February 26, 2004
1, 2, 3, Let’s Go!: 1 week, 2 very different concerts, starring Hank 3, Robert Randolph & the Family Band, The Damnwells, Scott H. Biram, and Josh Jabcuga. Plus: last week’s contest winners and our coolest giveaway ever announced.
Valentine’s Day. The Mohawk Place. Buffalo, New York.
The evening began for my girl and me with a nice, quiet, candlelit dinner. It had been a crazy week to begin with, and it was one of those snowy and bleak Buffalo days where crawling under the covers at 3 p.m. and hibernating until the next morning didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Thing was, she and I hadn’t seen each other much that week, plus there was that whole Valentine’s thing. We had dinner reservations and I was determined to make this Hallmark holiday different from the rest. The secret weapon? No, I wouldn’t be popping the question. My plan was much different, much more enticing as far as I was concerned. My girlfriend and I would be capping off our night with a double set by the hellbilly hero himself, HANK 3. It’s only rock ’n roll but I like it, I like it….
HANK 3’s first set was advertised in local papers as being old school honkytonk, which would be followed by a set of cow-punk or something or other, with his band ASSJACK. I figured the first set would be neat to witness for the kitschy value and nothing more. I was there for the cow-punk speed metal that HANK 3 is infamous for, most notably on bootlegs, and notorious due to the ongoing battle he is having with his label, Curb Records, who won’t give him their blessing to release any of it.
I’d never seen HANK 3 perform his country act before. I’d seen the cow-punk show before, when he opened for REV. HORTON HEAT in Buffalo a few years ago. It was a loud, ballsy performance that stole the show right out from under the Reverend’s nose. I’ve interviewed Hank 3 (see this link), and I could tell he has a true love and genuine respect for all things metal. Because of some of the comments that
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HANK 3 made to me during that conversation, and knowing how much of a metal-head he was, I honestly thought his honkytonk set was going to me more of a gimmicky way to get publicity and make some cash, and nothing more. After seeing both sets on Valentine’s, I realized I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Before I get ahead of myself, let me take a minute to discuss Hank’s opener. He’s this one-man Texas army by the name of SCOTT H. BIRAM. Looking at him hunched over on stage, propped on a stool, howling into the microphone with his trucker hat low, almost like a veil, he reminded me of a possessed Johnny Knoxville with a guitar and kick-drum. The set blended deep-fried country with gospel and anything else that came out of Biram’s mouth, and he even managed to work in a little of VAN HALEN’s “Panama,” for those that were paying close attention. He had people stompin’ mudholes with their workboots and clapping their hands. This hillbilly has talent and I’d got out of my way to see him again in concert. You should go out of your way to fetch one of his albums, including Preachin’ & Hollerin’.
Biram was a perfect opener for HANK 3, even doing a cover of one of HANK 3’s grandpappy’s ditties. So by the time the son of a son of a son of gun, HANK 3, took the stage, the crowd, consisting of a weird blend of the “ironic” art school types, old school country fans (from the looks of it, fans of Hank Sr. and Jr.), some skinheads, and NASCAR in-breeds in general, was all primed, sweaty, liquored up, and ready to rock.
HANK 3 didn’t disappoint. The crowd, including myself, was completely captivated by HANK 3’s honkytonk set. It wasn’t just some novelty thing afterall; it was much more than that. This well-traveled roadwarrior (not really the young kid suggested by his appearance) embodies the spirits of both Hank Williams and Hank Williams, Jr. The band was world-class, and many of us were happy to see Joe Buck (of our friends THE LEGENDARY SHACKSHAKERS), back in town playing stand-up bass for Hank 3. One thing is for damn sure; Joe Buck is one of the most talented, underrated guitarists/bass players in the world, and the energy he brings to the stage is unparalleled. Joe Buck yourself, indeed.
HANK 3’s honkytonk set was worth the price of admission alone, and would have left the fans satisfied, if not begging for more. It was a cozy crowd at the Mohawk Place that seemed to relish every single lyric that came from HANK 3’s mouth (whose vocals were in fine form, by the way). It was one of those crowds that shouted requests and suggestions between songs (not annoyingly, but respectfully), and HANK 3 was more than happy to oblige. Someone even yelled for HANK 3 to do some yodeling, and wouldn’t you know it, the very next song, he had his yodeling voice on. There were also some very nice tributes to Johnny Cash as well as some thank-you’s to David Allan Cole, who HANK 3 said supported him through some dark times.
