CRYIN’ OUT LOUDS’ FAREWELL
SHOW
A Warehouse on East Fifth, May 20
“Ay, Tim,” slurred Cryin’ Out Louds
guitarist/leader
(and soon-to-be-repatriated Seattleite) Tim Hayes as he hung off my shoulder,
“we’ve been drinkin’ since 3pm!!” Oh, shit, I thought. It’s gonna be one of
those Cryin’ Out Louds gigs. Anyone who laughed at The Other Paper’s
clueless jibes at “drunken redneck polka rock” knows the kinda gig I’m talkin’
about: not the confident, sober, near-professional, machine-like rock &
roll explosion Hayes was marshalling at Emo’s Speed Trials mere weeks before.
No, this was gonna be a return to the earliest Cryin’ Out Louds shows, in which
blood alcohol levels were dangerously more alcohol than blood; where Buddy
Bradley-lookalike frontman John Horne was gonna be waving his guitar around far
more than playing it, and each Cryin’ Out Loud was probably playing more to his
own private rhythm (and, occasionally, private song!) than with each other. And
while the in-focus COLs of the Speed Trials were an awesome display of power
and authority, it was the out-of-focus COLs of those early shows that
doubtlessly served as inspiration and ignition to an entire scene. Indeed, had
they not been at the first few COL shows, it’s doubtful a certain group of
small-town straight-edgers called Kid’s Meal would’ve become the raving,
post-MC5 bomb blast that is the Satans. So, what more fitting end for the
Cryin’ Out Louds than for them to exit the same way they entered?
P.A.? Forget it! The P.A. certainly did, except to
occasionally allow Horne to distortedly intone “Last call for the Cryin’ Out
Louds! Last call for the Cryin’ Out Louds,” which didn’t stop him from
screaming out the lyrics, anyway! Hayes downstroked as maniacally as always,
oblivious to his guitar’s tuning or lack thereof. Mike Leggett drummed on
bravely, even as the proceedings grew so chaotic that his face seemed
permanently hardened into the mask of a man suffering severe indigestion.
Angelle Stavron manned her bass with equal stoicism, exuding her usual Ivy
Rorschach ice queen sexuality, reminding that (at least early on) she was the
COLs’ best musician. Various luminaries and regulars got more plowed and outta
control than usual, as one should at a wake.
One thing a wake shouldn’t get, though, is violent.
Someone
broke out a steel hook-and-chain from the warehouse, and began swinging it
above his head during the finale. Hayes was riding a reveler’s shoulders. The
hook first smashed into Hayes’ Fender, debilitating it. Seeing no funds in his
bank account to allow its repair, Hayes put the guitar out of its misery,
Townshend-style. As the audience began scarfing up the pieces, Hayes looked
down at his left wrist and realized the hook had opened a large hole to the
bone, currently pumping a lotta blood onto his plain white t-shirt. Hayes took
an Iggy Pop dive into Leggett’s drumkit, got up, and rushed off to
Brackenridge, unable to move or feel three fingers. Maybe in their short life,
the COLs proved that a large chunk of the local rock scene needed to lose a few
inhibitions. But was it necessary to get that uninhibited? – Tim
Stegall
THE JON STEWART SHOW
New York, May 16
Why do Jon Stewart’s audiences consistently drop the ball on
seemingly funny monologue jokes? Well, my friends, they’re not exactly the
hippest assemblage of people you’ll find in NYC. As warm-up Wally Collins (the
annoying host for Comedy Channel’s Stand-up, Stand-up) discovered, the
bulk of the 150-strong crowd came from Queens and Long Island. His attempts to
get us “fired up” for the “big show” were as annoying as the chubby women in
headsets who tried to prod us into pep-rally applause. All that was needed to
get the crowd “pumped” was for our illustrious host to grace the tiny studio
stage. Once the little man himself popped up from behind his center stage door,
the love exploded, sputtering only here and there with the occasional lame
guest. The best joke of the monologue, of course, fell flat: “So they’re saying
now that OJ tracked blood from the living room to the bedroom to the kitchen
and back again. You think they should have OJ on trial or perhaps Billy from
Family Circus?” Ba-boom. What was revealed in the guest segments was: a)
Although Stewart is jet-quick on his own, he has a director constantly holding
up cue cards with questions to either reel him in from a conversation gone
amuck, or to inject life into a limp guest (the former being Macho Man Randy
Savage, the latter Rachel from Friends); b) those hyper-trendy pop songs
that lead in and out of commercials do not play in the studio – instead Stewart
plays late Seventies punk and new wave stuff; and c) even though the TV mix
always makes the musical guest sound thin and squashed, the studio sound is
phenomenal. Dionne Farris redeemed herself from a sonically rotten SXSW
appearance with a version of “I Know,” after which Stewart practically danced a
jig. Oh, and yes, Howard does just sit in the corner the whole show.
