BY SAMMY LOREN
To steal a concept from a writer I like, we all have bands who haunt us. Groups whose names we know and whose reputations we respect but whose music we've never really heard. This described my relationship to Reverend Horton Heat before the band's concert last Friday at the Crossroads KC at Grinders. So when the occasion arose to review them at the Pitch Block Party - and play some musical catch up - I jumped at the opportunity.
What's intriguing about the Reverend Horton Heat is how the group's repertoire wrestles with conflicting musical traditions: rockabilly, surf, country, jazz, and punk. When ingested individually, they constitute such distinct impulses. Yet when handed to this particular Dallas-based psychobilly trio, they distill into something wholly different and wholly American, like Tex-Mex or Chinese food. Toss in the Betty Page lookalikes who frequent the shows, and the group becomes epic.
Indeed, in its first set, RHH nearly fulfilled those expectations. In the arppegiated "It's Martini Time," frontman, guitarist, and Western Wear fashionista Jim Heath (whose alias also constitutes the name of his band) traversed a panorama of musical Americana. From the opening big-band guitar licks to the power-punk verses to the Vegas-variety-show lyrics, the number tells of a penniless drunk who prefers the signature libation of aristocrats such as as Roosevelt and Nixon. Judging by the way a drunken mosh pit erupted, it seemed the crowd took the point of the song to heart.
There were also less heady moments. "Galaxy 500" magnificently cross-bred a country/western breakup ballad with a punk thrasher. Upright bassist Jimbo Wallace and drummer Paul Simmons' gallivanting backbeat felt like a reassuring slap on the shoulder: So long as you get to keep the '59 Ford Galaxy after the divorce, things will be OK.
But sustaining that basement-show intensity, especially for a group of middle-aged men on an enormous outdoor stage, is not easy. Attempting to do it across 25 songs and two full hours, well, not even Lance Armstrong could manage that and still come out on top. And so in the second set, as the band trudged through their new material and the pin-up gals fled to the Riot Room, I couldn't help but guiltily check my watch.
The Reverend Horton Heat band nearly lived up to its notoriety. Wallace, who looks like he strolled off the set of a Quentin Tarantino film, surfed atop his upright, and the Reverend preached of toddlers and whiskey. But they fell short of their iconic status. It was unclear if it was the fault of the diminished mob or the band itself, but anyone stuck at Grinders by the end of that concert was ready to head home.
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