In between sets, HANK 3 signed autographs and worked the crowd. He returned about thirty minutes later, minus the beat-up cowboy hat, now wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, and erasing any evidence of the honkytonker that had just graced the stage. It was at that point that everything turned sour, and I don’t necessarily mean that in a bad way. Those same NASCAR fans and Cracker Barrel Restaurant widows that had swayed back and forth in their frayed jean jackets, doing little two-steps in their minds, were literally driven out of the Mohawk Place like a mass exodus of rats trying to escape a burning mobile home. HANK 3 and his speed-thrash-punk-death-skullfucking-metal set was almost enough to drive Usama Bin Laden out of hiding, all the way from Buffalo, New York. This set was even a bit much for me, but I have to say I was more than amused watching the grannies run for cover from the audio assault that HANK 3 laid on them. It was hysterical, to be sure. I’d bet the fiery little mosh-pit up front didn’t help assuage their fears too much either, as during one of the first few songs, one unlucky Marlboro Man came running out covering his bloody and battered eye like he’d been stabbed straight through. I sure don’t think he was stabbed, but he sure as hell might have been skull-fucked up there in the pit.
As far as HANK 3 is concerned, I’m not exactly sure why he isn’t bigger than he is. While his genetics certainly help, there’s more to him than that. This artist has superstar aura all about him. The fans in Buffalo who witnessed the sold-out show know this already. Seems the rest of the world has to catch up now; As long as they remember to say out of the pit.
Fast-forward to Friday night, six nights later. Same city, different club. This time it’s the Sphere Entertainment Complex, supposedly a very hip nightclub that I had yet to visit. Two weeks ago the DROPKICK MURPHY’S played there; a
week ago it was the baldheaded “red-headed” child of Ozzy Osbourne, DJ Louis Osbourne, the one apparently just as ugly as the rest of the Osbourne litter but nowhere near as wealthy. Tonight, fresh off his spectacular cameo at the Grammy’s, during the funk medley portion of the show alongside EARTH, WIND, & FIRE and GEORGE CLINTON, was ROBERT RANDOLPH & THE FAMILY BAND, pedal steel guitar virtuoso.
From what I gathered, Randolph was a bit of an underground sensation. It was only in 2003 that he released his first major studio album off Warner Bros. Records, titled “Unclassified.” That album is a cool blend of soul, R&B, and funk. The first track, “Going in the Right Direction,” is an homage of sorts to Jimi Hendrix, or at the very least, a tip of the pimp hat. That’s what I wanted last Friday night,--some P-funk crossed with some Bo Diddley. What I got was actually nothing like I expected.
In typical Buffalo fashion, the weather was cooperative all day until it was time to go downtown and find some parking. Only then did it decide to rain (yes, rain…the mini blizzard would be saved for the next day). Finally, after finding a parking lot that wasn’t in the next state nor charging an arm and a leg, we made our way to the trendy club. Apparently the Billy Joel Broadway play had been playing at a nearby theater, so parking was at a premium on this night.
Openers THE DAMNWELLS, from Brooklyn, played a perfectly melodic, ultimately bland set. I very much liked them, and thought it would make for good driving music under a desert sky. The lead singer’s vocals were smooth, but overall, most agreed they sounded a little too much like the GIN BLOSSOMS. I’m sure you’ll hear THE DAMNWELLS on a soundtrack to some Fox teen drama before year’s end.
As the venue slowly filled up, I began to notice two things. First off, the audience consisted of mainly college kids wearing tye-dye -- white kids with dreadlocks, and even some Deadheads. This did not bode well for someone like me, who pretty much despises jam-band music. Surely I was onto something. And everyone else seemed to be on something. The other thing that struck me was there were no blacks in the audience. For a performer such as Robert Randolph that had more than held his own at the Grammy’s just a few weeks back with black superstars like OUTKAST and BOOTSY COLLINS, why could I only count the number of blacks in the crowd on this night on one hand (three fingers, to be precise). Immediately I began to think that maybe there wouldn’t be so much blues, funk, or R&B, and maybe, judging by all the stoners in the crowd, this was going to be, GASP!, a performance by a jam-band.