– Mindy LaBernz
GOMEZ
Blue Flamingo, May 20
It was bassist Chepo’s 23rd birthday, and to
celebrate the occasion, Austin punk’s fave eternal boychild had been to see
William Shatner speak at a Star Trek convention. Of course, Chepo
couldn’t stop talking about it. Sorta made you wonder if he had ever seen the
Saturday Night Live episode where Shatner urged a conventionload of
Trekkies to “Get a Life!!!”
But then, it wouldn’t be a Gomez show without such
silliness, would it? This is the band, after all, who gets away with waving pop
culture annoyances in our faces ranging from Star Wars to Bryan Adams
(whose Summer Of `69 was attempted). Maybe it’s because – unlike the
glut of competent-yet-faceless post-Descendents punk/pop outfits clogging the
works, from Hagfish to NOFX to the aptly named No Use For A Name – Gomez has a
sound and a face that’s purely Gomez. Plus, as impeccable as their musicianship
is, there’s a continual, imminent sense that things are about to fall apart. It
could mean Chepo’s about to go off his box, take off his clothes, and
obliterate his bass. Or maybe Keith Palumbo’s just gonna have to deal with a
drumkit that’ll slowly dissolve as the set progresses.
Meantime, Gomez power their way through maybe 21 songs,
doing a buncha oldies with Palumbo, then bring on recent drummer Steve
(moonlighting from American Psycho Band) for a batch of newer tunes (and
raising questions in some oldsters’ minds about whether original drummer
Brandon would show up). Things appear as hunky dory and celebrational as
always. The set ends at 2am, and two highly aggressive outsiders decide to
violently express their displeasure at the bar’s closing. They shove one female
to the floor and hurl punches at several other spectators. “Hey, this never
happens at Gomez shows,” pleads Palumbo. The bouncer herds the strangers into
the pool room, and calm resumes. As the bouncer leads them back from the pool
room towards the club’s entrance, one stranger shoves the same female to the
ground again, and the melee re-ignites. Once the jerks are out the door, they
begin fisting their way back in – not once, but thrice! One of the evening’s
organizers from Peek-a-Boo fanzine (whose label the show benefited)
pleads: “How do we stop this?” Get the assholes out of here! Two squad cars and
a cop-on-a-horse later, some of us sneak out the fire exit. Christ, was
Quincy on again yesterday?
– Tim Stegall
MERLE HAGGARD
Gruene Hall, May 18
It was a meeting of the legends that was too hard
to
resist: The Hag at Gruene Hall on a blessedly clear spring night, the sort of
stuff memories are made of. As we walked towards the Hall, we could hear the
strains of Haggard’s band in their opening set, entering just in time for the
bard of Bakersfield to amble onstage and launch into “Workin’ Man’s Blues.”
Laying it down like God’s own shuffle, the latest edition of the Lonesome
Strangers played at almost conversational volume, bringing coals to Newcastle
and stoking them to fire with such Texas touches as twin fiddles. By the second
number, “Big City,” half the place was singing along as Haggard pined in song
for just the sort of magically rural locale we were in. Soon he hit a groove
where his nonchalant delivery belied the awesome authority of his voice. “I’m
gonna go out tomorrow and buy every damn Merle Haggard album there is,” shouted
a young cowboy-hatted buck to his date – not a bad idea, considering how brief
the set was (one hour to the very minute). After all, hearing favorites like
“Silver Wings,” “Misery and Gin,” “Old Man From the Mountain,” “Rainbow Stew,”
and “Ramblin’ Fever” only whetted my appetite for “(My Friends Are Gonna Be)
Strangers,” “Sing Me Back Home,” “Mama Tried,” and more. But soon after the
obligatory “Okie From Muskogee,” the Hag wrapped it up and was gone without an
encore. I was reminded of the question he had asked in song earlier in the set:
“Are the Good Times Really Over for Good?” I’d have to answer no, not when you
can hear real country music the way it oughta be in just the sort of spot it
was meant to be played. But on this night the good times were over far too
soon. – Rob Patterson
This article appears in June 2 • 1995 and June 2 • 1995 (Cover).