Went on my annual pilgrimage to See Reverend Horton Heat last night, who put on a spectacular show as always, with an added "History of Music" that left one feeling as if the price of the ticket was well worth it.
I came to the conclusion that mosh pit people are basically unable to get laid. This is, in effect, moshing's raison d'etre- a sexstitute. They just have that look. A look that says, "I will somehow lack whatever it is you need to be attracted to in order to tryst." How the f*@k do you mosh to "Happy Camper"? Anyway, a bit of advice: when they come for you,
lean in.The
real treat, for which, due to scheduling conflicts, we were only able to hear the last three songs of, was what I as of last night, consider to be possibly the greatest rock n' roll band ever:
Nashville Pussy.
I felt like I dropped into a Robert Rodriguez film.
They were.......
Van-Tazdick. Not only was the outrageousness turned up to 11, they were mixed well and tight. Others only hope to rock; Nashville Pussy is the touchstone for rocking. They could be the house band for House of 1001 Corpses, Kill Bill 3, and any other film with guts and elan you can imagine. The stage presence is amazing: stringy-haired trucker-hatted front man with two wild uber babes on guitar and bass, with a drummer that looked like he was ripped directly from the pages of an
EC Comic.
Here's their wiki, 'cos I still don't know who they are or anything. They're in Washington tonight, NYC tomorrow. GO. They're on first, like who, so get there early and don't make my mistake.
In the middle was Hank III and unfortunately, despite a great fiddler, slide guitar player, and bassist, it fell short - followed by the grandson of Hank Williams playing 45 minutes of non-sequituresque thrashmetalpunkyellingchants as their alter ego, Assjack. The first half's sound could've been at a casino (as my son so aptly put it) and the second half just was like a 200 decibel explanation of the rules of cricket. Don't get me wrong - there was a lot of good about his band, but Nashville Pussy pretty much killed them for me.
I was however mesmerized by two band members: The fiddler, who possessed an expression of such deep-seated
glee at playing the fiddle, that I don't think you could find a happier more authentic looking country fiddler in all the picture books of country music in the universe. And the bass player- who provided an unrelenting kaleidoscope of asexually framed hatred, pain, confusion, hurt, indignance, and perverse introversion on his face - he was fascinating, and if I were casting a horror movie, this guy would have a job in about 5 minutes.
This picture doesn't even come close to the experience of him gesticulating wildly with obscene and/or hostile finger positions (like
mudras of hate and pain and anger) while screaming profane epithets at the audience at the conclusion of a song....... Genius:
Last: Here's some images- the futility of phonecamming in that type of environment leads one to get all impressionistic as a way of salvaging them - first Nashville Pussy Followed by two Horton Heats:
But - OHHHHH!
None are wallpapers - f#@*k it!