Randolph came out with his stellar band, starting off with a funky instrumental straight out of the ‘70s. I’m thinking, Can you dig it? I can dig it. The soy-and-granola crowd was really into it, though, doing those awkward Janis Joplin-like dance maneuvers. Yeah, it was pretty embarrassing. Randolph was on fire, though. As he kicked his stool across the stage with reckless abandon, and placed a foot on his steel pedal guitar, Randolph was eerily reminiscent of a black Jerry Lee Lewis. Maybe this night wouldn’t be such a wash-out afterall. Randolph did a cover of “Shake your Hips” that seemed to get the entire crowd shaking their money-makers, including a stage full of women that were invited to gyrate in front of the crowd. Unfortunately, or fortunately, since they were all drunk and/or stoned college girls, they came across more like a troupe of GIRLS GONE WILD than back-up dancers for JAMES BROWN. Maybe I was expecting the girls from the “I Like the Way You Move” OUTKAST video.
If you’re into “jamming” music, like that of JACK JOHNSON or PHISH, you would have loved Robert Randolph & the Family Band. There was a lot of, shall we say, jamming, going on at the show, if you know what I mean. Chances are, if you’ve been to a concert, you’ve seen drugs. I’ve been to everything from PINK FLOYD to OZZY OSBOURNE, but I’ve never seen more blatant, overt drug use than at this show. At one point, a guy actually held up what must have been at least a twelve-inch ceramic bong in front of a security guard, who proceeded to do nothing. After hearing stories of people strapping joints under their, um, nether regions, or duct-tapping them inside their baseball hats or Doc Martins, I applaud the guy for being able to smuggle something like that in. While not my cup of Chai tea, none of that really bothered me. What did bother me was when the guy playing the B-3 Organ whipped out the fiddle. We had officially entered DAVE MATTHEWS BAND territory, and I was officially bailing out. That’s right, not even forty minutes into the set and I was pulling the plug, back into the cold and wet Buffalo night. Usually I’m a stickler for sticking things out, whether it be a lame movie, a book with a slow start, whatever, just to get a new perspective on things and hopefully be surprised and ultimately rewarded by my perseverance. On this night, though, I just couldn’t handle any more. I was tired, hungry, and even horny, thanks to the GIRLS GONE WILD stagedancers. No disrespect to Robert Randolph & the Family Band, or his fans in general, but the jams, man, we gotta kick ‘em out, for good.
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Hail, Hail to the Lucky Ones, I Refer to those who Won: Thanks to everyone that participated in last week’s MEXICO AND MARIACHIS contest. The three winners are: Mark Yerger of Rochester, New York; Chesley Cannon of Honolulu, Hawaii; and Susan Geissler of Rockford, Illinois.
The response to the contest was fantastic, and I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read Squib Central, even if I have to bribe you every once in awhile.
Due to the overwhelming response to last week’s giveaway, the kick-ass folks at Milan Records have stepped up to the plate once again. Nick Bobetsky at Milan wrote to let me know that they have an autographed MEXICO AND MARIACHIS poster that they’re willing to part ways with. He informed me that it’s signed by practically everyone involved with the album, including Robert Rodriquez and Tito (from TITO & TARANTULA).
Last week’s question was really easy. Well, they don’t call it a giveaway for nothing, folks. This week shouldn’t be too difficult, that is, if you’re a faithful reader of Squib Central.
The question: What is the name of my all-time favorite band? Here’s a clue: I’ve written about them in a past edition of Squib Central. You may need to do a little homework on this one, sleep on it, whatever, but when you reach your conclusion, send your answer, along with your full name and address to JoshuaJabcuga@aol.com. I will randomly pick one entry from all the correct answers. The winner will be announced next week. If you’re a fan of Robert Rodriquez, be sure to check out MEXICO AND MARIACHIS on Milan Records. (Thanks again to Nick Bobetsky at Milan Records; I love you man!) And good luck!
When not avoiding the topic of marriage, Josh Jabcuga can be found writing Squib Central, published every Thursday, exclusively at www.moviepoopshoot.com.
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