Newspaper Page Text
March 18, 1992
Flagpole Magazine
Page
Lizard Vision most recently on Flyinq Fish
records.
Can t ignore the Bad Livers. Ever since
we arrived in Austin this is the one band
weve heard the most talk over. Bad Livers.
Bad Livers. They state they “make blue-
grass from Motorhead* so you can imagine.
Bad Livers are a three piece — bass, violin,
banjo (and sometimes tuba and accordion).
They loudly proclaim they have no drums
and that they'll cover everything from gos
pel to Metallica covers... and they do, quite
well! Sowell, in fact, that they’ve opened on
tours for Michelle Shocked and the Butthole
Surfers.
Trout Fishing in America has got to be
one of the most strangely named bands.
Made up of two people from Houston, TX —
Keith Grimwood who’s 5’1/2" and Ezra Idlet
who’s 6’9“... They mix humor in with their
contemplations on R&B, reggae, classic
rock and children’s music. One of the most,
uh, visually interesting (no “short" jokes
please)...
There are showcases for international
talent such as the Leslie Spit Treeo from
Toronto, John Kennedy from Berlin, Ger
many, Isabelle from Bratislava, Czechoslo
vakia, Juans Maness from Riga, Latvia,
Limpopo from Moscow, Russia and Pigalle
from Paris, France.
There’s Bad Mutha Goose, an Austin
funk/ rap/ rock band with seven members,
and Bill Morrissey, from Boston signed to
Rounder Records, weaves integrated acous
tic country with a plamtive voice.
SXSW is definitely exhausting and as I
sort through the multitudes of magazines,
tapes, and promo packets dropped in my
bag I wonder how many bands playing here
in Austin are doing this to be signed? How
many play just for exposure? And how many
really care anyway what will happen after
it’s all said and done? The goal of the festi
val, according to co-director Louis Black,
Editor of the Austin Chronicle, is that bands
get exposure here, they have fun here and
it enables them to open up a new market if
they haven't toured here before. SXSW also
brings industry professionals together to
bond, to enjoy themselves, and to look at the
reasons they’re in the music business in the
first place — for the music...
Hillary Meister
Hangin’ with the Stompers at SXSW...
The LaBrea Stompers went to Austin,
Texas last week one member lighter. After
much personal questioning and turmoil, the
band made a group decision to eliminate
keyboardist, Donna Bow
man from the roster. Ac
cording to the band, it had
nothing to do with any per
sonal animosity, but more
so with Donna’s inability to
tour as much as the rest of
the band would like. It was
something they've been
struggling with for a while.
But, still they came to Aus
tin to play.
I hooked up with the
LaBrea Stompers at
around 8 p.m. on Thurs
day, at La Zona Rosa, after
we crashed a Rounder
Records showcase/ party for free food and
beer. The intrepid Nat Gurley (a photogra
pher with no fear), joined me in the Stomper
vehicle. It is a huge Chevy van; a
varmit-crunching juggernaut; a lurching
menace to the open road, especially with
the somewhat over-confident Jim Stacy at
the wheel. We rumbled into downtown Aus
tin, claimed a spot at a convenient pay-lot
arid unloaded the gear. The band unloaded
equipment for a guerilla, sidewalk perfor
mance.
The Stompers find a likely spot in front of
a closed store on 6th street, next door to the
Ritz (which at one time was probably a nice
old theater, but now is only a cavernous hull
of it’s former self). They set up with Wade
Hampton on acoustic bass, Trey Ledford on
guitar, Richard Grant on
mailbox percussion, and
Jim on harmonica and
mostly mouth. Trey opens
his guitar case at his feet
and I toss in a dollar.
“Bait," I explain. The rest
of the band follows suit, *
emptying their pockets
of change. The show
begins a little raggedly,
but not without enthusi
asm. At first most of the
passers-by seem only a
little curious — or in a
hurry to get somewhere
important (like the next
bar, for instance). A few
of the women appear a
bit terrified, even. They cringe, with pained,
please-dear-God-don’t-let-this-man-hurt-me
expressions on their races as they pass by
the animated Jim Stacy. The band plays on,
tearing into "Blood on the Combine," and
gradually, they begin to reel in a crowd. The
sidewalk is narrow, which imposes limits on
the number of spectators who can actually
hear the band over passing traffic. The
crowd peaks out somewhere between thirty
and forty entertained individuals.
At one point, a thoroughly intoxicated
old man staggers through the crowd. He
appears oblivious to everything except the
space directly in front of his feet. Each step
looks like the beginning of a disastrous fall.
But, he keeps it up, passing like a ghost
along the sidewalk. The only evidence of his
existence being the minimal shifting of on
lookers to let him by. No one touches or
speaks.
After a well accepted version of "Mr.
Grinch," the crowd begins to break up.
About five minutes later, to burly policemen
show up to put an end to the fun. The band
packs up, and after a quick trip to the van we
file back to a club, Headliner’s East, to see
a band called High Noon perform. They’re a
great roots-country three-piece, with an
up-right bass and two guitars (one acoustic
& one old electric Gibson). They play music
that would make Hank Williams sigh: lots of
harmonies with elements of country blues
and swing. We have to leave early to head
for the Saxon Pub, where the Stompers will
play at midnight.
The Saxon Pub is businessman’s cow
boy bar, about two miles from downtown.
One of the bartenders bears a striking (al
though cultivated) resemblance to Wild Bill
Hickock. When we
walk in the door, a
band from New Or
leans, Big Sun, is play
ing some finely pol
ished music that would
make Bryan Adams
sound like Iggy Pop in
comparison. We
promptly dub them,
“Big Suck."
Savannah’s City of
Lindas takes the tiny,
2 “craTH^here-h^his<xxner'
b stage next. Nothing re-
1 ally exciting or horrible
either, except that the
singer sounds way too much like Peter
Murphy. The crowd gives them a lukewarm
response.
Finally, the Stompers are up to bat. They
rip into their set with relish. Jim is in a frenzy.
He bounds around the micro-stage, head
and upper body working like a piston in time
with the drums. His arms flail the air during
solos and he mauls the mike stand when he
sings. Richard pounds and crashes, Trey
jumps and thrashes and Wade is a veritable
bass gremlin. At one point, out of frustration
with a limp mike-stand, Jim duct-tapes the
microphone to his face. It works for about
two songs. Then between songs the sound
goes down. The sound man pulled the plug
on all the main amps because he feared
damage to the equipment. For almost the
entire set the band
played with only their
guitar amps and the
stage monitors on. No
main P.A. The vocals
were almost non exis
tent. The band couldn’t
tell anything was
wrong. The soundman
refused to even dis
cuss adjusting the
sound. After several
polite enquiries and
complaints, the illustri
ous Stompers’ man
ager, Amy Rogers finally
gets the owner’s atten
tion. "This ain’t no
headbangin’ club," he
says. After more discussion, she persuades
them to turn on the sound for the last song.
Jim stalks off the stage into the back of the
club. I cut the sweaty duct tape from around
his neck. "Let’s get the fuck out of here," he
says. We did.
Stephen Crawford
Globe
corner of clayton and lumpkin
Two Locations
L Two of these bottles are the same.
E Can you find them?
Last week A & D
Beer ■ Wine ■ Kegs
Ice ■ Mixers ■ Cigarettes
“All Your Beverage Needs"
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to go
check out our Kegs
353-6622
165 Alps Rd. (across from Beechwood)