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The
Divorcers/Amplified Heat
Red Eyed Fly, October 15, 2003
The brothers Ortiz, otherwise known as Amplified Heat--a supercharged
trio of rock n roll siblings determined to peel the paint
off Red River walls every time they plug-in, did exactly that
last Wednesday night.
Describing
the sound of the Heat is somewhat difficult, an obvious signal
yielding a band’s superiority in this Mecca of live
music we so graciously choose to deteriorate in. We’ll
start with the drummer, Chris—this cat can play fast,
real fuckin’ fast. His punctual accuracy and spastic
ability to swiftly shift tempo keeps this train wreck of guitar
solos and tenacious bass playing in some kind of order, like
a drill sergeant taming a pack of hops and barley-starved
axe-slingers. His percussionary talents keep the delivery
and the mood of the band succinctly tight, allowing the bass
and guitar work of the other bros to venture into an all-out
blues-punk, 70’s psychedelic, indie-rock onslaught,
complete with honky-tonk undertones and bursts of stoner rock
supremacy. At front and center stage stands Jim, whose vocal
techniques and guitar-raping tactics are about as unpredictable
as the Texas weather. His solos ring out in a spine gripping
solace of ear candy that would herald respect from the most
conservative pickers and strummers in town. Each song never
really jumped in or out of Jim’s lyrical rants without
a bass led journey of twist ups and twist downs held together
by Gian, who also yells and screams in complement to the lead
vocals. This kid does way more at the low end than simply
follow the guitar shredding of his brother—both musicians
blaze their own trails, which made the overall noise blaring
from the Red-Eye amps stand at polar opposites to anything
soothing or comfortable sounding (this is a good thing kiddos).
The Heat were quite the showmen as well, talking with the
small but supportive group of friends and fellow potheads
in the crowd, making fun of those like myself sitting in the
back and asking which song their truest fans would like to
hear next. If you haven’t seen this young and talented
cauldron of stoner sludge, you might want to check ‘em
out. They’re guaranteed to play something that you can
identify with and they just rock, plain and simple.
Headlining at the Fly were the Divorcers, a psych-a-billy
four piece whose sense of humor and ‘who-cares-if-you-like-us’
attitude reigned supreme over the actual music, but I did
however appreciate this band. The lead singer was thoroughly
entertaining, sounding like Elvis with his best efforts, and
every other fucking annoying Elvis impersonator at his worst.
The minimalist guitar playing was complemented with symbol-drenched
drumming along with technical difficulties experienced on
the bass-playing end. There was a smoke machine though. Woo-hoo!
The lead singer also told disgusting jokes, begged for shots,
made a Johnny Bravo reference and performed a song about the
age-old dance known as “the monkey.’’ At
one point in between tunes he proclaimed, “Maybe less
talky-talky and more strummy-strummy.’’ Yeah,
I guess so, but this guy’s antics definitely charged
a much-needed spark into the lack-luster set of dark punk
tunes. I clapped after each song though, so don’t hate
me you Divorcers, you!
Before I let you go, I must confess that Gorch Fock aren’t
focking around. Look out for Slander Bob’s upcoming
feature on the most kick-ass band on the fucking street. Sorry
for the over-use of the word ‘fucking’ in this
story. Adios kiddos.
-Smitty
Stevie
Tombstone and the Texas Tombstones
Monday happy hours, Red Eyed Fly
So
it’s Monday afternoon, and you’re either back
to work or nursing a treacherous weekend hangover (or both).
You might not feel like it, or think you can afford it, but
I highly suggest that you check out the Stevie Tombstone happy
hour at the Red Eyed Fly for a good old-fashioned honky-tonk
cure for what ails you: cheap beer and booze and sweet old-school
country music.
Generally
on Mondays, I’m slinging hair-of-the-dog at Casino,
my own home away from home, but I recently had the chance
to see the Tombstones play both a rare Thursday show at the
Fly and last Wednesday’s AMN benefit country night at
Bigsby’s. The core members of the Texas Tombstones—Stevie
on vocals and guitar, Joey on pedal steel guitar, Frap on
bass, and Kevin on drums—have played together solidly
for several months now (they just completed recording for
their first release), and are all experienced and talented
musicians in their own right. Stevie’s heartfelt and
heartbroken lyrics (invoking Johnny Cash’s holy trinity,
love, God, and murder) wind through his own melodic strumming
and Joey’s sonorous pedal steel, which ranges from shimmery
and jubilant to so plaintive you might shed a tear into your
$1 Lone Star tallboy. Lest this sound a little too depressing
for Monday afternoon, I should add that Frap and Kevin comprise
a rhythm section tighter than Dwight Yoakum’s jeans.
I can’t dance worth a damn (in fact, if I’m seen
even attempting to dance, I should probably be cut off immediately),
but the Texas Tombstones make me wish I could. Word has it
that the crowd at the Broken Spoke was two-stepping all over
the place when the Tombstones played there, which itself speaks
volumes about the authenticity of their music. The band occasionally
invites guest musicians, a fiddler or a piano player, to sit
in on gigs, adding another layer of depth to its sound.
If
you need some icing on that cake, or just feel poor, rest
assured—the Red Eyed Fly knocks a buck off everything
during happy hour, which to me translates to $1 Lone Stars
and $2.50 shots of Powers, and doesn’t charge a cover.
Take advantage while you can, because someday soon, Stevie
Tombstone and the Texas Tombstones will be pulling huge crowds
(and covers). You can say you knew them when.
-Lisa
Graves
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