ago. Yes, they ran through a career-spanning gamut of moribund hits —
three-quarters of Staring at the Sea, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me,
and Disintegration, but clad in a crimson football (?!) jersey, Smith,
along with longtime players Simon Gallup and Perry Bamonte seemed positively
chipper, saving many of their back catalogue hits for an embarrassing “Cure on
45” medley positioned for most effective swoon-inducement towards the end of
their set. Surprisingly, much of the material off the new Wild Mood
Swings sounded best: “Strange Attraction,” “Mint Car,” and “The 13th”
proving far more interesting live than squashed through my tinny car speakers.
The Cure’s trademark post-goth misery is apparently little more than a fading
memory in the minds of the black-clad fans; despite the perpetually-teased hair
and soggy mascara, Smith is obviously a far more relaxed, animated musician
than before. You get the feeling he’s haunting more Wal-Marts than cemeteries
these days…. — Marc Savlov

Back Room, August 23

The most hardcore of Austin’s black vinyl fetishwear set were out in force for
this most rare of industrial shows, a fact not lost on the Evil Mothers’
bassist. “You people are so goddamn Gothic, I bet you piss blood!” he yelled
towards the end of the set. San Antonio’s Mothers, featuring two drummers and a
guitarist sporting a splendid black cocktail dress, deftly fused buzzing hard
rock with hints of industrial and tribal beats. The high point, though, came
midset, when they put down the guitars and joined members of touring partners
16 Volt for a scrap metal drumming jam. 16 Volt, a Portland-based industrial
duo-turned-guitar quintet, played straight-up machine metal, complete with
growling vocals, sequencers and electronic percussion. It was ultimately a
fine, if unoriginal, example of the form. The same could be said for locals Man
or God, who delivered easy-to-swallow death metal with no aftertaste. —
Ken Hunt

This article appears in August 30 • 1996 and August 30 • 1996 (Cover).